More Deadly Than the Male

by James Hadley Chase

  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.”

  “Thanks for a terrific evening,” she returned, climbing into the taxi.

  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…”

  “Don’t be frightened,” George said, pulling the Luger from his hip pocket, and pointing it at her. “This is a—a hold-up.”

  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.

  She noticed the change of his expression. “I say, I am sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to be funny. I suppose you’re pretty badly in love?”

  Instantly George warmed to her. “Yes,” he said. “Is she very lovely?”

  George nodded. “She’s marvellous,” he said, looking across the limitless expanse of the Heath. “You see, she doesn’t think I’ve got any guts. She—she won’t have much to do with me. She deliberately laid this trap, knowing that I couldn’t do anything about it. That’s why I tried.” He drew in a deep breath. “I—I stole that taxi.”

  “Are you quite sure she’s the right one for you?” the girl asked, looking at him curiously. “She doesn’t sound your type at all.”

  “She isn’t really,” George admitted, “but sometimes one can’t help that. A girl like that gets in one’s blood and there’s not much one can do about it. I can’t, anyway.”

  The girl thought about this for a moment, then she nodded. “Yes, I can understand that,” she said; “but you ought to be careful. A girl like that could get you into a lot of trouble.”

  Trouble? George thought bitterly. She had done that all right, if you could use such a word for murder.

  “Well, I can’t help it,” he returned tonelessly. “I can’t do without her.”

  The girl stood up. “All right,” she said. “I’ll help you. Take me home and I’ll give you an outfit. I’d like to surprise your girlfriend. I only wish I could be there to see her face when you give it to her.”

  George stared at her, scarcely believing his ears.

  “You’ll give me an outfit?” he repeated stupidly.

  “Yes. I’d much sooner give you one than have to go home without a stitch.” She suddenly laughed. “I have to think of Daddy. It would give the poor darling a stroke; and think what the servants would say!”

  Was this a trap? George wondered, suddenly suspicious. Was she going to get him to the house and then send for the police? Why should she give him the clothes? She had never seen him before. What was behind this?

  She seemed to read his thoughts. "It’s all right,” she said, looking down at him “I’m not going to trap you into anything. It’s just that I have a lot of clothes and it pleases me to help you. What do you say?”

  Still George hesitated. The suggestion was preposterous. He had set out as a desperate bandit, and now the girl he had planned to rob was actually going to give him what he wanted.

  “Do make up your mind,” she said, throwing away her cigarette. “It’s getting late, and I ought to be home.”

  He got slowly to his feet. “I don’t know what to say,” he muttered, looking at her uneasily. “It’s fantastic.”

  “No, it isn’t. You’re nervous I’ll send for the police, aren’t you? I won’t. I promise.”

  He remembered Cora’s promise. Women made promises lightly, he warned himself, but looking at her he was inclined to believe her. Anyway, if he became suspicious he had his gun… and he’d use it, too!

  “Well, thanks,” he said. “I think it’s awfully decent of you,” and he opened the cab door for her.

  “Has she my colouring?” the girl asked, sitting on the little turn-up seat so that she could talk to George as he drove. Cora had her colouring all right, but that was as far as the resemblance went. She had a better figure, more character in her face than this girl—not that this girl wasn’t nice looking. In a way, George preferred her to Cora. She hadn’t Cora’s sulky expression, nor the lines near her mouth. She had a better skin than Cora’s, and her hair was more beautiful. But that didn’t mean she was more exciting than Cora: she wasn’t. There was something about Cora which tortured George. He knew this girl would never torture him. "Yes,” he said. “She’s about your size, and she’s got hair like yours.”

  “What do you think she’d like?” the girl asked. “Would she like a frock, or a costume, or a coat and skirt?”

  Was she pulling his leg? George wondered. Had she got so many things to give away?

  “Well, I don’t know,” he said. “I thought something like you’re wearing.”

  She laughed. “Of course, that’s why you picked on me, wasn’t it? I think I’ve got something that’ll do. I don’t mind parting with clothes. It’s money I hate parting with. You see, Daddy pays for my clothes, and gives me pocket money for extras. He doesn’t seem to mind how many clothes I have, but he just won’t part with any more cash.”

  George drove on, bewildered.

  “We’re just here,” she called after a few minutes. “The gate’s on the right.”

  George hesitate
d. Should he drive in? Should he risk a trap? Before he could make up his mind, he had reached the gates and had turned into a long, winding drive. But when he sighted a vast house through the trees, he slowed down and stopped the cab.

  She jumped out. "Stay here,” she said. “I won’t be long.”

  “All right,” he said uneasily, and watched her walk swiftly towards the house.

  As soon as she was out of sight, George left the cab and moved off the drive into the garden. He couldn’t afford to trust her. He would give her ten minutes, and then he’d go. From where he stood, in the shadow of a big magnolia tree, he could see the house. He could see her run up the broad, white steps, open the door and go in. The ground floor was in darkness, but the windows of both the wings on the two upper floors showed lights.

  He stood still, watching the house, his hand on the butt of his gun. A moment or so later a light sprang up in one of the centre windows, and he caught a glimpse of the girl as she passed to and fro before the window.

  He relaxed slightly. Anyway, she wasn’t telephoning, he thought. How astounding! He was sure if anyone had tried to hold him up, he would have given them over to the police at the first possible opportunity.

  Scarcely ten minutes had gone by before he saw her coming down the steps again. She held a bundle under her arm, and George, convinced of her sincerity at last, went to meet her.

  “I bet you had a bad ten minutes,” she said, smiling at him. “I hope I haven’t been too long. You’ll find everything there. I duplicated the underclothes. The hat’s the only thing I wasn’t sure about. Does she wear hats?”

  George blinked. “No,” he said. “How did you know?”

  “I somehow felt she didn’t.” She pressed the bundle into his arms.

  George stood gaping at her, a prickly sensation behind his eyes. “I—I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t really.”

  “I’ve got to get in now. Good night, and please don’t hold up any more girls. You know, we don’t really like it.”