1946 - More Deadly than the Male

by James Hadley Chase

  She frowned. “Why should I? You meant nothing to me.”

  George flinched; then, stung to anger by her brutal callousness, he said furiously, “Well, I’m going to mean something to you now! And the sooner you realize it the better!”

  But she wasn’t listening. “Did you hear?” she said, a white ring suddenly appearing round her lips.

  Somewhere in the building came the faint tinkle of breaking glass.

  “They’re getting impatient,” she said, and ran her fingers through her hair. “I hope I don’t start screaming, George. I’m in an awful funk.”

  George sprang to his feet. “Barricade the door,” he said, his voice quivering with excitement. “We ought to have thought of that before. Help me with the cupboard.”

  She did not move.

  Without waiting for her, he pulled the cupboard towards him and began to drag it across the room. It was heavy, but with a tremendous effort he managed to wedge it against the door.

  “They can’t get in that way,” he said, panting from his exertions. “Can they get in through the window?”

  She giggled. “Not unless they’ve got wings,” she said. “You are a scream, George. Why don’t you go down and kill them, like you killed Wineinger, Barrow and Banghart?”

  He stared at her, not understanding for a moment what she was saying. Then he flinched. He had forgotten about Wineinger, Clyde Barrow and Gustave Banghart. It seemed a long time, another age, since Cora and he had sat in that restaurant together and he had told her all those stupid lies.

  “I thought you liked tough spots,.” she went on, watching him with frightened, jeering eyes. “I thought you were out for excitement, and you didn’t care which side you were on, -so long as you got into a scrap.” Her inside rumbled again. “Well, there’s a juicy scrap waiting for you downstairs. Why don’t you get into it? You’re not scared of two little Greeks and a fat old woman, are you?”

  “Stop it!” George said, sharply. “I was lying. You may as well know now. I’ve never been to the States. I’ve never seen a gangster. I was a fool. A vain, stupid fool.”

  She beat her fists together. “Poor old George: as if we didn’t know. It was easy, George: easy as falling off a log. As soon as you started bragging, Sydney saw how he could use you. Pretend you love him, he said to me, and he’s ours.”

  George couldn’t look at her. He wanted to hate her, but shame and desire seemed to be his only emotions.

  She was listening again. Her eyes darted like those of a frightened animal.

  The stairs creaked outside as someone moved cautiously up them.

  “It’s Poncho,” she whispered, bending forward. “He’s got in from the back.”

  George started up. The heavy Luger bumped against his hip. He had forgotten the gun. Instantly he had it in his hand, and he thumbed back the safety-catch.

  “I’ll kill him if he tries to get in here,” he muttered.

  “They’ll be sure of you if they know you have a gun,” she said, watching him intently. ‘“They’ll know for certain you killed—”

  “Shut up!” he said. “I don’t care. They know enough as it is,” he faced the door, waiting.

  There was a long pause, then they heard the handle of the door turn. The door opened an inch or so and then stopped, blocked by the cupboard.

  George raised the Luger. His hand was steady. He pressed the trigger, lifting the cartridge from the magazine into the breech. Then he waited, tense, sweating.

  There was another long, ghastly pause. Cora was holding her head between her hands, her mouth was open, and her smeared lips formed a soundless scream. Someone outside was breathing softly, making a faint, whistling sound. Then footsteps went away. The stairs creaked. Once more there was silence except for the hum of distant traffic along the High Street and the excited ticking of the clock.

  “He’s gone,” George whispered, lowering the gun.

  Cora lit another cigarette. “Not far. They’re used to waiting.”

  “Let them wait,” George said. “We’ll see who gets sick of waiting.”

  She lay back across the divan. “I didn’t think you had the nerve,” she said, a new note in her voice. “You looked fine standing up to him.”

  George scarcely heard her. He was staring up at the ceiling. “We could get out that way,” he said. “You can’t live here any more, Cora. We’ll have to find some place where they’ll never find us.”

