More Deadly Than The Male (29 page)

He stopped before the eating-house, turned and began to wander hack again. He continued on to where the first taxi headed the long row of deserted vehicles.

Once more he paused. He fished out a cigarette and lit it. As he did so, he glanced up and down the street, his eyes watchful, his face expressionless.

Satisfied that there was no one coming, he got quickly into the driver's seat. It was some time since he had driven a car. His feet fumbled, feeling for the accelerator, the foot- brake and the clutch. His hand grasped the gear lever, and pushing out the clutch, he manoeuvred the lever through the gate. It worked smoothly, and he was surprised and pleased that he made no mistake.

This begins it, he thought, his heart thumping against his side, and he pressed the starter. The engine growled, but nothing else happened. He caught his breath sharply, and stabbed at the starter again. The whirring, frustrated sound of the engine trying to start made a tremendous racket in the silent street.

His nerve wilted. In a few seconds they would be out after him. He cursed the engine feverishly as he stabbed at the starter again. Then he cursed himself. He hadn't switched on! What a damn, stupid, frightened clod he was! He turned on the ignition with fumbling fingers, pressed the starter and immediately the engine sprang to life.

Somehow he got the cab moving, and turned the corner. He was now in such a fever that he clamped down on the accelerator, yet the cab moved slowly, making a terrific din. He clung to the wheel, his eyes bolting out of his head, terrified, wild. Then, as no one shouted after him, he gained control of his nerves and managed to change into second and then into top.

The cab went on. Ahead was Oxford Street. George swung blindly into the busy thoroughfare. He nearly collided with a bus, and he realized with alarm that he had crossed against the red traffic light. The bus driver shouted at him, but he accelerated and left the bus behind.

He was coming to Oxford Circus now. The lights changed to red when he was a few yards away, and he pulled up so sharply that he stalled the engine.

He sat in a heap, sweat running down his face, his ears pricked. He felt he was experiencing some horrible nightmare.

He became aware that cars behind him were blaring with their horns and klaxons. Without his noticing it, the traffic light had changed to green. Hurriedly he started the engine, forgetting he was still in gear. The taxi jumped forward and went hounding down the street like a startled frog.

People were staring at him from the pavement. Another taxi overtook him, and the driver leaned out: "Make it waltz, mate," he pleaded as he passed. "You've done everything else."

Gritting his teeth, George changed down. He turned right and drove on, past the BBC, up Portland Place and into Regent's Park.

There was scarcely any traffic in the Park, and he became calmer. He must get used to this cab, he thought, before he ventured again into the wilderness of traffic lights and heavy traffic. He drove round the inner circle several times, stopping and starting, changing up and down, until he had regained some of his confidence. Then he stopped and lit a cigarette and tried to make a plan. He decided that he would go down Park Lane, along Piccadilly to Berkeley Square, up the square to Bruton Street, into New Bond Street and down into Piccadilly again. It was getting late, and his best chance was to catch some girl coming from a nightclub.

He would have to be quick, because the theft of the cab would be reported very soon and the police would be looking for it. He had, at the best, a half an hour in which to find the girl and get her out of the West End.

He started the cab again and headed for Park Lane. A number of people hailed him, as he drove along, hugging the kerb, but after a quick glance in their direction and seeing that they were all in parties, he kept on.

Without stopping, he drove along the route he had planned. His nerves began to ease as he went on. There seemed to be no unescorted girls waiting for a taxi, and he began to hope that the plan would fizzle out.

But as he drove down New Bond Street for a second time, he saw a girl standing on the kerb, and she waved to him.

One look was enough. She was about Cora's build, and she was wearing a dark coat and skirt; a smart little hat was perched on her head, and as she waved at George a gold bangle glittered in the street light.

George pulled up, eyeing the girl, his mouth suddenly dry, his nerves tingling. The girl was a typical Mayfair deb—the kind of girl whose picture appeared regularly in the
Bystander and Tatler,
and who seemed to spend their lives either smiling vacantly at some sleek young man in tails and white tie at Lady Someone or other's ball, or resting their hard little sterns on shooting- sticks while attending a shoot in Scotland.

