“What a gal!” Little Ernie said, sitting down. “See what I mean? It’s work all the time with ’er.”
The door opened and a thin sad-faced woman in black came in pushing a small trolley. She manoeuvred the trolley near the table, and went out without even a glance at any of them.
“There you are. Just ’elp yourself,” Little Ernie said, beaming on them. “Eat as much as you like.”
There were bowls of jellied soup and lobster salad, a pile of chicken sandwiches, and a plate of finely cut, lean ham. A silver bucket containing a bottle of champagne on ice completed the meal.
While they ate, Little Ernie took charge of the champagne.
“Only the best,” he said, smirking at George. “That’s Eva all over. Beats me ’ow she picks everything up. Must be ’er posh friends. You wouldn’t believe it, but I found ’er in a smelly little restaurant in Pimlico washing dishes. I took one look at ’er shape and took a chance on ’er. Like a monkey, she is. Picks up everything. Talks posh even. Best day’s work I ever done.”
He kept up a ceaseless chatter during the meal, and when the woman had taken the trolley and table away, he poured fresh drinks and sat down.
“Well,” he said, stretching out his short legs, “don’t tell me if you don’t want to, but you two certainly were in a state when you came in.”
Cora looked at him mockingly. Now that she had eaten and rested, she was once more her old self.
“That’s our secret,” she said, with a short, hard laugh. “If you really want to know, Ernie, we had a fire.”
Little Ernie picked his nose. “I ’eard the fire engines going,” he said. “So you ’ad a fire, did you?”
Cora nodded.
“Burnt your ’ouse and ’ome, eh?”
“Everything went up in a gorgeous bonfire.”
“Hmm.”
There was a long pause.
“’Ow’s Syd?” Little Ernie asked, looking at Cora sharply. She looked away, her mouth tightening “Didn’t you see in the newspapers?”
Little Ernie’s eyes narrowed. “Was that ’im? I wondered. Gawd love me… what a death! ’Ere, Cora, I’m sorry. You know that, don’t you? I’m sorry. I liked Syd. ’E’d got guts.”
Cora moved restlessly. The wrap slipped, and both men caught a glimpse of her naked thigh. She adjusted the wrap impatiently.
“I didn’t identify him,” she said tonelessly. “They may as well bury him. I haven’t any money.”
George shivered. It sounded so brutal, and yet he realized that it was only the sensible thing to have done.
“’Ow did it ’appen?”
“He slipped,” Cora said, looking Ernie straight in the eyes.
“Wasn’t pushed?”
“He slipped.”
There was another long pause. George felt that these two had forgotten him.
“Ain’t seen Crispin about for some time,” Little Ernie said thoughtfully. “’Ave you?”
“I can’t be bothered with him,” Cora returned, her eyes watchful. “He’s around, I suppose.”
“I wonder.” Little Ernie lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the fireplace. “I did ’ear that ’e’d come to a sticky end. Marvellous, ain’t it, the way I ’ear things?”
Cora continued to stare at him watchfully.
“Listen, Ernie,” she said. “I want a place for a week.”
“Do you now? What makes you think I’ve got a place for you?”
“Come off it, Ernie. You must have dozens of flats in the West End.”
“And they cost me a packet, too,” Little Ernie said darkly. “I only want it for a week.”
“’Ow much can you pay?”
“Nothing.”
“’Ave an ’eart.”
She looked at him. He seemed to read something in that look, because his ferrety eyes lit up.
“Why don’t you get wise, ducks?” he said. “You ain’t got any dough. Why don’t you get in the game?”
While this conversation had been going on, George sat listening, a dull, brooding expression on his face. He was trying to imagine how Frank Kelly or any of the other big shot gangsters would have handled Little Ernie. He was sure they wouldn’t have stood a rotten little pimp like him for five seconds. All the same, Little Ernie knew too much: he might also he useful. It wouldn’t do to get too tough with him. But it wouldn’t do, either, for him to think that George was a stooge who sat and listened and was not consulted.
His contempt for the little man was so great that he felt no diffidence in handling him
He surprised them both by barking, “Cut that out!”
When they jerked round to stare at him, he went on, sitting forward, his heavy face congested with blood, “She’s not going on the game, and you can keep off that subject if you know what’s good for you!”
Little Ernie’s eyes opened. “That’s all right, palsy,” he said hastily. “I was only having a bit of fun,” but he glanced at Cora uneasily and looked away.
