James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

He turned and looked at her.

She was still wearing the blue sweater and slacks. They looked as if they could have done with another wash. Her hair was untidy, and her lipstick put on anyhow. The blue smudges under her eyes had now turned to purple. She somehow looked older, more worn, more shop soiled.

“Good old George,” she said in a low voice. “I was beginning to wonder what I was going to do.”

“Do?” he repeated. “What do you mean?”

She giggled. It was a grating sound that made George’s nerves recoil. “They’re out there waiting for me,” she said, jerking her head towards the window. “And then you turn up.”

He suddenly realized that she was terrified, but her pride, her arrogance were holding her terror in check.

“Emily?” he asked, a little startled. “They killed him You know that, don’t you?”

She wandered across the room, pounding her clenched fists together.

“Clever George,” she said. “How did you find that out? No one was supposed to know.”

Her jeering voice stung him. “Sydney planned Crispin’s death, didn’t he?” he said, standing over her. “Sydney and you. You wanted to push it on to me.”

She looked up at him. "We have pushed it on to you,” she said, and giggled again. Had he any understanding, he would have seen she was close to complete nervous collapse. “But they want us, too.”

He took hold of her by her shoulders and shook her, snapping her head hack, startling her.

“Sit down,” he said, pushing her onto the divan. “It’s nothing to giggle about. You’re going to talk. You’re going to tell me everything.”

“Don’t do that!” she said, suddenly angry. Her eyes flashed and she shifted away from him “Keep your paws to yourself.”

“Shut up!” he said, possessive and determined. “You’ve played around with me long enough. Now you’re going to explain.”

She stared at him “My poor George,” she said, “have you gone mad?”

“I’m not your poor George,” he said angrily, and giving way to a blind instinct, he smacked her face. As his hand connected with her cheek, he pulled hack, so that the blow was a light one, but even at that, her head jerked back.

She was instantly on her feet.

“How dare you!” she stormed at him. “You cheap, rotten—”

He smacked her again. This time he hit her hard, knocking her onto the divan.

He stood over her. “I don’t like doing this, Cora,” he said, breathing heavily, “but it’s the only way I can show you I’ve changed. From now on I’m master, do you understand?”

She leaned back on her elbows, one side of her face red, the other side like wax. Then she giggled.

“You?” she sneered. “You haven’t the guts of a rabbit.”

Confident in his new-found courage and strength, George merely shrugged. He took out a cigarette, found a match, flicked it alight with his thumb nail. He lit the cigarette and forced a stream of smoke down his nostrils.

“Killing a man makes a lot of difference,” he said shortly. “You may as well get used to the idea, Cora.”

“We’ll see,” she said, twisting her hands in her lap. “We’ll see how brave you are, George my pet. You’re big enough to knock me about, but we’ll see what you’re like against them.”

“Yes,” George said, and he crossed the room and sat down in the armchair.

“I wonder why they let you come here,” she went on, looking towards the window. “I should’ve thought it’d’ve been easier for them to have killed you in the darkness.”

George stiffened. “Kill me?” he said. “You mean they’re out there in the alley?”

“Nick is. I saw him not half an hour ago. Poncho, his brother, is round the hack.” She ran her fingers through her hair, and he knew at once why it looked so untidy. She must have been doing that for the past half hour.

“It’s silly, isn’t it? But I’m scared stiff,” she went on. Her flash of temper had been short-lived. He could see she was sick with panic. “When I get frightened my tummy turns to water.”

“Here, have a cigarette,” George said, going over to her. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

She lit the cigarette. “I don’t fancy going out there,” she said, trying to control herself. “Nick’s hot stuff with a razor.” She shivered.

“Can they get in?” George asked.

She looked up sharply. “I suppose so. They could break a window if they really wanted to get in, couldn’t they?” Her inside rumbled loudly and she giggled. “Collywobbles,” she said. “I’m a yellow little hitch, aren’t I?” And she squeezed her stomach with her crossed arms and scowled down at her feet. “I saw him this afternoon, all tucked up in a coffin. He looked filthy. I hope I don’t look like that when I’m dead.” A sob jerked in her throat. “I was terribly, terribly fond of him, George, although he was such a rotten bastard.”

“I saw him, too,” George said, not looking at her.

She sat for a little while as if she hadn’t heard, then she said, “You’re not such a fool, are you, George? They must have pushed him in front of the train. He was running away from me.” She flicked ash onto the carpet and rubbed it in with her foot. “And I loved him so. I never thought he’d do that to me. He wouldn’t let me touch the money. And I had helped him. If I hadn’t ’ve helped him he’d ’ve never got the money. He never gave me a penny of it: not a damn penny. And as soon as he was sure they weren’t after him, he skipped. He took the money and left me without even a word.” She beat her clenched fists together. “After all I’ve done for him!”

George crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. He felt a little sick.

A cheap clock ticked excitedly on the mantelpiece. The distant traffic rumbled up the High Street.

“I told him he was playing with fire,” she went on, after a pause, “but he wouldn’t listen. He thought he was smart. Over and over again I told him they wouldn’t stand for it. He never did think they had any brains. He was so pleased with his plan—his stupid, silly little plan. What a fool I’ve been! I should never have listened to him. But he was mad. I know he was mad. After Crispin burnt him, he was never the same. He brooded all day and half the night; looking at himself in the mirror, his hand to his face, planning revenge. I warned him, I told him it wouldn’t succeed. But he wouldn’t listen. And now he’s dead.” She got up and wandered round the room. “And I’ll be dead, too, before very long. They won’t rest until they’ve killed me, and they won’t rest until they’ve killed you.”

While she had been talking, George had been looking round the sordid little room, his mind listening to her words, his eyes unconsciously seeing the various articles in the room. He found himself looking at a cheap fabric suitcase; from it was hanging a luggage tag, and on the tag, printed in bold letters, was the name Cora Nichols .

It only wanted that to confirm his suspicions. Very quietly, suppressing the sick dismay that rose inside him, he said, “Then you’re not his sister?”

“Sister?” she said bitterly. “Do I look like anyone’s sister? I wasn’t even his wife.”

George shivered. So all the time he had been dreaming about Cora, all the time she had promised to be very nice to him, she had been sleeping with Sydney.

“I see,” he said, clenching his fists. “Well, that accounts for it, I suppose.”

“I loved him!” Cora exclaimed, “and he treated me like a dog. I love him still. If he came back to me this very moment, I’d forgive him. I’d forgive him taking the money; I’d forgive him leaving me without a word, if only he’d come hack.” She sat down, holding her head in her hands, her eyes like holes cut in a sheet.