James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

George went over to the window and opened it. He leaned out. The gutter above him was out of reach; the ground below was too far away. There was no escape through the window. He turned and looked up at the ceiling.

Footsteps came up the stairs and along the passage. The door handle turned and the door was opened until it was stopped by the cupboard. There was a fumbling sound at the door that sent a cold shiver of excitement down George’s spine. He sprang across to the fireplace and snatched up a poker. Then he climbed up on the table and began to hack at the plaster of the ceiling.

“Turn it on,” Nick’s voice called.

A hissing sound filled the room.

Cora screamed.

The sharp point of the poker sank into the plaster, and a large part of the ceiling came down with a crash. George was choked with fine white dust, and almost blinded. He went on hacking at the ceiling, tearing at the wooden laths with his hands.

A strong smell of gas filled the room. So that was what they were up to, he thought, not pausing in his efforts to make a hole in the ceiling. Well, they were too late. The window was open, and it would not he possible to build up a strong enough concentration of gas to suffocate them. But suppose they set the place on fire? It’d go up like a powder barrel!

He worked for a few seconds like a madman. Voices sounded in the alley. They had left the garage. Any moment they might set fire to the place. The hole was big enough to get through now. He shouted to Cora, but she just sat on the divan, coughing and wringing her hands.

He jumped off the table and grabbed hold of her. She resisted weakly, but somehow he got her on the table.

“Through the hole,” he gasped, “it’s our only chance.”

He caught hold of the hack of her slacks and hoisted her up. She clutched at the torn edges of the hole and he bundled her through. Then he hoisted himself up.

They crouched between the plaster and the tiles. He smashed at the tiles with the poker, and a moment later he saw, through the hole he had made, the cloudless sky and the bright moon floating serenely above them.

“Up,” he panted, grabbing Cora round the waist, and he shoved her onto the roof which sloped gently to the flat roof of the next building. He followed, and together they slithered down the warm tiles, ran across the flat roof, dodged round a chimney-stack and paused at the foot of the next sloping roof. Then suddenly a huge yellow flame shot into the air, followed by a violent rush of air and a tremendous bang. The blast tossed them against the roof. A great wave of black smoke engulfed them: the sound of flames and crackling wood roared up in the night.

They came out of a little shabby pub into the darkness. Away to their right, the sky glowed red where the fire still raged, burning the row of garages, flaring up every now and then as the flames reached a reserve of petrol.

They stood for a moment in the shadows watching the glow in the sky, the whisky they had swallowed steadying their nerves, bolstering their courage.

“When they hear we weren’t found,” Cora said, pushing her hands deep into her trouser pockets, “they’ll begin looking for us again.”

George glanced up and down the dark, deserted street. It was just after ten o’clock. His legs ached and his body sagged. The exertion of breaking out of the flat, the wild scramble over the roofs with the flames pursuing them, the nightmare climb down a water pipe had exhausted him. Dust and grit scraped his skin every time he moved. His clothes were white with plaster, his face streaked with smuts. Cora was no better off. She had a triangular tear in the knee of her slacks, and her elbows had burst through the woollen sleeves of her sweater. The smell of smoke still clung to her hair

But she had recovered her nerve. She had swallowed three double whiskies in rapid succession, and George had seen the terror drain out of her like dirty water out of a sink.

“Plans,” she said, and took out a crumpled packet of cigarettes from her pocket, stuck a cigarette between her lips and lit it. She drew hard on the cigarette, and then forced a stream of smoke down her nostrils. “We’ve got to go somewhere tonight.” She cocked her head at him. “Got any money, George?”

He pulled out a handful of loose change. He had twelve shillings and a few coppers.

She grimaced. “That’s no use,” she said. “Any money at home?”

He shook his head. "I don’t think it’d be safe to go to your place. We’ve got to duck out of sight, and keep out of sight.”

He thought in dismay of his clothes, his books, his personal belongings. "I’ll have to go hack,” he said.

She shrugged. “Go if you want your throat cut, but you’d better wait until the morning.”

“We’ve got to go somewhere,” he said helplessly. “Look at the mess we’re in. If the police spot us, they may ask questions.”

She brooded into the darkness. The red glow of her cigarette bobbed up and down.

“Little Ernie,” she said, at last. “He’ll put us up.”

Immediately George became uneasy. “He knows too much,” he said. “I don’t think we should go to him.”

“You don’t know anything about him,” Cora returned shortly. “Ernie’s all right. He’ll help us.” She began to move down the road. “He’s had his eye on me for some time.”

George fell into step beside her. “I don’t like him,” he growled. “He’d better keep his hands off you.”

Cora didn’t say anything.

They walked on in silence until they reached a bus stop. While they waited, George watched her out of the corners of his eyes. Her grey-white face was hard and expressionless, but she held her head high, and she moved with a jaunty swagger.

The bus took them along Piccadilly, and they got off at Old Bond Street. The passengers on the bus gaped at them in undisguised astonishment. George, embarrassed, kept his eyes fixed on his dusty, cut shoes. Cora looked round with arrogant indifference, staring with jeering contempt at anyone who looked at her.

They walked up Old Bond Street towards Burlington Street: an odd couple in one of the richest streets in the world. Four prostitutes waited at the corner of Old Bond Street and Burlington Street. Their harsh voices chattered excitedly in broken English. Their French accents reminded George somehow of the Parrot House at the Zoo.

Cora paused, gave them a quick glance, and said, “Eva about?”

The four women stopped talking and stared at her. One of them, tall, hideous, fox furs hanging from her gaunt frame, seemed to recognize her.

“What a mess you’re in, darling,” she said, with a harsh laugh. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

“Seen Eva?” Cora repeated, her hard little face tightening.

“She went hack with a client about ten minutes ago.”

Cora nodded and walked on.

George hadn’t stopped. He crossed the road and waited on the opposite corner.

“Come on,” Cora said impatiently. “I hope Ernie’s at home." They paused outside a tall building in Clifford Street.

“This is it,” Cora said, pushing upon the front door. They began to walk upstairs. On every landing was a front door with a card set in a brass frame. George read the lettering on the cards as they passed. “Frances", “Suze tte", “Marie", “Jose" .

As they turned to mount the last flight of stairs, they heard a door open, and a moment later, an elderly, well-dressed man came down the stairs, whistling softly. When he saw them, alarm jumped into his eyes and he stopped whistling. He paused, uncertain, and gripped his stick.

“Well, make up your mind,” Cora said contemptuously. “Either come down or go back. We want to come up.”