More Deadly Than The Male (12 page)

"I could kill him!" she said viciously. "Look at me! I've been in this stinking outfit for months. That's all I've got!"

"You look marvellous," George said, and meant it. "It suits you."

"You're all alike," she returned. "Do you really think a girl ought to live in a get-up like this?" Her lips twisted. "I haven't another rag to my name "

Pity stirred in him. "I say—I'm awfully sorry . . ."

She finished her sandwich, her eyes brooding and bitter.

"So long as Sydney gets what he wants," she said after a pause, "he doesn't care a damn about me. He doesn't care what I'll do tonight." She suddenly shrugged. "Well, never mind. It's early to worry about that now." She pushed a wave of hair back from her cheek and then rubbed her temple with one finger. "Tell me about Frank Kelly."

"Who?" George flinched away from her.

She hit her knuckle and looked at him over her hand.

"Sydney told me. You and Frank Kelly. At first I didn't believe it, but now I've seen you . . ." 

George emptied his glass and got up to refill it. There was a glint in her slate-grey eyes that could have meant anything: curiosity, admiration, desire . . .

"You don't have to pretend with me. I'm sick of men without spine. At least, you're a man."

George slopped a little of the beer on the carpet. A surge of emotion crawled up his hack.

"What do you mean?" he asked, putting the glass on the mantelpiece. He tried to control the huskiness in his voice without success.

"You've lived dangerously. You've killed men, haven't you? That means something to me."

George faced her. There was nothing in her eyes now. They were like drawn curtains. He stared at her, suddenly afraid.

"Who told you?"

"I don't have to be told. I'm not a fool. I know men. When Sydney told me about you, I thought you were one of those ghastly little miscarriages who boast about what they have done: who he, cheat, and brag because they haven't the guts to live like men. But Sydney told me I was wrong. Even then I wouldn't believe him He told me you had a gun, and I said you were lying." 

George found perspiration was running down his face. He took out his handkerchief and mopped himself. He realized that if he wanted her admiration—and he wanted that more than anything else in the world—he could not admit that he had been lying to Brant. He was caught in his own trap; but, oddly enough, he didn't care. What possible harm could it do if he did pretend that he was a big-shot gangster? She wouldn't tell the police about him. And just suppose she did? He could always say that he had been pulling her leg, and he could prove that he had never been out of the country. All right, if she thought he had lived dangerously, if she thought he had killed men, and if, knowing that, she admired him, he would give her the opportunity to admire him even more.

"I don't talk about that side of my life," he said, picking up his glass. "It only sounds like bragging; but if you really want to know . . . well, I Suppose I've had as exciting a life as most men."

"Men are such liars," she said calmly, leaning down to put her glass on the floor. "I still think you could be lying . . ."

George bit his lip. What was she up to now?

"Show me your gun," she said. "I'll believe you if you really have a gun."

He hesitated. Some instinct warned him not to show her the gun. He had never shown it to anyone. It was his secret. He had never intended sharing it with anyone.

She was watching him now, her eyes cold and cynical.

"Bluffing?" she asked, in a contemptuous, amused tone.

He went to his drawer and took out the cardboard box.

"You mustn't tell anyone," he said, putting the box on the bed.

She pushed his hand away and took off the lid. She had the gun now. It was odd, but it looked right in her hands. It looked as right in her hands as a scalpel looks right in the hands of a surgeon. She sat up and examined the gun. Her face was expressionless, but there was an intent concentration in her eyes that worried him.

"Is it loaded?" she asked, at last.

"Oh no," George said. "Now let me put it away. I don't know why you should be interested in it."

"Show me how to load it," she urged. "Where are the cartridges?"

Without waiting for him to show her, she slid off the bed, went to the drawer and found the little wooden box.

"No," he said, surprised at his own firmness. "You leave those alone. Put them back."

She was looking at the shiny brass cylinders.

"Why?"

"I don't want any accidents. Please put them back."

She shrugged impatiently; but she put the box back and sat on the bed again. She picked up the Luger and pressed the trigger.

"Why doesn't it work?" she asked, frowning.

"It's stiff," George said. "You have to pull very hard."

She tried again, but she still couldn't pull hack the trigger. "Here, I'll show you," George said, taking the gun from her. "Like this."

He exerted his great strength, and the hammer snapped down.

"It wants adjusting really, only I haven't bothered. I'll never use it here. At one time it had a hair-trigger, it would fire at the slightest touch; but it's a little out of order now."

"How do you adjust it?" she asked, taking the gun from him and curling her slim finger round the trigger. By holding the gun in both hands and pressing very hard, she managed to raise the hammer an inch or so. "Phew; it is stiff! How do you adjust it?"

George sat on the bed by her side and explained the trigger mechanism to her.

"You're scared of accidents, aren't you?" There was a mocking note in her voice. "Even when the gun isn't loaded, you're scared."

"It's better to be safe than sorry," he returned, and took the Luger from her. His hand touched hers, and for one brief moment he felt a flame shoot through him: a burning desire to take her in his arms.

He got up at once and put the gun away.

"Now perhaps you believe me," he said, with an embarrassed laugh.

"I believe you," she returned, stretching out on the bed. "Give me an apple, will you?"

He gave her an apple, and took the other himself. He went back to the window, feeling that it was too disturbing to be so close to her.

"I say!" he said, looking into the street. "It's beginning to rain."

"Oh, hell!" She raised her head. "Hard?"

"I'm afraid so." He leaned out of the window, feeling the rain on his face. "It looks as if it's set in for the night. I can lend you my mack, of course, but I'm afraid you'll get wet."

As she didn't say anything, he glanced over his shoulder. She was lying flat on her hack, staring up at the ceiling. 