"Chunks!" she shouted excitedly. "I've got one. Chunks, do come on!"

Oh, hell! George thought in a fever, she's not alone! He wanted to engage gear and drive away, but the girl had already jerked open the cab door, and was standing looking over her shoulder at the open door of a building, partly obscured by the darkness.

"Do come on, Chunks," she called again. She turned to George. "He won't be a minute. I want to go to Highgate Village."

At this moment a tall young man came running down the steps. "You are marvellous, Babs," he said. "I don't know how you do it. You're just too nauseatingly efficient. Why couldn't you let the porter find you a taxi?"

"I like doing things for myself," the girl said.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come?" the young man asked. "I don't mind. I don't mind a hit."

George stiffened. He looked quickly at the girl, willing her to refuse.

"Of course, I don't," she returned. "Besides, you always get a hit hectic in taxis, Chunks, and it's too hot to wrestle with you all the way to Highgate."

The young man giggled. "All right, darling," he said. "Have it your own way. I'll see you tomorrow."

The young man slammed the door.

"Manor House, Parkway," he said to George. "Do you know it?"

George nodded, keeping his face in the shadow. He was shivering with excitement, and he let his clutch in with a jerk and roared away towards Hyde Park Corner. What a bit of luck! he thought. She's just right. I'm sure she's just right. Now, what's the next step? Highgate Village lay beyond Hampstead Heath. That was a good spot to do what he had to do. At this hour it would be unlikely that anyone would be about. He gripped the steering wheel tightly. He had perfect faith and confidence in his gun. He felt positive that all he had to do was to point the gun at this girl and she would obey him There was nothing the Luger couldn't get for him—and for Cora.

He turned up Park Lane and slid to a standstill as the traffic lights changed. As he sat waiting, he noticed a policeman at the corner, watching him, and his heart lurched. Were they looking for him already? The light turned to amber, and he hurriedly drove on.

He heard the girl singing to herself. She seemed a pretty lively type, he thought. Rich, and spoilt, without a care in the world. What a different world Cora lived in! He went on up Orchard Street, past Baker Street station and on towards Swiss Cottage.

It wouldn't be long now. A distant clock chimed the quarter past midnight. He'd have to look slippy. Any moment now the police might be looking for him. He sent the cab whizzing up Fitzjohn's Avenue, and in a few moments he was on the Heath.

A bright moon hung in the sky, lighting the trees and the scrub, throwing heavy black shadows. The place seemed completely deserted. He kept on until he saw a large clump of trees standing by the roadside, then he reached forward and cut the ignition. The engine died with a splutter and the cab coasted towards the trees, finally coming to a standstill in the deepest shadows. George sat for a moment, screwing up his nerve, then he climbed down stiffly onto the road.

The girl poked her head out of the window.

"Why are you stopping?" she asked. "Is there anything wrong?" She seemed quite calm and mildly interested.

George pulled his hat farther down over his eyes.

"Petrol," he grunted. "I'm sorry, miss; I thought I'd filled up."

"What a bore!" she exclaimed, opening the cab door. "Now, I suppose I'll have to walk. Well, it's not so far. What are you going to do?" George was startled that she should think of him. It was not what he expected from the upper classes.

"I'll manage," he said, his hand on the cold butt of the gun.

"If you like to walk along with me," she said, "I'll give you a tin of petrol. You've got miles to go hack."

He wished feverishly that she hadn't been like this. He wished she had flown into a temper and had upbraided him. It would have been so much easier. Now she was making him feel like a rat. His mind flew to Cora. He had to go through with it. He couldn't return to the flat empty handed. He eyed the girl's clothes furtively. They were expensive and well cut. He was sure they would fit Cora. He could imagine her face when she saw them: that thought decided him. 

