More Deadly Than the Male

14

A week went by. As each day gave way to night, and night gave way to another day, George’s fears receded. He was not, after all, going to be hunted by the police. The murder was to remain a secret shared only by Cora, Sydney and himself, and Emily, Max and the two Greeks. The vast police organization, trained and equipped to track down a murderer, was not going to swing into action against him He had read so often about police methods, and knew that once the hunt was on, the fugitive seldom escaped. It was the thought of this efficiency and the vast man-hunting machine that had frightened him.

As long as no one discovered Crispin’s body, he would be safe. He had only to keep away from Russell Square and the Soho district to avoid being discovered by Emily and her mob. How could they possibly find him, unless he was stupid enough to visit their territory? They had no organization to trace him. They did not have thousands of uniformed, highly trained men to keep a constant watch for him. They could not circulate his photograph or his description in every newspaper in the country. How, then, could they hope to find him—so long as he was careful?

Although, as the days went by, he began to settle down to his ordinary routine life, the murder continued to prey on his mind. He no longer thought in terms of violence, nor did he read his American pulp magazines. The pictures of the bruised faces of the gangsters after the third degree, the bloodstained, bullet-riddled corpses, the gang battles, which before had thrilled him, now made him feel sick. He had been purged of violence. He had seen a man die violently, and now he had no further interest in reading about murder.

He had bad dreams, too. Continuous nightmares, that began as soon as he fell asleep, drained his vitality. One dream constantly recurred. It was a dream of terrible intensity. He dreamed that Cora came into his room, and he thought she leaned over him with the fainting desire in her eyes that inflamed his blood. And as he reached out to seize her, she seemed to waver before his eyes and slowly transform into the tall, elegant figure of Crispin—Crispin in all his horror: the twisted grimace of terror and blood welling thickly from a great hole in his chest.

George found also that he had to make a tremendous effort to go out each evening to work. He had lost his hearty manner with his prospective buyers, and they now seemed suspicious of his strained, white face and his brooding eyes. He had to make twice as many calls, and even then he sold fewer sets of hooks.

Saturday afternoon found him restless and uneasy. He was sitting alone in his room by the window, and his mind kept dwelling on that fateful, yet marvellous Saturday afternoon when he had first met Cora. It was about this time that Sydney had telephoned. Even now the house was empty except for Leo, who was somewhere in the basement. George thought of Cora, and his body cried out for her. Somehow, the murder now seemed trivial beside the clamouring desire that was torturing him, had been torturing him for the past days. At this moment he did not care how badly she had treated him. If she came into the room now and offered to be nice to him, he would have forgiven her everything.

Thinking of her, remembering her, brooding on that exquisite moment of fear and excitement when she had kissed him so passionately in the stolen car, he began to make excuses for her behaviour. Perhaps it wasn’t her fault. Perhaps she had been in the power of her brother, and had been forced to betray George against her will.

Was it possible that she had really loved him all the time, and that Sydney was at the bottom of the whole business?

George got to his feet and began to pace up and down. He must see her again. It was no good torturing himself like this. He must see her, and have it out. She might be longing for him, too, wanting to see him, but afraid of what Sydney would say.

His physical need for her was so overpowering that it swamped all caution and reason. He knew at the hack of his mind that she had trapped him into murder, that she was as had as Sydney, but he wanted her too badly to care.

He didn’t believe really that she could ever love him. In his present mood of frustrated desire, he did not mind, just so long as she would he “very nice to him” even just once. If he could only have his moment with her, a brief spell of bliss, he would be content, even if she were a beast to him afterwards.

He sat still, gnawing his underlip. If he wanted her so badly, he’d have to do something about it. He would have to see her. Then why was he hesitating? He would go to her flat now—this very minute. As soon as he had made the decision, a great weight rolled from his mind. The decision was something he had been longing to make for the past few days.

He picked up his hat, and as he crossed the room he looked at himself in the mirror. He stared at his white, drawn face in astonishment. It was as if he had only just become aware of himself, and the change shocked him He had aged; there were streaks of white in his hair at the temples. He had lost weight, his eyes were feverish and deep set, and the thin red scars from the razor-cuts gave him a look of menace. He continued to stare at himself for some minutes, then left the room, uneasy, worried. When he reached Southampton Row, he got off the bus and walked towards Russell Square. He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after four. He wondered if she would be in. What was he going to say to her? Suppose Sydney came to the door? He became more and more undecided as to what he was going to do. But he kept on, refusing to heed the warning note that was sounding at the back of his mind, determined, if he did nothing else, to look at her flat once again.

