“They’re all right,” she said, and again her eyes strayed to the blond man across the room.
This won’t do at all, George thought. Why does she keep looking at that horror over the way? She couldn’t be interested in that type, surely? Why, anyone with half an eye could see he was a cissy. Perhaps she was just bored. Anyway, he couldn’t let her attention wander like this.
“I’ve been worrying about you,” he said, leaning towards her. “Did you get into trouble for staying out all night?”
‘Trouble?” Her eyebrows went up. “You talk as if I’m a child. I can stay out all night if I want to.”
Baffled, George sipped his martini. Not quite the same idea that Sydney had conveyed. He glanced at her thoughtfully.
“From what Sydney said . . .”
“Oh, don’t listen to him. He’s always bragging about how he treats me. I go my way, and he goes his.”
George was sure she was lying, but there was no point in telling her so.
“Well, I worried because I wondered if I should have kept ‘phoning. I didn’t want to get you into trouble.”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep ‘phoning,” she said shortly. “Old Harris doesn’t like it.”
Before he could say anything further, the waiter brought the oysters. When he had gone, George muttered, “I wanted to speak to you. You said it was all right to ‘phone.”
“Oh, don’t nag!” she said sharply, and forked an oyster into her mouth.
There was no doubt she was in a foul temper. Or was she nervous about something? George studied her. She did look tired and jumpy. There was also an uneasy expression in her eyes.
“What are you staring at?” she demanded, looking up and catching his eyes on her face.
“You,” George said simply. He felt an overwhelming love for her suddenly well up inside him. “What’s wrong, Cora? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Wrong, what should be wrong?”
“You look nervous . . .”
“Do I?” she suddenly laughed. “I’m in a foul temper, that’s all.”
He could see the tremendous effort she was making to sound natural. It began to worry him. There was something on her mind: something she was anxious that he should know nothing about.
“I got up late,” she went on. “Everything’s gone wrong today.” She finished her cocktail just as the waiter came with the two bottles of wine. He drew the corks and filled their glasses. “I feel like getting tight tonight,” she went on.
George was still not satisfied. “Are you sure there isn’t something else?”
“Of course not!” she said, the waspish note back in her voice. “It’s just that it’s been’ a hell of a day, and I’m tired.”
“Well, never mind,” George said, certain now that there was something on her mind. “The wine will make you feel better.”
And he began to talk to her about the only subject he was really competent to talk about—crime in America. He didn’t want to talk to her about that. He would much rather have talked of his love for her, and even to confide in her that all his stories of violence and adventure were figments of his imagination, and that he was only a simple type of fellow, but very much in love with her. But she was so unsympathetic and hard and nervous that he knew it would be inviting disaster to be sentimental. So he told her more fictitious stories of his adventures in America. He had been reading a lot lately, and was well primed with material. She seemed to welcome these stories, probably because she didn’t wish to talk herself. While he talked, she smoked incessantly. The ash-tray was piled high with cigarette butts, smeared with lipstick. She had scarcely touched her meal, but she had drunk a good deal of the sour red wine. When George asked her if she felt all right, as she had made such a poor dinner, she said abruptly that it was too hot to eat. Remembering that the first words she had greeted him with were, “Come On, I’m hungry,” George shrugged hopelessly. Her moods defeated him.
But she listened to his tales of crime, sitting still, with her chin in her cupped hands, her eyes expressionless.
George soon became engrossed in his own stories, and when the lights in the restaurant began to go out, he realized with a start of surprise that it was half-past eleven and he was a little drunk. The restaurant was empty now, except for the blond man at the table opposite, the Hebrew barman, the fat woman at the desk and the waiter who had looked after them.
“We’d better be going, I suppose,” he said regretfully. “I’m afraid I’ve been doing all the talking again. I hope I haven’t bored you.”
Cora shook her head. Her face was flushed by the wine, and when she spoke, the sickly smell of the wine was on her breath. “I wanted you to talk,” she said. Then she looked again at the blond man at the table across the room. George suddenly realized that all the time he had been talking to her she had been casting glances in this man’s direction.
He couldn’t resist saying, “Do you know that man?”
She looked through him, her eyes drawn curtains, “That isn’t rain, is it?”
George frowned. “I hope not.” He glanced over his shoulder. Rainmarks showed on the windows. “It is, I’m afraid. Aren’t we unlucky? It always rains for us.”
“Oh, damn! I hope we can get a cab.”
George signalled to the waiter, who brought the bill. It was for twenty-five shillings. Cheap, and jolly good, George thought. We must come here again. Only perhaps she’ll be less worried and jumpy next time. He had to admit that the evening hadn’t been a success. Cora had behaved—was behaving now—like someone awaiting a major operation. She had not been concentrating, and George was prepared to swear that she couldn’t have repeated to him anything of what he had said to her during the whole evening. Her eyes were never still, and she continually moistened her lips with her tongue. She had all the symptoms of acute nervousness.
George waved away the change which the waiter brought him. “Shall we go, or shall we wait a bit?” he asked Cora.
“We’re closed now,” the waiter said as he moved away.
“Oh, well,” George said, pushing back his chair, “I suppose we’d better go, then.”
