Finally she opened the door and they entered the flat. He threw the whip into the armchair and caught hold of her. “Hello, George,” Sydney said from the door.
George didn’t look round. His arms dropped to his sides, and he stood staring down at Cora with glazed eyes. The hateful sound of Sydney’s voice crushed him.
Sydney wandered into the room and regarded him sharply.
“I say, what a state you’re in!” he said in his sneering voice.
George turned away. He caught a cold, jeering look from Cora that sent a stab into his heart. He was sick with disappointment and frustration.
“What have you been up to, Cora?” Sydney went on, flopping into the armchair “What’s this?” he continued, picking up the whip. “Oh, something for Crispin, eh? That’s wonderful.” A quick, cautious note crept into his voice. “Did George buy it?”
“He bought it,” Cora said, wandering across the room and opening a cupboard. “He didn’t want to at first, but I persuaded him; didn’t I, George?” She took from the cupboard a bottle of whisky and two glasses.
George sat down limply and wiped his face and hands on his handkerchief. He didn’t say anything He had a feeling that they had, between them, tricked him in some way. He felt that ever since Sydney had telephoned him, asking him to take the message to Joe’s Club, a series of carefully planned manoeuvres had taken place to trap him.
Cora came over to him with a glass half full of whisky.
“Have a drink, George,” she said, putting the glass in his hand. “You look as if you needed it.”
Then she sat on his lap and slipped an arm round his neck. His suspicions were immediately lulled, and in their place came an overwhelming tenderness and love for her.
She rested her head against his shoulder and gently swung her legs. She, too, had a stiff whisky in her hand.
Sydney was eyeing them with thoughtful interest.
“It seems I came hack a hit too early,” he said, settling more comfortably in his armchair
“You did,” Cora returned, tormenting George by rubbing her face against his. “George and I had made plans, hadn’t we, George?”
He gripped her tightly, but didn’t say anything. His hand trembled so that he slopped a little whisky on her slacks.
“Careful, George,” she said, and suddenly laughed. “You know, our George is quite a lad,” she went on to Sydney. “I believe he’d make one of the world’s greatest lovers.”
“Never mind about George,” Sydney said. “We’ve got other things to think about.”
Cora slipped off George’s lap. She crossed the room and picked up the whip.
George, feeling suddenly deflated, watched her. She swished the whip once or twice, her face spiteful. Then she laughed. “I’ll bet he’ll yell the place down,” she said.
“It’s all fixed,” Sydney said. “He’ll be alone. I’ve got a car. We leave at eight-thirty. It’ll take us about an hour. By that time it’ll be getting dark.”
Cora raised her glass. “To our new member,” she said, looking at George, and she tilted her head and emptied her glass.
George felt hot. Whisky burned in his stomach. He was a little light-headed, but uneasy, nervous.
The past hour had been difficult. As the hands of the clock crept forward, all of them showed signs of strain Even Sydney, for all his sneering coldness, began to fidget and look at the clock.
Cora drank steadily. She showed no sign that the whisky was affecting her, except that her face became paler and her eyes brightened.
When, at last, Sydney got to his feet, there was an immediate tightening of the tension. George looked from one to the other.
“Perhaps we ought not to go…” he began, facing them.
They stood side by side, brother and sister, their eyes cold and cautious, oddly alike. They stared at him as if he were a stranger.
“Don’t talk wet,” Sydney said.
“Go on,” Cora said. “We’re coming “
Sydney shrugged and moved to the door. He opened it and began to walk down the stairs.
Cora went to George. "You’re coming hack here tonight,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “I don’t cheat. I meant what I said, only I didn’t think Sydney would be hack so soon.” Her eyes were inviting. Then she added, “I’ll be nice to you tonight—promise.”
After that it didn’t seem to matter. When he turned to pick up the gun, she was before him She took it up very carefully by the barrel.
“I’m your gun moll,” she said, her mouth smiling “I want to carry it.” She slipped it into a leather bag she had slung from her shoulder. Then she went up to him “Kiss me,” she said.