He turned the corner of her street. People busied themselves with their weekend shopping. The pavement before the row of small shops was crowded with women, small children and perambulators. He could see the greengrocer’s shop over which was her flat. The greengrocer, elderly, bald and fat, was outside the shop. He was shovelling potatoes onto the scales while a tired- looking woman waited, a string hag ready to receive them. George stood for some time at the corner, unconsciously assuring himself that it would be safe to cross the street.

Finally, he made up his mind and walked towards the greengrocer’s shop with mounting excitement. As he drew near, he looked up at the window of her flat. The drab muslin curtain told him nothing. For all he knew, she might be watching him, and the thought sent his blood racing through his veins.

He slowed down as he reached the shop. A smell of potatoes, fruit and onions hung in the air. He glanced at the door that led to her flat, and then he paused. There was a notice stuck on one of the glass panels of the door, and a sudden feeling of dread came to him

The greengrocer had gone into the shop: there was a momentary lull in trade.

George stepped quickly to the door. He read the sprawling handwriting on the notice:

FURNISHED FLAT TO LET

Two bedrooms, sitting room, kitchen, bath.

42/- weekly.

Apply: Harris & Son. Greengrocer. (Next door.)

So they had gone. They had packed up and bolted. In a way, he wasn’t surprised. It was the obvious thing to do. They were making sure that no one would get on to them; that Emily and Max and the two Greeks wouldn’t get the money from them.

He wondered how long they had been gone. It crossed his mind that they might have left a clue which would lead him to them. While he was hesitating, the greengrocer came out and glanced at him inquiringly. Without stopping to think, George blurted out, “I’m interested in this flat.”

“Flat?” the greengrocer repeated. “Yes, it’s still in the market. It’s a nice little place. ’Ave it meself if it weren’t for the stairs. Can’t manage the stairs now. Not as young as I was.”

“Can I see it?” George asked.

“I’ll get the keys.”

There was a short delay. Then the old man returned.

“It’ll be a month in advance,” he said, a hitter, injured note in his voice. “I’ve ’ad enough of fly-by-nights. If yet want the place, it’ll be a month in advance.”

“Had trouble with the previous tenants?” George asked, taking the keys.

“Done a flit,” the old man said, and spat in the road. “Might ’ave known no good would ’ave come from those two. Wot ’e did for a living I never did find out, and she… My misses said she took men up there, but seeing’s believing. If I’d caught ’er at it, I’d ’ve ’ad ’er out, but I never did. I wish I’d got rid of ’em before.”

George nodded, and turned to the door. “Don’t bother to come up,” he said. “I’ll have a look round and then talk it over with you.”

The old man grunted. “I ain’t coming up,” he assured him. “Can’t manage them stairs. You’ll find the place in a mess. The misses’ been cleaning it up, but it ain’t quite finished. The way those two lived… like pigs.”

George’s heart was thumping as he sank the key into the lock. He pushed open the front door and entered the tiny hall. The flat had obviously been cleaned, but there was still a faint smell of sandalwood in the air. It affected George. He felt alone, miserable.

He went into the sitting-room. Now that the curtains had been washed, the carpet swept and surrounds scrubbed, it looked quite a homely little place. He went through the drawers, looked into the empty waste-paper basket, and the cupboard, but he found nothing He went into Sydney’s bedroom. He found nothing there, nor did the kitchen reveal anything. He purposely left Cora’s room to the last. When he opened the door, a vein in his temple began to pound. The room had not been touched. He could tell that by the dust on the mantelpiece, the rubbish piled in the grate, and the soiled towel with a trace of lipstick that hung over the back of the chair

He entered the room and closed the door. He remained still for a few minutes, trying to sort out the various odours that hung in the stale, stuffy atmosphere. There was sandalwood and tobacco smoke, stale perspiration and dirt. There was an elusive smell which, although scarcely perceptible, excited him It was Cora’s own intimate smell—a heady, slight smell, feminine, yet fleshly.

He pulled open the drawers of the dressing-table. They were filled with empty jars, sticky tubes, cigarette cartons, and bottles. Eye-black mingled with a spilt box of face powder. A tube of toothpaste oozed over a pair of sunglasses. A bottle of witchhazel—the bottle he had given her—had leaked, filling the drawer with a layer of white grease. He had never seen such a disgusting mess.