  “We?” she said, rolling over on her stomach and looking at him. “So you’re not going to desert me?”

  “Did you think I would? I may be a fool, but I love you. I don’t know why, because you’ve always been rotten to me. But I love you, and I’m going to look after you.”

  She held up her hand. “What’s that?” she asked, her eyes dilating.

  He listened. A murmur of voices floated up from the alley: whispering, hushed voices of people in church. He went over to the window, and without moving the blind, he listened. He heard a woman’s voice and then a mutter of men’s voices.

  “Turn out the light,” he said. “It’s Emily.”

  Cora stiffened; she remained where she was. She beat on the ,< pillow with her clenched fists.

  George crossed the room and snapped off the light. Then he returned to the window and cautiously lifted the curtain.

  The moon was rising above the roofs of the buildings, and part of the alley was no longer in darkness. Immediately below him he could see Emily, Max and Nick. They were standing before the front door. As he watched them he heard a bolt slam back and heard the front door open. Emily said something, and then they all entered and the front door closed.

  As George put on the light again, they could hear footsteps moving about in the garage below. They made no attempt to conceal their presence now. They talked. They opened and shut doors. Once Nick laughed. The noise they made was more menacing than their previous stealth. They were confident that they would be undisturbed, and that they had George and Cora in a trap.

  “We’ve got to get out,” George said. “They’re up to something. We can’t stay here any longer.”

  Cora sat up. She was shivering, and she chewed her knuckles until one of them bled.

  George went over to the window and opened it. He leaned out. The gutter above him was out of reach; the ground below was too far away. There was no escape through the window. He turned and looked up at the ceiling.

  Footsteps came up the stairs and along the passage. The doorhandle turned and the door was opened until it was stopped by the cupboard. There was a fumbling sound at the door that sent a cold shiver of excitement down George’s spine. He sprang across to the fireplace and snatched up a poker. Then he climbed up on the table and began to hack at the plaster of the ceiling.

  “Turn it on,” Nick’s voice called.

  A hissing sound filled the room.

  Cora screamed.

  The sharp point of the poker sank into the plaster, and a large part of the ceiling came down with a crash. George was choked with fine white dust, and almost blinded. He went on hacking at the ceiling, tearing at the wooden laths with his hands.

  A strong smell of gas filled the room. So that was what they were up to, he thought, not pausing in his efforts to make a hole in the ceiling. Well, they were too late. The window was open, and it would not be possible to build up a strong enough concentration of gas to suffocate them. But suppose they set the place on fire? It’d go up like a powder-barrel!

  He worked for a few seconds like a madman. Voices sounded in the alley. They had left the garage. Any moment they might set fire to the place. The hole was big enough to get through now. He shouted to Cora, but she just sat on the divan, coughing and wringing her hands.

  He jumped off the table and grabbed hold of her. She resisted weakly, but somehow he got her on the table.

  “Through the hole,” he gasped, “it’s our only chance.”

  He caught hold of the back of her slacks and hoisted her up. She clutched at th
e torn edges of of the hole and he bundled her through. Then he hoisted himself up.

  They crouched between the plaster and the tiles. He smashed at the tiles with the poker, and a moment later he saw, through the hole he had made, the cloudless sky and the bright moon floating serenely above them.

  “Up,” he panted, grabbing Cora round the waist, and he shoved her onto the roof which sloped gently to the flat roof of the next building. He followed, and together they slithered down the warm tiles, ran across the flat roof, dodged round a chimney-stack and paused at the foot of the next sloping roof. Then suddenly huge yellow flame shot into the air, followed by a violent rush of air and a tremendous bang. The blast tossed them against the roof. A great wave of black smoke engulfed them: the sound of flames and crackling wood roared up in the night.

  sixteen

  They came out of a little shabby pub into the darkness. Away to their right, the sky glowed red where the fire still raged, burning the row of garages, flaring up every now and then as the flames reached a reserve of petrol.

  They stood for a moment in the shadows watching the glow in the sky, the whisky they had swallowed steadying their nerves, bolstering their courage.

