More Deadly Than the Male

by James Hadley Chase

  The porter turned this idea over thoughtfully. “They could an’ all,” he said, nodding his head. “Never thought of it like that. Might not want to get themselves mixed up with the inquest, like.”

  “That’s what I thought. I wonder who could tell me.”

  “I was on duty upstairs,” the porter said. “I remember some people. S’matter of fact, I remember the bloke what did ’imself in. I saw ’im come into the hooking ’all and buy a ticket. I noticed ’im because ’e seemed a hit upset like.”

  “How do you mean—upset?” George asked sharply.

  “Well, I dunno,” the porter said, scowling in an attempt to concentrate. “Sort of worried, kept looking over ’is shoulder like ’e expected someone to meet ’im.”

  George went cold. “You say you remember some other people?”

  “That’s right. Two foreign-looking blokes came into the station and bought tickets a few minutes before your friend arrived. I particularly noticed them. Little blokes in black, wearing cloth caps.”

  “Go on,” George said in a husky whisper.

  “Well, your friend came in, and about a couple of minutes after—by the time ’e’d got down on the platform, I should say—a big woman arrived. She ’ad a lot of yellow ’air, and I noticed ’er because she was a bit like my old woman, fair busting out of ’er dress she was.”

  “I see.” So it had been murder, after all. “And none of these people were on the platform when he was found?”

  “That’s right, but of course they could lave taken the up train on the other platform. It don’t mean because they were down ’ere they saw anything.”

  A sudden thought dropped into George’s mind for no apparent reason. “Was my—my friend carrying anything?” he asked.

  The porter scratched his head. “Carrying anything?” he repeated. “Well, now you comes to mention it, ’e was. ’E ’ad a black leather case under ’is arm. Now, that’s funny, I don’t believe they found it. Now I come to fink of it, ’e ’ad it with ’im when ’e was getting ’is ticket. I remember that distinctly although it’d gone clean out of me lead until you mentioned it.”

  “Oh, I expect the police have got it all right,” George said hurriedly. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll ask them.”

  He gave the porter the two half crowns and left the station. He was frightened now. For all he knew, they might have got onto him and were planning his death. He thought of his gun. There wasn’t a moment to lose. He must never be without the gun again. He must get it immediately.

  Back in his room, he took the gun from under his shirts. It still smelt of gunpowder. What a careless fool he had been! That alone could have hanged him. He spent ten feverish minutes cleaning the gun, and then, without hesitation, he pulled out the magazine and filled it from the box of cartridges. He was careful not to jack a bullet into the breech, and he was careful also to make sure that the safety catch was down. He put the gun into his hip pocket and picked up his hat. All right, he thought, if they start being funny with me, they’ll find they’ve bitten off more than they can chew. They weren’t going to scare George Fraser! And they’d better not get ideas about Cora either. Cora was his girl now; she was under his protection. He paused, frowning. This is extraordinary, he thought. I don’t feel frightened any more. He looked at himself in the mirror. He saw a great, bulky figure; the scarred face looked tough and hard, the eyes were cold and steady. It was the gun, of course. It had given him a sudden, quite mysterious confidence in himself. He wasn’t poor old George, the cat- loving lonely book tout any longer. He was George Fraser, millionaire gunman. He had killed a man, hadn’t he? At this moment they were hunting for him, seeking revenge. Why, he was every bit as good as the gangsters he had read and dreamed about. He was better, in fact: he wasn’t frightened; the Front Page Detective had always described the gangsters as frightened, yellow rats.

  Deliberately he took out his battered cigarette case and selected a cigarette. Then he found a match in his pocket and flicked it with his nail. It flared up. That was a trick he had seen on the movies, and which he had tried again and again to imitate, but had never succeeded. He stared at the match, his face lighting up, then he lit the cigarette and tossed the match away.

  All right, he thought, buttoning up his coat, I’m ready for them. They’ll be damn sorry they started anything with me. Now for Cora; and he wasn’t going to stand any nonsense from her in the future. She was going to be his girl. “I’m your gun moll,” she had said. Well, that’s just what she was going to be!

  It was almost dark by the time he reached the garage mews off Kilburn High Street. He moved cautiously, aware of a feeling of excitement, and that his nerves were steady. As he stepped through the gateway and crossed the builder’s yard, he drew the Luger, holding it down by his side.

  The mews was in darkness. It was an ideal place for murder, he thought. The noise of the traffic in the High Street would drown any cry for help. It might even drown the sound of a shot.