The second drawer was empty except for a soiled handkerchief. He closed the drawer with a grimace. Then he went to the fireplace and examined the scraps of paper, newspapers, a sheet of greasy brown paper that smelt strongly of decaying fish. He was very patient, and at last he found what he was looking for: a business card of an estate agent in Maida Vale.

He stood up, his eyes bright and excited. Maida Vale! Yes, they would fit in in Maida Vale. It had either to be Russell Square, or Soho, or Maida Vale. He slipped the card into his waistcoat pocket, pleased with himself.

Then he locked the door and went downstairs.

“I’ll think it over,” he said to the greengrocer. “I’d like my wife to see it.”

His wife! He thought of Cora, and there was a hitter taste in his mouth.

From the top of the bus he watched the crowded street. Then suddenly his heart gave a lurch. At the corner of Southampton Row and High Holborn he saw Nick, the Greek. He was standing on the kerb, a cigarette hanging from his thin lips, reading a newspaper. George shrank hack.

He remained uneasy and alarmed until the bus began to crawl tip Baker Street, and then his fears quieted. The Greek hadn’t seen him. It was a near thing, of course, but he hadn’t seen him. He got off the bus at Maida Vale and went immediately to the estate agent. It was a small office, and a fat little man, behind a shabby desk, was the only occupant. He seemed startled when George opened the door and entered, as if he seldom had callers. "Good afternoon,” he said, fingering a heavy silver watch chain. “Is there something?”

“I don’t know,” George said, and smiled. He was anxious for the little man to like him “I don’t want to waste your time, but I believe you can help me.” He took out the card and studied it. “It’s Mr Hibbert, isn’t it?”

The little man nodded. “You’re lucky to find me here,” he said. “Most places close on Saturday afternoon, but I thought I’d hang on a little longer…”

“I’m looking for a couple of friends,” George explained. “It’s important I should find them.” He smiled again. “You see, I owe them money.”

Mr Hibbert scratched his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll tell me how I can help…”

“Oh yes,” George said eagerly, taking out a crushed packet of Players. “Will you smoke?”

Mr Hibbert took a cigarette rather doubtfully. “I don’t usually smoke in office hours,” he explained. “But seeing it’s Saturday…” He had a trick of not finishing his sentences.

They lit up.

“You see,” George went on, “they were looking for a place. I’ve been away for some time As a matter of fact, I’ve been in the States. I traced them to a flat near Russell Square, and now I learn they’ve moved to Maida Vale. I think they came to you for a place.”

“The States?” Mr Hibbert’s eyes grew dreamy. “Often thought I’d go there myself. Wonderful place, I believe.”

George nodded. “It’s all right,” he said with assumed indifference. “But I suppose I’ve seen too much of it. Give me England any day.” He dropped ash carefully into the tobacco tin lid that served as an ashtray. “These two,” he went on, anxious not to stray from his purpose. “They were young—brother and sister. Brant is the name. The fellow had a bad scar: a bum.”

Mr Hibbert’s face darkened. “Oh yes,” he said, frowning. “I remember them. Hmm, yes, I remember them quite well.” He conveyed that he did not approve of them, and that because George knew them, he wasn’t sure whether he should approve of him

“It’s just that I owe them money,” George said apologetically. “They did me a good turn once.” What was he saying? A good turn? But he went on, “They’re not friends of mine, you understand; but one must honour one’s debts.”

Mr Hibbert nodded. He looked at George with sudden warmth. “Those sentiments do you credit. I like to hear a man talk like that. Wouldn’t think they’d honour anything.”

George shook his head. “A wild pair,” he said. “Did you fix them up?” He waited, his heart thumping dully against his side.

“Against my will,” Mr Hibbert told him sadly. “Business is not what it was. A year ago I’d ’ve sent them packing. As it happened, I had a place. A couple of rooms over a garage. There were rats in the place; no one seemed to want it, so I let them have it. They can be as wild as they like there. They’ll have no neighbours.” A sly, lewd look came into his faded eyes. “The girl’s remarkable, isn’t she? No better than she makes out to be, I shouldn’t wonder. Her figure…” He shook his head. “Wants a mother, I shouldn’t doubt… brazen…”

A hot flame of desire flickered in the pit of George’s stomach. He knew what Mr Hibbert meant.

“I’m most grateful,” he said, after a pause. “Could you write the address down for me?” He stubbed out his cigarette and added bitterly, “It’ll be a surprise for them.”

Mr Hibbert wrote the address on the back of his card.

“It’s a turning off Kilburn High Street, a mews. It’s easy enough to find.”

