More Deadly Than The Male

George had sat by the window with his overcoat over his legs and his feet up on a chair They finished the beer and had talked. She had asked him to tell her about his adventures in the States. George was too happy to be cautious. So he began to talk. Everything he had read about the gang wars of America was marshalled and trotted out as his own adventures. Never had he been so inspired. He had described how he had been one of the first to arrive at the little cabin in the hills where Ma Barker and her son had made their last stand.

"I'll never forget that day," he said, looking out of the window as he tried to remember what he had read of Ma Barker's death. "We arrived early one morning. There was a ground mist, and we got right up to the cabin without being seen. I was with a bunch of G-men, and they were jittery. I didn't blame them, because hell was likely to break loose any minute.

"I'd had some experience working on both sides of the fence, and I had been in some pretty tough spots. If Fred Barker hadn't played me a dirty trick, I wouldn't have been hunting him with the Feds. At that time I was out for excitement, and I didn't care which side I was on, so long as I got into a scrap.

"The Feds didn't want a battle, but they hadn't the nerve to call on Ma to give up. So I offered to do it. I wanted to show them I had more guts than they.

"I walked to the door of the cabin. I don't mind telling you my knees were knocking.

"I hammered on the door. Ma Barker, a Tommy-gun half hidden behind her back, appeared at the window. I could see her wrinkles, her narrowed eyes and the wattles on her sagging neck.

" 'Come on, Ma,' I said. 'You know me. You're caught, and you might just as well come quietly.'

" 'To hell with you!' she yelled and ducked out of sight.

"Then Fred opened up with a machine-gun. I thought I was a goner. Slugs nipped at my clothes and splattered my shoes with dust. It was a pretty tough moment. One of the Feds started grinding his machine-gun, and that put Fred off. I got under cover with slugs still chasing me.

"We fought it out for over an hour, but they didn't stand a chance A burst of automatic rifle fire caught Ma as she was peering through the window. When we found Fred, he had fourteen slugs in his carcass."

So he had gone on. He paraded them all before her—BabyFace Nelson, Frank Nash, Roger Touhy, Jake Fleagle; violence, shooting, racing cars, police sirens. He had never done better.

"And they took me for a ride," he went on, scowling at the ceiling. "Me! They took me in a wood, and they said I was washed up. There were three of them. There was a guy called Wineinger. I can see him now. A pot-bellied little runt, with a scar where someone had bashed him with a bottle. There was Clyde Barrow, thin and mean, with ears like a bat. And Gustave Banghart. They were a dangerous, tough mob, and it didn't look so good. I hadn't anything to lose, so I jumped Wineinger and got his rod. It was the fastest thing I've ever done in my life. I came out of that wood on my feet, and I came out alone."

Oh yes, he had never been better, and she had listened without moving, absorbed, excited. Her intent interest had been a spur to his imagination.

"I'm glad you told me," she had said, when he finally stopped talking. "It was what I expected of you."

Then he had edged the conversation round to Sydney. He wanted to know more about Sydney—what he did, where he lived, how Cora and he got on together.

But she didn't tell him much. She suddenly became guarded. She said she didn't know much about Sydney herself. He didn't tell her things. Look at that nine pounds! He hadn't told her about that. Didn't that show how secretive he was? They never had any money—at least, that was what Sydney always told her. He was supposed to be the breadwinner. She didn't do anything except keep the flat. Yes, they had a flat off Russell Square. George must see it one day. Sydney didn't welcome visitors. He wasn't sociable, but when he was away, George must come.

George had a vague feeling that Cora was frightened of Sydney. "He's very domineering," she said, "and we fight."

But when he pressed her for details, she rather pointedly changed the subject.

"I think I'll go to sleep now," she said, settling further down in the bed. "I was late last night."

George eased himself in his chair. It wasn't a bit comfortable now he was trying to make a bed of it.

"I hope you sleep well," he said. "What time do you want to be called in the morning?"

"Oh, I'll wake up. I always do," she returned.

"I say . . ." George said, after a moment's silence, "won't Sydney worry where you are?"

"He doesn't worry about me. He doesn't worry about anyone," Cora said. "He's a bit touched, if you must know."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," George protested.

"Well, I would."

"How did he get that scar?" George asked, at last screwing up courage to ask something that had been worrying him for days. "He's very sensitive about it, isn't he?"

"He had an accident," Cora said shortly.