1946 - More Deadly than the Male

by James Hadley Chase

  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 tooth-paste oozed over a pair of sun-glasses. A bottle of witch-hazel—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 bitter 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 back.

  He remained uneasy and alarmed until the ‘bus began to crawl up 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 ash-tray. “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 burn.”

  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 ponder. 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 bad bum—on the right side of his face, 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, ,straw-coloured 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! Mow 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 be 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 die bell outside the double gates. After what seemed to him an interminable wait, a small door in the gate opened and a white-coated 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 P.C. 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 die 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,” P.C. 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 the address, a boarding-house, when he first came to London.

  P.C. 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.”

  P.C. White did a little more writing. “You haven’t seen ‘im 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. P.C. 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,” P.C. 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 ‘ave trouble with her, soon as I sets 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 old-fashioned. A bit too immodest, if you takes me meaning. Well, this young lady comes in, looks at die 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.

  P.C. 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,” P.C. 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. P.C. 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 back 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 half-smile hovering on the bitter 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 turn
ed 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.

  fifteen

  It was growing dusk when George left the Heath. From the mortuary he had walked along the Spaniards Road and had cut across the Heath to Parliament Hill. His mind was blank during the walk, and it wasn’t until he reached the deserted bandstand perched on Parliament Hill, with its magnificent view of the City of London, that he realized that he had been wandering to no purpose, with no idea where he was going. He sat down on the grass under the shade of a big oak tree and lit a cigarette.

  He had sat there brooding for nearly two hours. Sydney was dead. There was no doubt about that. How he met his end was a mystery. George was sure that he hadn’t killed himself. And another thing, why was Sydney in Belsize Park Station? Where had he been going when he met his death? No one seemed to have seen him die. At that time in the morning—George had discovered that Sydney had died at ten-thirty—few if any people used the station. It was a convenient place for murder.

  George shuddered. If it had been murder, then Cora and he were in danger. Would Emily and Max and the two Greeks be content with one life? He doubted it.

  The obvious thing to do would be to leave London, but he had no intention of doing so, even if they were really hunting for him. He would not bring himself to believe that they were.