"This bed's comfortable," she said, as if speaking to herself. "I think I'll spend the night here. It doesn't seem much sense going out in the rain, especially as Sydney won't he back until late. Besides, I'm tired."

George realized that his breath was whistling through his nostrils. He felt his blood moving through his veins: it was a most odd sensation.

"You'll sleep here—?"

She seemed to become aware of him.

"Would you mind?"

"You mean—sleep in my bed?"

"Where else do you suggest . . . on the floor?"

"Well, no. I didn't mean that. I don't know what they'd say . . ." He floundered; excited, frightened and acutely conscious of wanting her in an overpowering way.

"Oh, I'd go early," she said indifferently. "They needn't know unless you tell them."

"No . . . I suppose not."

This was fantastic, he thought. She's offering to sleep with me, and I'm behaving like an idiot. He was suddenly stricken by tremendous shyness. This wasn't the way he had imagined it at all. In his imagination he had slept with many lovely women, but it was only after a long and arduous courtship. That really was the most exciting thing about love. Now that she was being so cold-blooded about it, he felt frightened, although his desire was at fever heat.

"Then you don't mind?" she said impatiently. "Make up your mind. Can I stay?"

He moved slowly towards the bed. 

"Of course," he said, standing over her. "I—I'd love you to, Cora."

She looked up at him and yawned.

"And you don't mind sleeping in the chair?"

He stood very still.

"The chair?"

"Perhaps you've got another bed somewhere," she said, and then, seeing the expression on his face, she sat up abruptly. "Oh, God!" she went on. "Did you think you were going to sleep with me?"

George could only stare at her, dumb, embarrassed misery in his eyes.

She swung her legs off the bed.

"I'm going," she said. "I was forgetting you don't know me very well."

George shook his head.

"No, don't. It was my fault. Please stay. The chair's all right."

He crossed to the window and stood looking out, trying to recover from the shock and disappointment.

Of course she was right. He was glad in a way that she hadn't meant it. Only it was such an odd way of putting it. He couldn't be blamed for misunderstanding. She was really quite fantastic. What confidence she had in herself!

And how like Sydney! Taking his bed, making him sleep in a chair, no thought for his comfort. Had she managed to guess that he was easily scared, that he was timid and uneasy with women? Was that the reason why she was pushing him out of his bed—because she knew very well he wouldn't have the nerve to force his attention on her? He didn't think so. How could any girl be sure of that?

She was standing at his side.

"I'll go if you want me to," she said. "You mustn't let me impose on you. I'm selfish. If you don't want to sleep in the chair, turn me out."

As if he would.

"Of course not," he said eagerly. "I'm awfully pleased to have you here. I mean that. I'm sorry I was so stupid. I'm really ashamed of myself . . ."

She looked at him Was that odd expression contempt? He looked again, but her eyes had become expressionless.

"All my friends know about me," she said. "I'd forgotten that you don't. Still, you don't want me, do you? You must have dozens of women."

"But I haven't . . ."

"I don't sleep with men," she went on, ignoring his interruption. "It's part of my independence. I'm very independent. I never take and I never give."

He didn't say anything. What was there to say?

"You'll probably think I'm lying, but I'm not. My bed life is very exclusive. I hate being mauled. It's inconvenient sometimes. I suppose I shouldn't be so damned poor if I wasn't so damned fussy."

George was asleep when Ella brought him his morning tea. He raised his head as she drew the curtains, and blinked round the room.

" 'Ave you been using scent, Mr George?" she asked, her shiny little face tilted up as she sniffed the air. "It's ever so nice."

Scent? What did she mean? George gaped at her.

"No," he said, yawning "Of course not." Then he remembered Cora, and a guilty flush rose to his face. Ella was watching him.

"Well, I am surprised at you, Mr George," she said, her eyes wide. " 'Oo was she?"

It was no use lying to Ella. She could see his embarrassment too clearly.

"Oh, a friend," George returned, sinking back on the pillow. "She only looked in for a moment last night. I must say her perfume was pretty strong."

Ella wasn't so easily fooled.

"Well, I never!" she ejaculated. "Fancy you bringing a young lady . . ."

"Now, look, Ella," George said a little shortly. "I want to rest. I didn't sleep very well. Be a good girl and run away."

"All right, Mr George," Ella returned. "But I'm surprised at you all the same."

George closed his eyes, and after a moment's hesitation Ella went away. George knew that he hadn't heard the last of it, but at the moment he didn't care.

As soon as she had gone he slipped out of bed and opened the door for Leo. He still felt stiff, and his neck ached after the night in the armchair, but he didn't mind. It had been a wonderful evening and a wonderful night.

He got hack into bed and drank his tea.

It really seemed like a dream. Looking round the small, sordid room, he could scarcely believe that Cora had been there. He could smell her perfume on the pillow. Her hair had rested there. It had been all very exciting and marvellous, and he was mad about her.

Just then Leo stalked into the room.

"Come on, old boy," George called, snapping his fingers.

But the cat was suspicious, sniffing the air and looking at George with big, uneasy eyes. Obviously it didn't like the smell of Cora's perfume.

"Puss! Puss!" George called. "Come on. Up you come."

Silently Leo turned and slid out of the room. George called, but the cat had gone.

A little distressed, he settled down once more. Well, if Leo wanted to be stupid, then he would have to go his own way, George thought. There were other things to think about besides Leo. He had been longing for the time when he could think hack on last night and savour all its excitements, brood over what Cora had said, and dwell on Cora herself. 

It had been a wonderful night, in spite of the bad beginning. George hadn't talked so much in his life. It was extraordinary how easy it was to talk to Cora. She led him on. Not that she said much herself, but she knew how to listen. And he had thought that he wouldn't have been able to amuse her! Even now he found it difficult to believe that he had been such a success.