More Deadly Than The Male

"I could kill him!" she said viciously. "Look at me! I've been in this stinking outfit for months. That's all I've got!"

"You look marvellous," George said, and meant it. "It suits you."

"You're all alike," she returned. "Do you really think a girl ought to live in a get-up like this?" Her lips twisted. "I haven't another rag to my name "

Pity stirred in him. "I say—I'm awfully sorry . . ."

She finished her sandwich, her eyes brooding and bitter.

"So long as Sydney gets what he wants," she said after a pause, "he doesn't care a damn about me. He doesn't care what I'll do tonight." She suddenly shrugged. "Well, never mind. It's early to worry about that now." She pushed a wave of hair back from her cheek and then rubbed her temple with one finger. "Tell me about Frank Kelly."

"Who?" George flinched away from her.

She hit her knuckle and looked at him over her hand.

"Sydney told me. You and Frank Kelly. At first I didn't believe it, but now I've seen you . . ."

George emptied his glass and got up to refill it. There was a glint in her slate-grey eyes that could have meant anything: curiosity, admiration, desire . . .

"Seen me? I don't understand."

"You don't have to pretend with me. I'm sick of men without spine. At least, you're a man."

George slopped a little of the beer on the carpet. A surge of emotion crawled up his hack.

"What do you mean?" he asked, putting the glass on the mantelpiece. He tried to control the huskiness in his voice without success.

"You've lived dangerously. You've killed men, haven't you? That means something to me."

George faced her. There was nothing in her eyes now. They were like drawn curtains. He stared at her, suddenly afraid.

"Who told you?"

"I don't have to be told. I'm not a fool. I know men. When Sydney told me about you, I thought you were one of those ghastly little miscarriages who boast about what they have done: who he, cheat, and brag because they haven't the guts to live like men. But Sydney told me I was wrong. Even then I wouldn't believe him He told me you had a gun, and I said you were lying."

George found perspiration was running down his face. He took out his handkerchief and mopped himself. He realized that if he wanted her admiration—and he wanted that more than anything else in the world—he could not admit that he had been lying to Brant. He was caught in his own trap; but, oddly enough, he didn't care. What possible harm could it do if he did pretend that he was a big-shot gangster? She wouldn't tell the police about him. And just suppose she did? He could always say that he had been pulling her leg, and he could prove that he had never been out of the country. All right, if she thought he had lived dangerously, if she thought he had killed men, and if, knowing that, she admired him, he would give her the opportunity to admire him even more.

"I don't talk about that side of my life," he said, picking up his glass. "It only sounds like bragging; but if you really want to know . . . well, I Suppose I've had as exciting a life as most men."

"Men are such liars," she said calmly, leaning down to put her glass on the floor. "I still think you could be lying . . ."

George bit his lip. What was she up to now?

"Show me your gun," she said. "I'll believe you if you really have a gun."

He hesitated. Some instinct warned him not to show her the gun. He had never shown it to anyone. It was his secret. He had never intended sharing it with anyone.

She was watching him now, her eyes cold and cynical.

"Bluffing?" she asked, in a contemptuous, amused tone.

He went to his drawer and took out the cardboard box.

"You mustn't tell anyone," he said, putting the box on the bed.

She pushed his hand away and took off the lid. She had the gun now. It was odd, but it looked right in her hands. It looked as right in her hands as a scalpel looks right in the hands of a surgeon. She sat up and examined the gun. Her face was expressionless, but there was an intent concentration in her eyes that worried him.

"Is it loaded?" she asked, at last.

"Oh no," George said. "Now let me put it away. I don't know why you should be interested in it."

"Show me how to load it," she urged. "Where are the cartridges?"

Without waiting for him to show her, she slid off the bed, went to the drawer and found the little wooden box.

"No," he said, surprised at his own firmness. "You leave those alone. Put them back."

She was looking at the shiny brass cylinders.

"Why?"

"I don't want any accidents. Please put them back."

She shrugged impatiently; but she put the box back and sat on the bed again. She picked up the Luger and pressed the trigger.

"Why doesn't it work?" she asked, frowning.

"It's stiff," George said. "You have to pull very hard."

She tried again, but she still couldn't pull hack the trigger. "Here, I'll show you," George said, taking the gun from her. "Like this."

He exerted his great strength, and the hammer snapped down.