More Deadly Than The Male (14 page)

"I do love you so," he said, and kissed her throat, holding her against him tightly.

They remained like that for a minute or two, then she pushed him away.

"All right, George," she said, "now back to your chair. That'll do for one night. It seems you can grow up when you want to."

He didn't want to go, and took hold of her hand.

"Be nice to me, Cora," he pleaded. "Let me kiss you again."

"I said that's enough," she said sharply. "Here, put this somewhere," and she gave him her cigarette butt. He took it and crossed the room to the fireplace. His legs felt weak, and he was in a kind of stupor. When he had got rid of the cigarette butt he stood at the foot of the bed, looking into the darkness where she was.

"We will meet again, won't we?" he said, terrified now that this experience was going to slip through his fingers, like all the dreams he had ever had.

"We'll meet," she returned, yawning, "and now I'm going to sleep."

"But what about Sydney? What shall we do about him?"

"He needn't know."

This excited him almost as much as when she had said that she might cone to love him. Having a secret between them—a secret from Sydney—seemed to seal the bond of their relationship.

"Are you on the 'phone?"

"Yes I am."

"Can I ring you sometimes? We might go out one night."

"All right."

"I'd better make a note of the number," George felt feverishly in his pocket for a pencil.

"It's in the book, Harris & Son, greengrocer. We've got a place above the shop."

"That's wonderful. Harris & Son. That's easy to remember, isn't it?"

"Now for God's sake go to sleep," Cora said. "If you dare say another word I'll really be angry with you!"

"All right," George said, satisfied. "Good night."

"Good night," she returned shortly, and he heard her turn over in the bed.

He groped his way to the chair and settled down. He glanced out of the window. It had stopped raining, and a misty moon floated in the sky. The pavements looked black and shiny in the street lights. In the distance a clock struck the half hour after eleven.

George shut his eyes. He was too excited to sleep. The whole of his cramped, lonely world had suddenly opened up like a gay sunshade. What an evening it had been! His life was going to be very different now. With Cora, he need never be lonely again. Whenever he wanted someone to talk to, he could ring her up. If he hadn't enough money to take her out, he could always have a few words with her on the 'phone. There was a telephone box at the corner of his street. There would be no need to stand in the passage in the basement, for everyone to hear what he had to say to her. Marvellous things, telephone boxes, he thought. Little houses of glass where you could talk to the one you loved, see the people passing, and knowing they could not overhear what you had to say. You need never be lonely if there was a telephone box handy and a girl like Cora at the other end of the line.

He had been a hit of a fool with her. But he had been lucky. Or rather she had been pretty decent about it. "A girl likes a little action now and then." Fancy her saying that! Well, he wouldn't wait for such an invitation again. Not he! He'd take her in his arms and kiss her right off next time they met. What was it she called him a stuffed hull? Well, she wouldn't have to call him that again. She was marvellous! Simply smashing! And Sydney wasn't to know about it. Queer about Sydney. What did she mean about "enemies"? What enemies? "He's got enemies," she had said when he had asked how Sydney had got the scar. What an odd thing to say! He looked furtively across the room at the bed. He wanted to ask her to explain. Better not, he thought. She's got a temper all right, and it wouldn't do to provoke her again. No, that was something he would ask her the next time they met. He'd ring her tomorrow, just to show that he hadn't forgotten her . . . as if he ever could! Yes, he'd ring her tomorrow.

The next four or five days were, to George, exciting, confusing, exasperating and worrying. He had imagined that he would have been able to talk to Cora on the telephone at least once a day, and to see her within forty- eight hours of their first meeting. But it didn't work out like that at all. Cora, it seemed, was as illusive as a will-o'-the-wisp. Take Sunday, for instance. Now, Sunday was a good day for George's work. He usually began his calls immediately after lunch and worked through until dark. He was always sure of finding his prospects at home. He had arranged with Sydney to work this Sunday, and before getting up, he made elaborate plans for talking to Cora.