Cora’s mouth tightened. “Don’t get excited,” she said, giving George a long, cold stare. “Ernie’s only trying to be helpful.” She looked at Little Ernie. “Don’t worry about him. He’s a bit jumpy. Now, be nice, Ernie. How about a flat?”
Little Ernie opened his mouth to say something, but caught the look in Cora’s eyes. He hesitated and then said, “For a week, eh? Well, per’aps. I’ll think about it.”
George hunched his great shoulder muscles. “You’d better do more than that,” he said. “We want a place. You’ll get your money all right. I’ve got plans.”
Little Ernie scratched his head. He was suddenly not quite sure of George. The gun, which continually caught his eye, lying on the mantelpiece, disturbed him This big, hulking fellow could be dangerous. It might he wise to get in with him, rather than antagonize him.
“You leave it to me,” he said. “I’ll fix you up tomorrow.” He got up and went over to the cocktail cabinet. “’Ave another drink?”
George shook his head. “No,” he said shortly. “I’ve had all I want.”
Cora was watching George with a puzzled expression in her eyes. “Can we sleep here tonight, Ernie?” she asked.
Little Ernie nodded. “Sure,” he said. “’E can ’ave my room and you can ’ave the spare room, unless you and ’im want to kip together.”
George felt the blood rush to his face. He got up and walked over to the mantelpiece and picked up his gun, keeping his back turned to them so they should not see his embarrassment. He wanted to say that Cora and he would share a room, but his nerve failed.
“I want a bed to myself,” Cora said in a cold, tight voice.
George drew in a quick breath. What else had he expected? he thought angrily. There was time for that when they got a place of their own.
“That’s settled, then,” Little Ernie said. “Well, I’ve got to shoot off. Must ’ave a word with the girls before turning in, you know. Gotta encourage ’ern, bless their sweet ’carts. I’ll be seeing you. Make yourself at ’ome,” he went on, looking at George. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He nodded, gave Cora a quick, searching glance, and went off, moving softly, like a ghost.
George and Cora stood silent until they heard the front door click shut, and then Cora said sharply, “You dotty or something? Ernie can help us. What do you want to bark at him for?”
“He’s a filthy little rat,” George said, clenching his fists. “I saw the way he kept looking at you.”
“So what?” Cora said, sitting on the settee. “Why should you care, if I don’t?”
George stood over her. This was the time. It was now or never. One of them had to be master, and if he were to have any peace in his life, it must not be Cora.
“Because you’re my girl,” he said. “I love you, Cora. You’re on your own, and you need someone to look after you. Well, I’m going to be that someone.”
She leaned hack and crossed her legs. “You?” she said. “Don’t make me laugh. What have you got
to offer me? Why, you can’t even look after yourself.”
“We’ll see about that,” George said grimly. “If Ernie tries any funny stuff, he’ll be sorry!”
Cora’s jeering expression suddenly changed to blazing rage. "If you interfere with me,” she exclaimed, jumping up, “I’ll make you sorry! I’m going to do what I like! I’m in the market. The man who offers most gets me.”
Again George’s slow mind groped for inspiration from Frank Kelly. Kelly always kept his women. He treated them tough and loaded them with jewels. But how could he do that? Now he had got Sydney out of the way, he wasn’t going to lose her. Little Ernie could give her the world. He had just got to compete with Little Ernie.
“What do you want?” he asked abruptly, struggling to conceal his doubts and fears.
“What do you mean?” she demanded.
“You’re in the market, aren’t you?” he said, clenching his fists. “Well, then, what’s the price?”
“I think you must be drunk or mad,” she said angrily, and turned away. “What can you give me? Leave me alone and peddle your silly hooks!”
George sat down. He took out a cigarette and lit it. His hands were steady, his mind coldly determined.
“I’ve got nothing now,” he said, “but I can get it. You don’t want to throw yourself away on a little rat like Ernie. Name something and you shall have it.”
“Oh, shut up!” Cora snapped. “You’re nothing but a cheap bluffer. You live in dreams. I want more than dreams, and I’m going to have more than dreams.”
The Luger dug into George’s hip. It gave him extraordinary confidence in himself. Thoughts crowded into his desperate frustrated mind. He had killed a man! Nothing else that he could do could be worse than that. Even if he killed another man, it wouldn’t be worse than the first killing. Once a gangster kills there is no stopping him. He had read that somewhere, and it was true. Sooner or later Crispin’s body would be found. Bodies were always found. Then the hunt would be on. If the police didn’t get him, then Emily and Max and the two Greeks would. Well, until then he was going to live his life to the full. He was going to have Cora. He wasn’t enduring this black, ghastly frustration any longer. If he had to buy her, then he’d buy her, no matter what the cost.