They left the flat a few minutes before eight-thirty. It was a sultry night; the sky was cloudless, but there was the smell of rain in the air.
They Joined Sydney in the street a few moments later.
There was a smear of lipstick on George’s mouth and he seemed bemused.
None of them spoke. Cora walked stiffly because of the whip she had thrust down the leg of her slacks. George was between the two of them, and it seemed to him that they were his jailers.
They turned down an alley and into a little courtyard. A dark green Ford coupe was standing round the corner, out of sight from the mouth of the alley.
Sydney unlocked the door and slid under the wheel. Cora got in at the hack.
“Come on,” she said to George, who was hesitating.
He got into the car beside her and slammed the door.
“I didn’t know you had a car,” he said blankly
“He thinks this is our car,” Cora called to Sydney.
Sydney laughed. It had a mirthless sound. He started the engine and drove the car slowly down the alley.
“Well, isn’t it your car?” George asked.
“We borrowed it,” Sydney said. “Now shut up. I want to think “
They drove out of London in silence. As Big Ben, coming over a wireless set, struck nine, they passed through Wimbledon. Later they got on to the Reigate road.
George sat hunched up, alone and lost. He thought of his room in the dull boarding-house and Leo. That part of his life seemed remote now: he wasn’t even sure that it had ever happened. But Cora—he could feel her thigh against his—was real enough, so was the back of Sydney’s head, and the swift passage of the car through the darkening streets: all frighteningly real.
He lost count of time He didn’t want to think about it. He felt that the car was taking him towards a destiny from which there was no escape.
Sydney leaned forward and switched on the headlights. “We turn off just about here,” he said shortly: there was a nervous hesitation in his voice.
They peered through the windows. They were overanxious, as if it were the most important thing in the world not to miss the turning.
They saw it at last, and they both exclaimed.
“All right,” Sydney said, braking sharply. “I’m not blind.”
They turned into a country lane and stopped. The headlights made the grass banks and hedges on either side of the lane look startlingly fresh and green.
“It’s just at the end of the lane,” Sydney said, cutting the engine. “We’ll leave the car here.”
He twisted round in his seat so that he could look at them. The white moonlight lighted his face. It frightened George. The ghastly scar burned red, and there was a look of animal viciousness and hatred in Sydney’s eyes.
“We’ll go in together,” Sydney went on. His voice trembled in a breathless kind of way. “If he shows fight, give George the gun. Now listen, George, this is important. Go up to him and ram the gun in his stomach. Do you understand? Wind him. Look tough. You don’t have to say anything; I’ll do the talking. When Cora gives you the gun, walk up to him and slam it in his guts. That’ll take the starch out of the rat. You wait: it’ll do you good to see the way he’ll curl up. Then we’ll go for him.”
George licked his dry lips. “Listen, just a m
inute…”
Cora put her hand on his knee. Her touch sent the blood pounding in his head. Words of caution died in his mouth.
“What is it?” Sydney asked.
“Nothing,” Cora said. “He’s fine, aren’t you, George?”
“Well, don’t mess about,” Sydney said. “This is serious. Now come on; let’s get it over.”
He got out of the car.
“We’re coming,” Cora said.
As Sydney moved away down the lane she fell against George, her hands pulling his head down to her open mouth. A suffocating desire engulfed him. They remained like that for some time, their mouths crushed together, and then Cora pushed him away and slid out of the car.
“Come,” she said.
As if hypnotized, George followed her. His heart hammered against his ribs and blood sang in his ears. He couldn’t think about Crispin. He couldn’t think of anything.
Cora held his arm. She was pulling him along. He couldn’t see, and his feet stumbled. Sweat dripped down his face. The air had gone dead. There was no movement in the trees; no wind, only a hot stillness that oppressed him. In the distance, thunder rumbled. A line of black clouds began to edge above the horizon.
“Quiet,” she said softly, and he could feel her trembling.