It was obvious that since the telephone was in the greengrocer's shop, he would have to make certain that Sydney wasn't in the flat when he telephoned. If the greengrocer had to call Cora to the 'phone, Sydney would want to know who was calling. So Sydney had to be out of the way. George found this added complication rather pleasing. It was much more exciting to have to plot and plan to talk to Cora than just to go to the telephone box and ring her in the usual way. The thing to do, he decided, was to 'phone from Wembley when he knew for certain that Sydney was actually working on the job. He knew Wembley pretty well now, and he remembered there was a public call- box at a junction of four streets which they had still to canvass. He would make a canvass or two, and then, when he was sure that Sydney was safely inside a house, he would slip over to the call-box and have a word with Cora.

He liked the idea immensely. Cora would be amused, too. He would give her a running commentary on Sydney's movements. "He's coming out of the house now. By the frown on his face, it doesn't look as if he got an order that time. He's looking up and down the road. I expect he's wondering where I've got to. He can't see me from where he's standing. There he goes now. He's opening another gate. There're three kids in the front garden; they're following him up the path. He's knocked on the door. He's waiting. I wish you could see how he looks at those kids. He'd like to hang their heads together. Hello, that's a hit of luck for him. The old man himself has come to the door. They're talking now. The old boy doesn't look too pleased. I expect his afternoon nap's been disturbed. But trust old Sydney. He keeps plugging away. Yes, I thought so; he's got into the house. The front door's shut now. Well, it looks like another CSE is on its way from the factory . . ."

Oh yes, Cora would be tickled to death. And then he would tell her how much he loved her and make plans to take her out the following evening.

George was finishing his lunch at the King's Arms when Sydney appeared. The moment he caught sight of the hard, white face with its disfiguring scar, he felt a qualm of uneasiness. Sydney nodded to him and ordered his inevitable lemonade.

"Hello," George said; the beef and pickles he was chewing suddenly tasted of sawdust.

Sydney grunted. He came straight to the point. "Did you see Cora last night?"

George felt his face grow red. "Cora?" He repeated, wondering in panic whether she had told Sydney that they had met.

"Deaf?" Sydney said rudely, eyeing him "What's the matter? You're going puce in the face."

George gulped. What a hateful, arrogant brat this Sydney was! he thought furiously. He put his hand to his cheek. "Got an exposed nerve," he muttered, looking away. "It gives me jip sometimes." 

Sydney helped himself to a sardine on toast. "Did you see Cora last night?" he repeated.

"I—I left the message," George said. "Didn't she get it?"

"Oh, she got it; but the little bitch stayed out all night."

George flinched. He thought sadly that George Fraser, millionaire gangster, would have knocked Sydney's teeth out for calling her that.

"That's not a nice way to talk about your sister," he protested; "perhaps she stayed with friends. It was a pretty poisonous night, wasn't it?"

"Friends?" Sydney repeated, his blank, hard eyes still probing George's face. "What makes you think she's got friends?"

"How do I know? Hasn't she?"

"No. I haven't any friends either. We don't want friends." Was Sydney threatening him in a subtle way? George wondered uneasily.

"If I knew who she was sleeping with, I'd mark him for life," Sydney said viciously.

George suddenly felt sick. He remembered the razor blade set in the cork handle and how Sydney had slashed Robinson's face. He remembered particularly the lightning movement that Sydney had made: a movement impossible to avoid.

"Well, I delivered the message," he said, cutting up his beef with exaggerated interest. "That's all you wanted me to do, wasn't it? I don't know anything about anything else."

"Yes, George," Sydney said softly. "That's all I wanted you to do—deliver the message."

"Well, that's what I did," George said shortly.

Immediately George became alarmed. Had he done anything to her? He suddenly lost his nervousness of Sydney. The thought that this vicious thug might have hurt her enraged him.

"What do you mean?" he asked, turning on Sydney.