Cora drew a deep breath and got to her feet. George was surprised to see that she swayed unsteadily. It dawned on him that he was feeling comfortably tight. The martinis and the two bottles of wine had found their way to his head. He grinned a little foolishly. They certainly seemed to have found their way to Cora’s legs.
“Steady,” he said, taking her arm; “careful how you go.”
She pushed him away. “Shut up, you fool!” she said in a low, furious whisper. Her eyes blazed, and George was so astounded by her vehemence that he gaped at her. She lurched unsteadily down the aisle between the tables, and he heard her muttering furiously to herself. The sudden change in her mood stupefied him. She had seemed sober enough while she had been at the table, but now she seemed as tight as a tick.
What was she up to now? What was she doing at the blond man’s table? George stood watching her, unable to make up his mind to follow her. She had paused, her arms folded across her breasts, facing the blond man, who looked at her with curious, bored eyes.
“Well?” she said loudly. “You’ll know me again, won’t you?”
The blond man eyed her up and down and looked away, a sneering little smile on his face.
“You heard what I said, you cheap masher,” Cora went on, her voice high pitched. “You’ve been trying to make me all the evening!”
George wanted to sink through the floor. How could she behave like this? Had she suddenly gone mad?
The blond man flicked his cigarette ash on the carpet. He continued to smile, but he was regarding Cora now with a frozen look in his eyes.
“Run away, little girl,” he said, “or I shall get annoyed with you.”
“Keep your filthy eyes off me in the future!” Cora suddenly screamed, and, leaning forward, she spat a stream of obscene vituperation at him.
Although George
was shocked into a stupefied immobility, he was aware that the woman with the blonde hair, the Hebrew behind the bar and the waiter were standing tense and angry, looking at Cora.
The blond man ceased to smile. “You’re drunk,” he said. “Get out before I have you thrown out!”
Cora snatched up a glass of wine that the blond man had scarcely touched, and with one swift movement threw the wine in his face.
Somewhere in the building a bell began to ring. George was conscious of the bell more than he was conscious of the stillness of the blonde woman, the Hebrew and the waiter, although they were menacing enough. He was more scared of the bell than he was of the blond man, who sat staring at Cora, wine running down his face into his shirt and coat.
Then a concealed door halfway down the room opened, and two men came into the restaurant. They looked like Greeks— hard little men with flat, squashed features, dressed in black, with black cloth caps on their bullet heads.
The blond man said in a drawling voice, “Well, you’ll certainly pay for that, you drunken bitch.”
George rushed to Cora’s side. He was sick with fright, but he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her.
“Cora!” he said, taking her arm. “My God! Cora!”
He could feel her trembling, and he realized that she was as terrified as he was.
“Don’t let them do anything to me!” she said wildly, clinging to him. “George! Get me out of here. Don’t let them touch me!”
This frantic appeal stiffened George’s courage. He pushed her behind him and faced the two Greeks.
“Now, don’t get excited,” he said, his voice sounding as if he had a pebble in his mouth. “I’m sorry about this . . . she didn’t know what she was doing . . .”
The blond man got to his feet. His face was white now with vicious rage. “Take care of this lout, Nick,” he said. “Get the girl away from him.”
George thought, desperately, furiously, They won’t have her! They’ll have to kill me first. If I’d only got my gun! He put his hand behind him and pushed Cora against the wall; he stood in front of her, crouching a little, his left fist extended, his right slightly across his body. Vaguely he remembered seeing James Cagney stand like this, protecting his girl. Cagney had faced a room full of thugs and he’d licked the lot! George eyed the two hard little men, who kept just out of his reach, like two terriers waiting for an opening to jump in. The blond man was still behind his table: he was wiping his face with a napkin.
“You’d better be careful,” George said. “I don’t want to hurt anyone!”
The blond man suddenly laughed. “Fix the fat fool,” he said sharply. “Go for him!”
The Greek called Nick edged closer, and George swung wildly at him. His great fist smashed into empty air, as the Greek shifted his head.
Cora screamed and clutched at George, hampering him.
Then suddenly long, thin blades flashed in the shaded light. The sight of the glittering steel shocked George’s courage into a frozen ball of terror.
Something flashed, and pain seared him.
They’ll kill me! he thought, and like a wounded, terrified bull, he lashed out frantically.
A red curtain of terror hung before George’s eyes. He heard Cora scream. Then he found himself on the floor, a rattling, groaning noise in his ears, and he realized that he was making the noise himself.
A solid weight dropped on his shoulders, pushing him flat on the dusty, smelly carpet. Nick knelt on his back.
“Don’t move,” the Greek said. “She’ll be back in a little while.”
George lay still.
Then a sound came from somewhere in the building—a violent scream, which was immediately stifled, as if by a ruthless hand. Every nerve in George’s body stiffened.
“Still!” Nick said, breathing garlic and wine-fumes in George’s face.
Slowly and cautiously George raised his head and looked round the room. The woman at the cash desk, the Hebrew behind the bar and the waiter were all staring at him.
George thought he heard another muffled scream, but he could not be sure. He looked at the others, but they showed no sign that they had heard anything. The woman at the cash desk curled a straggling lock of dyed hair round her fat finger. Her eyes were stony, blank.