  “When they hear we weren’t found,” Cora said, pushing her hands deep into her trouser-pockets, “they’ll begin looking for us again.”

  George glanced up and down the dark, deserted street. It was just after ten o’clock. His legs ached and his body sagged. The exertion of breaking out of the flat, the wild scramble over the roofs with the flames pursuing them, the nightmare climb down a water-pipe had exhausted him. Dust and grit scraped his skin every time he moved. His clothes were white with plaster, his face streaked with smuts. Cora was no better off. She had a triangular tear in the knee of her slacks, and her elbows had burst through the woollen sleeves of her sweater. The smell of smoke still clung to her hair.

  But she had recovered her nerve. She had swallowed three double whiskies in rapid succession, and George had seen the terror drain out of her like dirty water out of a sink.

  “Plans,” she said, and took out a crumpled packet of cigarettes from her pocket, stuck a cigarette between her lips and lit it. She drew hard on the cigarette, and then forced a stream of smoke down her nostrils. “We’ve got to go somewhere tonight.” She cocked her head at him. “Got any money, George?”

  He pulled out a handful of loose change. He had twelve shillings and a few coppers.

  She grimaced. “That’s no use,” she said. “Any money at home?”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t think it’d be safe to go to your place. We’ve got to duck out of sight, and keep out of sight.”

  He thought in dismay of his clothes, his books, his personal belongings.

  “I’ll have to go back,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Go, if you want your throat cut, but you’d better wait until the morning.”

  “We’ve got to go somewhere,” he said helplessly. “Look at the mess we’re in. If the police spot us, they may ask questions.”

  She brooded into the darkness. The red glow of her cigarette bobbed up and down.

  “Little Ernie,” she said, at last, “He’ll put us up.”

  Immediately George became uneasy. “He knows too much,” he said. “I don’t think we should go to him.”

  “You don’t know anything about him,” Cora returned shortly. “Ernie’s all right. He’ll help us.” She began to move down the road. “He’s had his eye on me for some time.”

  George fell into step beside her. “I don’t like him,” he growled. “He’d better keep his hands off you.”

  Cora didn’t say anything.

  They walked on in silence until they reached a ‘bus stop. While they waited, George watched her out of the corners of his eyes.

  Her grey-white face was hard and expressionless, but she held her head high, and she moved with a jaunty swagger.

  The ‘bus took them along Piccadilly, and they got off at Old Bond Street. The passengers on the ‘bus gaped at them in undisguised astonishment. George, embarrassed, kept his eyes fixed on his dusty, cut shoes. Cora looked round with arrogant indifference, staring with jeering contempt at anyone who looked at her.

  They walked up Old Bond Street towards Burlington Street: an odd couple in one of the richest streets in the world. Four prostitutes waited at the corner of Old Bond Street and Burlington Street. Their harsh voices chattered excitedly in broken English. Their French accents reminded George somehow of the Parrot House at the Zoo.

  Cora paused, gave them a quick glance, and said, “Eva about?”

  The four women stopped talking and stared at her. One of them, tall, hideous, fox furs hanging from her gaunt frame, seemed to recognize her.

  “What a mess you’re in, darling,” she said, with a harsh laugh. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Seen Eva?” Cora repeated, her hard little face tightening.

  “She went back with a client about ten minutes ago.”

  Cora nodded and walked on.

  George hadn’t stopped. He crossed the road and waited on the opposite corner.

  “Come on,” Cora said impatiently. “I hope Ernie’s at home.”

  They paused outside a tall building in Clifford Street.

  “This is it,” Cora said, pushing upon the front door. They began to walk upstairs. On every landing was a front door with a card set in a brass frame. George read the lettering on the cards as they passed. “Frances”, ‘Suzette”, “Marie”, “Jose.”

  As they turned to mount the last flight of stairs, they heard a door open, and a moment later, an elderly, well-dressed man came down the stairs, whistling softly. When he saw them, alarm jumped into his eyes and he stopped whistling. He paused, uncertain, and gripped his stick.