"Just that," Sydney returned; "she knows what she'll get the next time she stays out all night."

Perhaps, after all, he had only threatened her, George thought, his unexpected surge of anger dying down. Well, that showed how careful they had to be. This confirmed his belief that Cora was frightened of Sydney. And no wonder. "A hit touched," she had said. Looking at him now, George thought he might really be a hit touched. There was something vicious about those eyes: not only vicious, but fanatical.

He thought it safer to change the subject, and began to talk about their afternoon calls.

He was now most anxious to speak to Cora. He wanted to hear her side of what had happened. If she wanted protection, she only had to ask him. If Sydney really had ill- treated her, he'd make him sorry. Just how he would do this he didn't know, but the details could be worked out later. 

Once on the territory, George found it much harder to get to the telephone box than he had imagined. For one thing, all his calls were at the wrong end of the long street. Then Sydney seemed to be doing most of his canvassing in the front gardens. George was so anxious to talk to Cora, so worried that Sydney would spot him sneaking into the telephone box, that he spoilt four calls, where he was pretty sure, if he had been in the right mental attitude, he would have got orders.

This is ridiculous, he thought. I'm throwing away money. I can't go on like this. I'll go to the call-box right now. I won't wait for Sydney to get out of sight. I'll tell him I'm making a date with a friend, or something like that.

He hurried down the street towards the telephone box. As he passed one of the little houses, Sydney appeared at the front door. George kept on, feeling himself growing hot.

"Where you going?" Sydney called.

George glanced over his shoulder. "I've got a 'phone call to make," he said, without stopping. "It won't take me a minute."

He caught a glimpse of Sydney's sneering smile, and then he looked quickly away. Did Sydney suspect who he was going to call? No, he didn't think so, but it couldn't be helped if he did. George just could not wait any longer.

It took him some time to find Harris & Son in the telephone book. There were twenty-seven columns of Harrises to wade through. The telephone box was hot and stuffy, and George kept looking down the street, worried in case Sydney suddenly decided to find out whom he was calling. When eventually he found the number, he was dismayed and exasperated to find that he had no coppers. He decided recklessly to use sixpence, but the sixpence persisted in falling right through the box and coming back to him: it was as if it was endowed with human feelings and resented his extravagant mood. Thoroughly irritated, George left the 'phone box and looked up and down the road. Sydney had disappeared, but a policeman was coming along.

George got some coppers off the policeman—coppers from a copper! he thought foolishly—and returned to the telephone box. He dialled the number and waited. B
rr-brr! . . . Brr-brr! In a momen
t or so he would be listening to her cold, tight, exciting voice. What a marvellous invention the telephone was! he thought. They were taking their time about answering. He shifted impatiently. Phew! It was hot in this booth. B
rr-hrr! . . . Brr-brr! The be
ll went on and on. No one answered. George stood there, obstinate, sweating, irritated. What were they playing at? he asked himself. Why didn't they answer? Then he remembered. What a fool! Sunday! Of course, the shop would be shut! Oh hell! Now he would have to wait until tomorrow. He hung up and pressed button "B". Coming out into the sunshine, he felt suddenly deflated. Twenty-four hours . . . how absolutely sickening! he thought. Why did she have to have a telephone in a shop? That meant he would never be able to talk to her on a Sunday. That meant that from now on Sunday was going to be the worst day of the week, instead of being the best day. It was a day he looked forward to because he had something to do in the afternoon as well as in the evening- it was also the best day for business. Now it would be the day when he was cut off entirely from Cora.

As it happened, it turned out to be the worst day he had had for a long time. People were ruder to him, more people were out, more people wouldn't come to the front door, although he could see them peeping at him through the curtains. When he did get inside, he found he wasn't concentrating, and he did not succeed in getting anyone sufficiently enthusiastic to sign an order form. Those who showed a slight inclination to buy put him off by asking him to call again. "I want to think about it," they said. "I don't want to rush into anything."