What were they doing to Cora? George made a convulsive movement.
“Still!” the Greek warned, pressing a sharp knee into George’s back.
The silence in the room and in the building terrified George. Minutes ticked by slowly. It seemed to him that he had been lying on the dirty, evil-smelling carpet for hours.
Then suddenly the Greek got up. “Right,” he said, and kicked George hard in the ribs. “Get up, you.”
Somehow George crawled to his feet. Without quite knowing what he was doing, he took out his handkerchief and wrapped it round his bleeding left hand. He swayed unsteadily as the other Greek appeared, pushing Cora through the concealed doorway.
Then somehow they were in the street together, in the darkness and the rain.
George stood gulping in the hot, damp air, unnerved, his limbs trembling.
“What happened?” he said. “What did they do to you?”
Cora, her arms tightly crossed, doubled herself up. Her long wave of hair fell forward, concealing her face. She stood like that for several minutes, and the rain poured down on her.
“Can’t I do anything?” George said, forgetting about his own wounds, frightened to touch her, terrified by her behaviour. Her ragged, laboured breathing made a dreadful sound in the rain and the darkness.
She began to walk up and down the street, still doubled up, still holding onto herself.
“Cora! Tell me!” he said, following her. “What is it?”
They were near a street lamp now, and she suddenly straightened. Her hair was plastered to her head by the rain. She looked wild. A hissing sound came from her lips, and he could see she was grinding her teeth.
“They crammed a pillow over my face,” she gasped, “and then they flogged me with a cane!” She drew her saliva into a ball of fury and spat into the darkness. “They did that to me! I’ll make them pay! I’ll make him pay, too! The treacherous swine! He knew what they’d do! I’ll kill them all for this! All of them!” And she began to cry with rage and pain, wriggling her body and stamping her feet.
George stood in the rain, helpless, watching her with dismayed, bewildered pity, the handkerchief round his hand growing soggy with blood.
Suddenly she grabbed his arm, her fingers biting into his muscles. “Don’t look at me,” she panted, standing first on one leg and then on the other. She contorted her body, arched her back, straightened and bent double again. “Damn you!” She broke away from him and went down the street, only to stop a yard or so farther on. She held her head between her hands and began to walk round in small circles. Then she came back to him and gripped his arm again. He could feel the fever in her, burning through his coat-sleeve.
“Take me home,” she cried, pulling at him. “For God’s sake, take me home. I’m hurt! I’m on fire! Don’t stand there doing nothing, you stupid, stupid fool! Take me home!”
eleven
George never quite knew how they reached the little flat above the greengrocer’s shop. He vaguely remembered stopping a taxi, but had no recollection of the actual drive. He remembered the long, painful climb up some stairs, and Cora hammering wildly on a door. He remembered, too, hearing Sydney shout, “All right, all right. I’m coming! Stop banging on that bloody door.”
Then he had a dim recollection of Sydney, in a dirty white dressing gown, staring at him in blank astonishment.
He took a step forward, and his knees gave under him. He fell heavily. Before he blacked out he heard Cora scream: “You swine! You said he wouldn’t touch me! Oh, I hate you! I hate you!” and then he lost consciousness.
He had no idea how long he remained unconscious. He must have drifted into a heavy sleep before coming round. But when he opened his
eyes it was ‘morning and he was lying on the floor, a pillow under his head and a blanket over him. He sat up slowly and looked round, not quite remembering where he was.
He was aware of pain, and found his hand had been expertly bandaged and sticking-plaster covered the cuts on his face. He pushed the blanket aside and stood up. He didn’t feel too bad. A little weak, perhaps, but otherwise not bad. He looked round the room with blank astonishment. It was a perfect pigsty of a room. The mantelpiece was thick with dust. The fireplace was full of cigarette ash and butts. A table, pushed against the wall, was piled with old newspapers, unwashed crockery and empty bottles. A dish containing some evil-smelling meat was under an armchair. On all the flat surfaces of the furniture were sticky circles made by wet tumblers. Two bluebottles buzzed angrily against the dirty windows.
“Hello,” Sydney said quietly. “How’s the bold warrior?”
George blinked at him. Sydney was standing in the doorway, dressed in the dirty white dressing-gown, his lean, hard face cold and expressionless.
“I must have fainted,” George said, moving over to an armchair and sitting down. He examined his hand uneasily. “Did you do this?”
Sydney grunted. “Don’t worry about that,” he said casually. “I shoved a few stitches in it. It’ll be all right.”
“Stitches? You put stitches in it?”
“Why not? In my racket you get used to razor-cuts. Did you see what they did to Cora?” .
“They beat her . . . didn’t they?” George went cold.
“They certainly did. Nice mob. They’ll pay for this, George.”
George held his head in his hands. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why did she do it? She threw wine in his face.”
“Never mind why she did it,” Sydney said. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” George said, no longer caring what Sydney would say or do.
“That’s fine,” Sydney said, his eyes glowing like live coals. “I’m glad about that. You and me are going to fix Mr. bloody Crispin.”
1946 - More Deadly than the Male Page 13