  He paused outside the flat. At first it seemed in darkness, but a second glance revealed a chink of light coming round the curtain of the front room. There was no bell nor knocker, so he rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles. He waited, his ears pricked, his breathing deep and steady. No one answered. He waited, and then rapped again. Perhaps she was out. It would be like her to leave the light on: typical of her indifferent carelessness. He stepped hack so that he could look up at the window. The hair on the nape of his neck bristled. The light had gone out. He stood hesitating. So she was in there. Why had she turned off the light? Why wasn’t she answering the door? He flicked his fingers impatiently. Of course; she was taking precautions. She would have been insane to have cone down and opened the door in such a lonely alley, not knowing who it was who was knocking. He returned to the door and rapped again, then he pushed open the letter-box and called.

  “Cora! It’s George. Let me in.”

  Almost instantly, as if she had been waiting for this assurance, she jerked the door open.

  “You frightened me,” she said. “Come in quickly.”

  The sound of her voice, the smell of the sandalwood and the nearness of her presence had an overpowering effect on him. He stumbled forward into the darkness, and the front door closed behind him. He heard her shoot a bolt home.

  “Can you find your way up?” she asked. “I don’t want to show a light. They’re watching this place.” Her small, warm hand took his, and she drew him up a steep flight of stairs.

  A moment later a light sprang up. He blinked round. The room was large and poorly furnished. A big divan bed stood in one corner. A table and armchair and a cupboard made up the rest of the furniture. A worn carpet covered only the centre of the floor.

  He turned and looked at her.

  She was still wearing the blue sweater and slacks. They looked as if they could have done with another wash. Her hair was untidy, and her lipstick put on anyhow. The blue smudges under her eyes had now turned to purple. She somehow looked older, more worn, more shop soiled.

  “Good old George,” she said in a low voice. “I was beginning to wonder what I was going to do.”

  “Do?” he repeated. “What do you mean?”

  She giggled. It was a grating sound that made George’s nerves recoil. “They’re out there waiting for me,” she said, jerking her head towards the window. “And then you turn up.”

  He suddenly realized that she was terrified, but her pride, her arrogance were holding her terror in check.

  “Emily?” he asked, a little startled. “They killed him You know that, don’t you?”

  She wandered across the room, pounding her clenched fists together.

  “Clever George,” she said. “How did you find that out? No one was supposed to know.”

  Her jeering voice stung him. “Sydney planned Crispin’s death, didn’t he?” he said, standing over her. “Sydney and you. You wanted to push it on to me.”

  She looked up at him. "We have pushed i
t on to you,” she said, and giggled again. Had he any understanding, he would have seen she was close to complete nervous collapse. “But they want us, too.”

  He took hold of her by her shoulders and shook her, snapping her head hack, startling her.

  “Sit down,” he said, pushing her onto the divan. “It’s nothing to giggle about. You’re going to talk. You’re going to tell me everything.”

  “Don’t do that!” she said, suddenly angry. Her eyes flashed and she shifted away from him “Keep your paws to yourself.”

  “Shut up!” he said, possessive and determined. “You’ve played around with me long enough. Now you’re going to explain.”

  She stared at him “My poor George,” she said, “have you gone mad?”

  “I’m not your poor George,” he said angrily, and giving way to a blind instinct, he smacked her face. As his hand connected with her cheek, he pulled hack, so that the blow was a light one, but even at that, her head jerked back.

  She was instantly on her feet.

  “How dare you!” she stormed at him. “You cheap, rotten—”

  He smacked her again. This time he hit her hard, knocking her onto the divan.

  He stood over her. “I don’t like doing this, Cora,” he said, breathing heavily, “but it’s the only way I can show you I’ve changed. From now on I’m master, do you understand?”

  She leaned back on her elbows, one side of her face red, the other side like wax. Then she giggled.

  “You?” she sneered. “You haven’t the guts of a rabbit.”

  Confident in his new-found courage and strength, George merely shrugged. He took out a cigarette, found a match, flicked it alight with his thumb nail. He lit the cigarette and forced a stream of smoke down his nostrils.

  “Killing a man makes a lot of difference,” he said shortly. “You may as well get used to the idea, Cora.”

  “We’ll see,” she said, twisting her hands in her lap. “We’ll see how brave you are, George my pet. You’re big enough to knock me about, but we’ll see what you’re like against them.”

  “Yes,” George said, and he crossed the room and sat down in the armchair.

  “I wonder why they let you come here,” she went on, looking towards the window. “I should’ve thought it’d’ve been easier for them to have killed you in the darkness.”

  George stiffened. “Kill me?” he said. “You mean they’re out there in the alley?”

  “Nick is. I saw him not half an hour ago. Poncho, his brother, is round the hack.” She ran her fingers through her hair, and he knew at once why it looked so untidy. She must have been doing that for the past half hour.

  “It’s silly, isn’t it? But I’m scared stiff,” she went on. Her flash of temper had been short-lived. He could see she was sick with panic. “When I get frightened my tummy turns to water.”