They parted warmly.

While George waited for a bus to take him down the long, straight road to Kilburn, a man with a bundle of evening papers passed, and George bought one. He glanced down the columns, scarcely concentrating. An item of news caught his attention for a second. An unknown man had fallen on the live wire at Belsize Park Station. A train had entered the station a moment later, and the hold-up had caused a considerable delay on the line. George was glad he hadn’t been there: a beastly, messy death. He looked down the road impatiently. A bus was in sight, but it was taking its time. Then George stiffened, spider’s legs ran down his spine. He looked at the newspaper again. The small print swam before his eyes. The unknown man, the reporter wrote, was about twenty-two. He had a scar—a had bum—on the right side of his face, and a shock of straw- coloured hair He wore a dark blue shirt, a red tie, grey flannel trousers and a tweed coat. The police were anxious to identify him. There was nothing in his pockets nor on his clothes to say who he was and where he had come from. The bus passed George. He made no attempt to signal to it. He stood reading the notice over and over again. Could it be Sydney? The description was exact. Were there other men with scars, strawcoloured hair, who wore dark blue shirts and red ties? It seemed unlikely.

He had to find out. The trip to Kilburn could wait. He had to find out whether Cora was now on her own. It might make a tremendous difference.

He began to walk towards Kilburn, not knowing where he was going, but anxious to think. What a death! How unlike Sydney to fall in front of a train! Was it suicide? He thought of the cold, ruthless face, and decided that Sydney most certainly would not have taken his own life. An accident, then? But how did people fall in front of trains unless they deliberately jumped or were pushed? Pushed? His mind began to crawl with alarm. Was he pushed? Suppose Emily and Max and the two Greeks…? He gritted his teeth. Was this the beginning of their revenge? He looked furtively over his shoulder, and quickened his pace. It was the kind of clever, ruthless trick they would stage: a murder that looked like an accident. Of course, the dead man might not be Sydney, and in that case he was getting alarmed over nothing. But he wouldn’t rest until he knew for certain. He supposed the body would be in some mortuary, but he hadn’t the vaguest idea which one. He was scared to go to a police station. The memory of Crispin now filled him with nervous dread.

Farther up the road he saw a policeman coming towards him He forced down his natural fear of the uniform and with misgivings planted himself in the policeman’s path.

“I think I know this man,” he blurted out, pushing the newspaper at the policeman. “I believe he’s a friend of mine.”

The policeman gave him a quick, inquisitive glance, and then looked down at the newspaper. He frowned, chewing his moustache.

“What man’s that, sir?” he asked patiently.

George pointed to the paragraph. His finger danced on the page.

The policeman ponderously read the item, then he glanced at George. “You think you know ’im, do you, sir?”

George nodded. “I suppose I ought to do something,” he said helplessly. “I thought you could advise me.”

The policeman brooded. “If you think you know ’im,” he said at last, “it’d he your duty to—er—view the remains.” He shook his head sympathetically. “Unpleasant job, sir, at the best of times, but seeing as ’ow you might identify ’im…”

“Where should I go?” George asked. The word “remains” made him feel sick.

“Well, the accident ’appened at Belsize Park Station,” the policeman said. “’E’d be at the ’Ampstead mortuary as like as not. If you come with me, sir, I’ll ’phone. There’s a police box just round the corner.”

A few minutes later George was on his way to the Hampstead mortuary. It took him some time to screw up enough courage to ring the hell outside the double gates. After what seemed to him an interminable wait, a small door in the gate opened and a whitecoated attendant looked at him inquiringly.

“I think I know this man,” George said, offering the newspaper. “The man who fell under the train this morning.”

“Then you’ll ’ave come to identify ’im,” the attendant said cheerfully. “This way, if you please, sir.”

George ducked through the doorway, and found himself in a small yard. A low brick building faced him, and with a tight feeling in his stomach he followed the attendant across the yard into the building.

“If you’ll wait ’ere a moment, sir,” the attendant said, “I’ll get PC White.”

Left alone in the white-tiled passage, George looked round uneasily. There was a door at the end of the passage through which the attendant had disappeared. Near where George was standing he noticed a small window covered by a yellowing blind. He thought the place looked exactly like a public convenience, and because of the familiar association, his fears began to subside.

The door at the end of the passage opened, and the attendant beckoned. George entered a box-like room which served as an office. A police constable rose from behind a desk as George came in.

“Good morning, sir,” the police constable said. He had a kind, understanding face, and he was obviously anxious to set George at ease. “Sit down, will you? You think you can identify the unfortunate gentleman who died this morning?”