Sydney moved towards them out of the darkness.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “He’s there, and alone.”
He went on ahead. Cora followed, seemingly able to see in the dark. She steered George through a gateway and tip an overgrown path. Then suddenly they came on a small bungalow. One window was open, and light streamed from it into the garden.
The three of them stopped abruptly. Thunder crashed not far away, startling George, so that he clutched Cora’s arm. Her muscles felt hard under his hand, as if she were keyed up, her nerves at breaking point.
They edged forward so that they could look into the room. Crispin, in a blue and white flowered dressing-gown, was sitting at a table. A cigarette dangled from his lips; he was writing on a pad of notepaper. A lawyer’s briefcase lay half open at his elbow. It appeared to be bulging with pound notes.
George shivered. The sight of all that money frightened him even more than the thought of bursting in and assaulting this strange-looking man. He glanced at Sydney. He could just make out his features in the light from the window. He was hissing between his teeth, a frightening look of pent-up hatred in his eyes.
A spear thrust of blue-white lightning split the sky, was followed in a few seconds by a tremendous clap of thunder. George ducked instinctively. A drop of ice-cold water fell on his hot face. It began to rain.
Cora jerked at his arm. Sydney was already creeping towards the front door. In a kind of dream, George followed him. As before, when they had burst into Robinson’s room, he suddenly felt extraordinarily at ease. This was, of course, just another of his fantasies. George Fraser, millionaire gangster, was again on the job. It couldn’t really be happening to poor old George, the lonely, catloving hook tout. Not this: this was too fantastic. It would be all right. In a few minutes Leo would come in and jump up on his bed. Ella would come in with his tea. There was no need to get alarmed, or for his heart to pound like this. He might just as well enjoy this fantasy. What the devil was this little runt of a Sydney doing, leading the way? George Fraser always led the way. It was too late now. Sydney had opened the front door. They were all in the room now, looking at Crispin.
This was exciting! Crispin was behaving just as George imagined he would behave. He had turned green with terror.
George flexed his great muscles and scowled at him.
“Hello, Crispin,” Sydney said.
Crispin put a hand on the leather briefcase. He didn’t move his body and he didn’t say anything.
“Get up, Crispin,” Sydney said. “I’ve had to wait a long time to get even with you. We have you now where we want you.”
Slowly Crispin rose to his feet; even then he couldn’t find his voice.
“I’ve brought a whip,” Cora said, polite as a tailor at a fitting. She pulled the whip from her trouser leg and laid it on the table.
“We’ll start with that,” Sydney said.
Cora zipped open her bag casually and took out the Luger.
A faint click sounded through the room. It was immediately lost in a clap of thunder.
“Here, George,” she said, and pushed the gun into his hand.
George looked at Crispin. Crispin looked at him and then at the gun. His face seemed to fall to pieces. He began to back slowly away.
Oddly enough, the heavy Luger felt good in George’s hands. He felt extraordinarily elated to see the terror in Crispin’s face.
Crispin, white, his mouth working, backed against the wall. He looked lonely.
George bore down on him.
“Don’t…” Crispin said, and squirmed against the wall like a beetle pinned alive to a hoard.
“Get your hands up,” George said, and rammed the gun hard into Crispin’s chest.
A zigzag of brilliant lightning streaked through the window. Thunder sounded like a trunk being moved in an attic. Above the crash of the thunder came another sound—a sharp crack, like the breaking of dry wood magnified many times. A wisp of smoke rose in the air: it smelt of gunpowder.
In that moment of sound George felt the gun in his hand kick like a live thing, and it jumped out of his hand onto the floor. He became conscious of two things: a tight, deep- throated scream from Cora, and a curious red mess on the wall where Crispin had been standing.
Slowly, his eyes travelled from the red stain down the wall, past the sideboard, to the floor. Crispin lay huddled up, as if the bones in his legs had been broken. There was a red stain on the front of his white and blue dressing-gown.