  “Well, make up your mind,” Cora said contemptuously. “Either come down or go back. We want to come up.”

  He came scuttling down, his mouth working with fear. He shot past them like a startled rabbit.

  “I bet we put the fear of God into him,” Cora said, and laughed.

  George sympathized with the man. He knew how startled he would have been to see two such filthy, wild-looking people if he were coming from such a place.

  They reached the top landing. The card on the door read “Eva”. Cora banged on the door with the little brass knocker.

  There was a pause, then the door opened and a young woman in a smart grey tailored coat and skirt gaped at them. She had a mass of red hair, and her face was a mask of make-up.

  “Ernie in?” Cora asked shortly.

  “Well, my dear!” the young woman exclaimed. “Whatever have you been up to? What a surprise! Who’s your boy Mend?”

  They stepped into a well-furnished hall. The floorboards gleamed, the big brass tray on ebony trestles glittered, and the thick rug on which they stood tickled their ankles.

  “This is George,” Cora said, waving her hand carelessly in George’s direction. “I want Ernie.”

  The young woman smiled at George. She had big, strong white teeth. “I’m Eva,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you. And what a mess you’re in! But don’t stand there, come in, come in.”

  She took them down a passage and threw open a door.

  “Look, my precious, what’s blown in,” she called.

  Little Ernie glanced up. He was lying in a big armchair, his small feet up on a padded stool. He looked completely out of place in the lavishly furnished room.

  George had never seen such a room. It was too big, the ceiling was too high, and the white carpet that went from wall to wall looked like a fresh fall of snow. The ivory furniture had chromium on it, and the enormous scarlet drapes hung from the tops of the high windows and tumbled on to the white carpet. .Four big white suede armchairs stood about the room. A vast cocktail cabinet, filled with dozens of bottles of every conceivable drink, stood by the window.

  If he had been told that he had strayed into Buckingha
m Palace, he would have believed it. The room was exactly his idea of a Queen’s boudoir.

  Little Ernie scrambled to his feet. His eyes gleamed with sudden excitement and eagerness.

  “For cryin’ out loud!” he exclaimed. “Cora, my ducks, and me old pal, George. Well, well, fancy you coming ‘ere.” He turned to Eva. “ ‘Ere, get ‘er cleaned up, and then we’ll ‘ave a nice little chat. Come on, palsy,” he went on to George, “you come along with me. You two’ve been in trouble, I can see that.”

  He took George out of the room and down the passage. He pushed open another door and led George into a small bedroom. It was elegant and well furnished.

  “There you are,” Little Ernie said. “The bathroom’s just through there. Make yourself at ‘ome. Sorry I can’t give you a suit, but you and me ain’t quite in the same class, are we? Feather weight and ‘eavy weight, eh?” He smirked. “You ‘ave a clean up, and I’ll get a drink for you. Could you do with a bite to eat?”

  George suddenly realized that he was famished. “It’s good of you,” he muttered, embarrassed, worried. “If it’s not putting you out . . .”

  Little Ernie winked. “Leave it to me,” he said, and moved to the door. He could not resist saying, “Posh place, ain’t it? D’yer like it?”

  George nodded. “I’ve never seen anything to touch it,” he said frankly envious.

  Little Ernie jerked his thumb to the door. “She works like a nigger,” he said, lowering his voice. “Never no trouble. Takes a pride in the place. A gold mine,” and, nodding, he left the room.

  Twenty minutes later George returned to the big sitting-room. He had made himself as tidy as he could and brushed his suit. He had had a bath, and his big face was shiny and red from the hot water and soap.

  He found Little Ernie busying himself before the cocktail cabinet. A small table was laid with a snowy white cloth and glistening silver. Eva was perched on the arm of a chair, a cigarette in her full red lips, her eyes expectant and curious.

  “What’ll you have?” she asked George as he came into the room. “A dry martini?”