George nodded. He was glad to sit down. He took off his hat and began to twirl it round between his sweating fingers.

“Distressing business, sir,” PC White said, settling down in his chair again. “But you’ve nothing to worry about, sir. There won’t be anything unpleasant. Perhaps you’d give me a little information; just to keep our records straight.” He drew a sheet of paper towards him. “Your name, sir?”

George’s mind went blank with fright. He hadn’t thought they’d ask questions about himself. It would be madness to let them know that he had anything to do with Sydney. If they ever found Crispin…

A name jumped into his confused mind. “Thomas Grant,” he blurted out, and then, tightening his control over himself, he volunteered, “247, North Circular Road, Finchley.” He had once stayed at that address, a boardinghouse, when he first came to London.

PC White wrote for a moment, his head on one side, taking pride in his neat, copper-plate handwriting. "And what makes you think you know the deceased?”

“It’s the description,” George said, slowly recovering from his first fright. “The burn. I had a friend once who was fair and had a burn on the right of his face. I haven’t seen him for some months. He used to live at my address—it’s a guest house. Timson was his name. Fred Timson.”

PC White did a little more writing. “You haven’t seen him for some time?” he repeated.

“Well, no. Of course, I may be mistaken. But, I thought…”

“Very good of you, I’m sure. We’re grateful for any help.

The gentleman had no papers nor anything to tell us who he is.” He got slowly to his feet. “Well, sir, if you’ll come along with me.”

George suddenly felt that he couldn’t go through with this ghastly business. PC White noticed how pale he had gone.

“Now, don’t worry, sir,” he said. “We try to make this sad business as pleasant as circumstances allow. You’ll only need to take a quick look at ’is face. You won’t see anything unpleasant.”

George did not trust his legs. He sat still, gripping the arms of his chair, uneasy, frightened that he was going to be sick.

“All right, sir,” PC White said, sitting down again. “Take your time. It takes people like that sometimes. Of course, we’re used to it. I’ve been on this job now for fourteen years. You’d be surprised ’ow some people react. Some of ’em are as callous as can be; others get unnecessarily upset. It depends on their temperament, I always say. Why, only an hour ago we ’ad a young lady in to see the same gentleman wot you’re going to see. She was a cool card all right. I knew I wasn’t going to lave trouble with her, soon as I set eyes on her. Cool as a cucumber; in her trousers and sweater. Don’t ’old with that get-up for a girl myself, but, then, I suppose I’m oldfashioned. A bit too immodest, if you takes me meaning. Well, this young lady comes in, looks at the remains, and although she didn’t know ’im, I had difficulty in getting her away. She stood there staring and staring, and she made me and Joe feel a bit uncomfortable: don’t mind admitting it. But, for all that, she never turned a ’air—not one blessed ’air.”

George licked his dry lips. “Did she say who she was?” he asked in a low, tight voice.

PC White hesitated. “Well, it don’t matter to you, does it, sir?” he said. “I mean we don’t… You see, it wasn’t as if she knew him “

So Cora had already been here. If she didn’t know the dead man, then he wasn’t Sydney. George’s nausea went away.

“I’m all right now,” he said, getting slowly to his feet. “I’m sorry, but this business has upset me.”

“Don’t you worry about that, sir,” PC White assured him “Take your time. Now if you feel like it, just step out into the passage. I’ll be right with you.”

George moved slowly into the white-tiled passage. PC White took his arm and led him to the blind-covered window that George had noticed when he had been waiting to go into the office.

“All right, Joe,” White called. “Now, sir, just a quick look. It’ll be over in a few seconds.”

George braced himself as the white-coated attendant, from behind a partition, pulled up the yellowing blind. A light clicked on. Close against the window, on the other side of the partition, stood a cheap, brown-stained pine coffin on trestles. The lid was drawn back a foot from the head of the coffin. George started hack with a shudder of horror as he recognized Sydney Brant.

A comforting hand gripped his arm, but he was scarcely aware of it. He stared down at the waxen face. There was a sneering halfsmile hovering on the hitter mouth. The eyes were closed. A lock of straw-coloured hair lay across the scarred cheek. Even in death, Sydney Brant seemed to jeer at him.

Almost in a state of collapse, George turned shudderingly away.

“It’s a mistake,” he said in a strangled voice. “I don’t know this man. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

And out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blind come down in silence, slowly, almost regretfully, like the curtain of the final act of an unsuccessful play.