He reached out suddenly and caught hold of Cora’s arm. He jerked her down beside him on the settee. The silk wrap parted, and he had a momentary glimpse of her that tipped the scales of his sanity. He caught her to him and held her, his great strength crushing her, frightening her.
“What do you want?” he said, her hair against his face. “I mean it. There’s nothing I can’t get for you.”
“Let me go!” she said. “Will you let me go!”
He released her and sat back.
“Well?” he said. “What do you want?”
Cora could scarcely believe this was the same man. The hard face, the wild, desperate eyes, chilled her. But she was quick to see that she must call this ridiculous bluff. In his present state of mind, she felt he was dangerous. He might do anything unless she provided an outlet for his pent-up, violent repression.
“I want a complete outfit,” she said. “And I want it now. Give me that, if you can, you cheap bluffer.”
George looked at her steadily. “You mean clothes?”
“Of course, I mean clothes. I want something to wear when I go out tomorrow morning. I want a complete outfit. And don’t think I can’t get it. I’ve only to ask Little Ernie.”
“I’ll get you the money,” George said slowly.
“I don’t want the money, I want the clothes. I want something decent to put on when I get up tomorrow morning.
George hesitated. She had purposely asked for the impossible. There were no shops open at this time, but, of course, Little Ernie could get an outfit from one of his girls. It would be the simplest thing in the world for him to do. But George had no girl to borrow anything from. She had laid the trap and he had walked into it.
Cora, studying his face, saw doubt and dismay there, and she got up with a laugh.
“Now shut up, you bluffer,” she said. “I’ve had quite enough from you for one night. I’m going to bed.” She went to the door, and looked back over her shoulder. “I don’t think you and I have much in common, do you, George?” she went on. “I think you’d better go back to your cat and your hook selling.”
George sat brooding for some little time after she had gone. She was slipping through his fingers. He had to do something. Tomorrow would be too late. She had asked for a complete outfit of clothes: well, she must have it.
He got to his feet, picked up his hat and stood staring down at the thick white carpet. Getting an outfit of women’s clothes at eleven-thirty at night might set even Frank Kelly hack on his heels. He must prove to himself that he was a better man even than Frank Kelly. He crossed the room and quietly let himself out of the hateful little flat.
17
In the network of narrow streets that he behind Shaftesbury Avenue there is one particular street where taxi drivers leave their cabs while they have a meal after the theatre rush.
It was to this street that George made his way. He moved along Piccadilly, past the Piccadilly Hotel, threading his way through the crowd of men and women lingering outside the hotel for a final word before dispersing to their homes. He stood on the kerb, his back turned to the darkened windows of Swan & Edgar, while he waited impatiently for the traffic lights to stop the flow of traffic towards Regent Street. There was an apprehensive feeling, like a lead weight, in his stomach. He had conceived a desperate, reckless plan. It depended for success on one thing: the strength of his own nerves. A week ago he would have shied away from such an idea as any person in their right mind would have shied away from touching a red-hot stove. It was the kind of thing he had read about, the kind of desperate act that, at one time, American thugs used to commit in the wild, dangerous days of prohibition. It was a plan conceived by desperation, the only possible solution of Cora’s demand.
At first he had thought of breaking into one of the big stores, like Selfridges or Swan & Edgar. Here, he knew, he would be able to steal some women’s clothes. But even if he succeeded in breaking into the store, he had still to select the right clothes, the right size, the right match. Cora had said she wanted a complete outfit. It was no use making a mess of it. She must have something that she could put on, complete to the last button, and that went for hat, shoes, stockings and hag as well as the clothes. He couldn’t possibly go from counter to counter picking the right things. That was out of the question.
There was only one thing to do. He had to find a girl of Cora’s size and take from her her clothes and everything that went with her outfit. Only in that way would he be sure that he had forgotten nothing, that everything fitted, that everything matched.
His great shoulders hunched, his head down, he walked across the Circus, pausing for a moment under the statue of Eros, before gaining a foothold on the crowded pavement of Shaftesbury Avenue. He went on past the Windmill Theatre into Archer Street, where chorus girls in their street clothes were coming out of the stage door.
The next street brought him to a long line of taxis. He slowed his pace, looking sharply at each taxi as he passed. They were all empty, and through the lighted door of an eating-place a few yards farther on came the sound of men talking and laughing. Without stopping he glanced through the glass door. A crowd of drivers sat over their food at long, wooden tables in a room hazy with tobacco smoke.
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.”
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