  “Here, have a cigarette,” George said, going over to her. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

  She lit the cigarette. “I don’t fancy going out there,” she said, trying to control herself. “Nick’s hot stuff with a razor.” She shivered.

  “Can they get in?” George asked.

  She looked up sharply. “I suppose so. They could break a window if they really wanted to get in, couldn’t they?” Her inside rumbled loudly and she giggled. “Collywobbles,” she said. “I’m a yellow little hitch, aren’t I?” And she squeezed her stomach with her crossed arms and scowled down at her feet. “I saw him this afternoon, all tucked up in a coffin. He looked filthy. I hope I don’t look like that when I’m dead.” A sob jerked in her throat. “I was terribly, terribly fond of him, George, although he was such a rotten bastard.”

  “I saw him, too,” George said, not looking at her.

  She sat for a little while as if she hadn’t heard, then she said, “You’re not such a fool, are you, George? They must have pushed him in front of the train. He was running away from me.” She flicked ash onto the carpet and rubbed it in with her foot. “And I loved him so. I never thought he’d do that to me. He wouldn’t let me touch the money. And I had helped him. If I hadn’t ’ve helped him he’d ’ve never got the money. He never gave me a penny of it: not a damn penny. And as soon as he was sure they weren’t after him, he skipped. He took the money and left me without even a word.” She beat her clenched fists together. “After all I’ve done for him!”

  George crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. He felt a little sick.

  A cheap clock ticked excitedly on the mantelpiece. The distant traffic rumbled up the High Street.

  “I told him he was playing with fire,” she went on, after a pause, “but he wouldn’t listen. He thought he was smart. Over and over again I told him they wouldn’t stand for it. He never did think they had any brains. He was so pleased with his plan—his stupid, silly little plan. What a fool I’ve been! I should never have listened to him. But he was mad. I know he was mad. After Crispin burnt him, he was never the same. He brooded all day and half the night; looking at himself in the mirror, his hand to his face, planning revenge. I warned him, I told him it wouldn’t succeed. But he wouldn’t listen. And now he’s dead.” She got up and wandered round the room. “And I’ll be dead, too, before very long. They won’t rest until they’ve killed me, and they won’t rest until they’ve killed you.”

  While she had been talking, George had been looking round the sordid little room, his mind listening to her words, his eyes unconsciously seeing the various articles in the room. He found himself looking at a cheap fabric suitcase; from it was hanging a luggage tag, and on the tag, printed in bold letters, was the name Cora Nichols.

  It only wanted that to confirm his suspicions. Very quietly, suppressing the sick dismay that rose inside him, he said, “Then you’re not his sister?”

  “Sister?” she said bitterly. “Do I look like anyone’s sister? I wasn’t even his wife.”

  George shivered. So all the time he had been dreaming about Cora, all the time she had promised to be very nice to him, she had been sleeping with Sydney.

  “I see,” he said, clenching his fists. “Well, that accounts for it, I suppose.”

  “I loved him!” Cora exclaimed, “and he treated me like a dog. I love him still. If he came back to me this very moment, I’d forgive him. I’d forgive him taking the money; I’d forgive him leaving me without a word, if only he’d come hack.” She sat down, holding her head in her hands, her eyes like holes cut in a sheet.

  “Who was he?” George asked, after a long pause.

  “Sydney?” Cora said. “Who was he? A cheap thief. That’s who he was. He stole cars for Crispin. Then one day he found a car with a case of jewellery in the back. He turned the car over to Crispin, but kept the jewellery. He thought he was being smart. The things he promised me when he had sold the jewellery! And then he was stupid enough to try to sell them to the fence who worked for Crispin. That’s how smart he was! And the Greeks came after him. They got him in the end, and they took him down to Copthorne, and Crispin put a mark on his face. He said if he ever saw him again, he’d mark him again.” She went back to the divan and sat down. “They didn’t know about me, so I was the one to watch them. Sydney kept out of the way. That’s why he took up selling those silly hooks. He had to earn money somehow, and he had to keep out of the West End. I fooled them all right. I found out that the fence was going down to Copthorne with seven hundred pounds to buy a collection of stuff from the various cars Crispin had stolen. So Sydney made his plans.”

  George listened grimly to all this. “Well, go on,” he said bitterly. “When he met me he decided I was to be the stooge?”

  “Yes,” Cora said listlessly. “He saw his chance to kill Crispin and pin it onto you. I believed in him because I loved him, but I knew it wouldn’t come off. I knew they’d be too smart for him. But he wouldn’t listen.”

  “It meant nothing to you that I should be trapped into killing a man? You didn’t care what happened to me, did you?”

  S
he 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.”