A voice came to George, as if someone were shouting in a tunnel. He heard the voice, but the words meant nothing to him. It’s all right, he said to himself. This has happened to you hundreds of times before. All you’ve got to do is to hang on and wait. You’ll wake up in a moment. Someone was shaking him. A strident voice was shrieking at him. "You fool! You fool! You stupid, bloody fool!" Something hard hit him in the face, and he shivered. Something inside his head exploded into fire and darkness, and just before the darkness he felt a sharp flash of nausea. He staggered, clutched at nothing, recovered his balance and groped with blind fingers.
The shock left him after a while.
Cora was speaking again. She was speaking softly.
“You did it,” she was saying. “We don’t touch murder. That’s something we don’t stand for. We didn’t tell you to shoot him. We only wanted you to frighten him.”
He could see her eyes, slate-grey, hard, frightened. Her face was misty. He looked at Sydney. He wavered before George like weeds in a fast-moving river.
Then—snap!—everything became sharp and clear. Cora and Sydney seemed to spring to life, sharp-etched, like a film that has been suddenly correctly focused.
He stared down at Crispin, caught his breath and shied away.
“No!” he said huskily. “The gun wasn’t loaded! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!”
They watched him, cold, pitiless and accusing.
“It’s your mess,” Sydney said, his voice flat and metallic. “Keep away from us. We don’t want you. We don’t touch murder.”
George wasn’t listening to him. He was looking at Cora. She wouldn’t desert him: “I don’t cheat,” she had said. “I’ll be very nice to you tonight—promise.” She’d promised, hadn’t she? She couldn’t desert him now. She must know that this had nothing to do with him
He went to her.
“Cora!” he said. “I didn’t do it! You know I didn’t. The gun wasn’t loaded. I can prove it. The cartridges are at home. There’s twenty-five of them. That’s all I had. They haven’t been touched! Don’t you understand? They haven’t been touched!”
Her mouth curled in loathing.
“You stupid, creeping fool!” she cri
ed. “I hate you! Look what you’ve done! Don’t ever dare come near me again!” And she struck him across the face with her clenched fist.
Then they went out and left him.
He stood looking at Crispin; he was numbed with horror. Slowly he bent and picked up the Luger. It smelt strongly of gunpowder. He examined it. The safety catch had been moved. He pressed it down. There came a faint click. His memory moved, groped, floundered. There had been the same clicking sound when Cora had given him the gun. He remembered now. Had she deliberately released the safety catch? He didn’t think it likely. He didn’t know. His finger curled round the trigger. The hammer instantly snapped down. He snapped the hammer down three times before it dawned on him that someone had fixed the trigger mechanism so that the gun would fire at the slightest touch. Even then he was too terrified to think much of the discovery.
Rain beat in through the open window, and the curtains ballooned into the room as waves of hot air disturbed them. Thunder crackled.
George stood still, listening He heard a motor-car start up. It seemed to be moving at a great speed, and its sound quickly died away. He found himself looking at the table and noting with stupefied fascination that the briefcase full of money was no longer there.
13
George opened his eyes. The room was shadowy, but comfortingly familiar. The faint dawn light edged round the blind. It was early.
Although his body ached, and there was a feeling of lassitude in his limbs, his brain was clear and awake. He raised his head and glanced at his wristwatch. It was half past five. He lay back again and stared up at the ceiling, his mind crawling with alarm. He must avoid panic. He must relax and go over the whole business carefully and calmly. If he thought enough about it, got it into its right perspective, there must be a way out. The trouble was that he wasn’t very good at thinking, nor was he very good at keeping calm, nor, of course, had he killed a man before.
He sat up in bed and deliberately turned the pillow, patted it and lay down again. By this simple act—something that anyone would do—he hoped that he would recapture a feeling of security. He adjusted the sheet under his chin and moved his legs. The bed felt warm and comfortable. The little black cloud of panic that had begun to edge over his brain receded. It would be all right, he told himself, if he kept calm.
More Deadly Than the Male Page 16