"Would you like to do that?" the girl was saying. She had opened her bag and was lighting a cigarette. "You can leave the cab . . ."

She stood staring at him, the match burning in her fingers. Her eyes went to the gun and then back at him. She flicked the match away.

"Oh," she said, and stood very still.

George kept the muzzle of the gun pointing at her. He looked at her for signs of fear, a change of expression, any reaction which would give him courage to complete this beastly business. But her expression didn't change. She seemed very calm, and she took the cigarette from her lips as if she were in a drawing-room full of her own kind.

"I'm not going to hurt you, if you do what you're told," George went on, making his voice gruff.

"Well, that's a blessing," she said quietly. "I most certainly don't want to get hurt. What do you want?"

George gulped. This was going all wrong. She ought to be frightened, she ought to be grovelling before the menacing threat of the gun.

"I want your clothes," he said.

A look of complete astonishment crossed her face. "My clothes?" she repeated. "Oh, come. How can you have my clothes? I want them myself; and besides, what in the world would you do with them? You can have my money—not that I've got much—but I really can't let you have my clothes. Do he reasonable."

"I see," George heard himself say feebly. He stood baffled. The calm tone of her voice, her obvious disregard for the Luger, the quiet reasoning of her argument, flummoxed him. She opened her bag and took out several pound notes. "That's all I've got. Four Pounds. I Suppose I'll have to give it to you, but it'll make me beastly short. You've no idea how close Daddy is. He won't give me a penny more than twenty pounds a month. That's not much, is it?"

"Well, no," George said, gaping at her. "I suppose it isn't."

"Of course it isn't," the girl went on, holding out the money, "but I suppose you want it more than I do, otherwise you wouldn't be taking such a risk. I do think you're being awfully silly, you know. You could get six months' hard for this."

This was quite fantastic, George thought. I must control this situation. But he made no move to take the money. The girl was so reasonable, so unafraid. He wondered wildly what Frank Kelly would have done in such a situation. He would probably have shot the girl, but George couldn't do that. Besides, he admired her. She'd got more guts than he had. He had the gun, but he was flustered, near panic, while she was cool and at ease.

"Look here," he said desperately. "I'm sorry about this, but I've got to have your clothes. I don't want to hurt you, but if you don't give them to me, I'll have to . . ."

She looked at him intently. "You're not a sex maniac, or something, are you?" she asked, then, before he could say anything, she answered her own question. "No, I'm sure you're not. Would you like to tell me why you want my clothes so badly. It sounds interesting."

George stared at her helplessly.

"Do tell me," she went on. "Let's sit down." She went over and sat on the running-board of the car. "I might be able to help you. Don't look so worried. I'm not going to run away."

Slowly, bemused, George lowered the gun. It was going all wrong. He knew now that he would never be able to attack this girl, he knew that he was not going to get her clothes, and the reaction of the excitement and strain made him feel giddy. He came over and sat limply down by her side.

"You've never done this kind of thing before, have you?" the girl went on. "Not that you're had at it. You fooled me completely, but I think you're a hit too kind really to make a success of it, aren't you?"

George nodded miserably. "I suppose so," he said. "No, I've never done this kind of thing before. But I was desperate. I'd better drive you home now. I—I'm sorry if I frightened you."

"Well, you did give me a hit of a turn," the girl admitted, "but now you're being nice, I don't mind. But do tell me why you wanted my clothes. I can understand you wanting my money, but why my clothes?"

George hesitated. Then he blurted out, "They were for my girl," he said. "She's got nothing to wear . . ."

"Your girl?"

George nodded. "I promised her I'd get her anything she wanted, and she thought I was bluffing. She said I could get her a complete outfit. She wanted it tomorrow morning."

"How romantic!" the girl exclaimed. "Why, if I asked Chunks to get me a complete outfit in the middle of the night, the poor lamb would commit suicide. He'd do anything for me. I think I must really try this one on him."

George clenched his fists. She didn't understand! And he was so hoping that she would.