More Deadly Than The Male

"The nice looking lad who beat Cora. She told me what happened. She was tight, but that doesn't matter. No one's going to touch her without getting into trouble. I'd handle him myself, only you and me can do it better."

"Do what better?" George asked. He remembered the two Greeks and their razors, and he felt a little sick.

"We'll see him tonight. You and me. He's got a bungalow at a place called Copthorne. It's not far. He'll be down there today. Well, we'll go down, too, and we'll take a cane. It's a lonely place, and we won't be disturbed. We'll see how he likes a heating. That's what we'll do."

"Wouldn't it be better to complain to the police?" George asked, in sudden fright. "They're dangerous. Look what they did to me."

"When you were in the States," Sydney said, cold cruelty in his eyes, "did you go to the police?"

George waved his hands nervously. "That was different," he said. "No one went to the cops in those days. It's different now."

"No, it isn't," Sydney said. "This is something personal. We'll be dangerous too. We'll take your gun."

George stiffened. "No, we won't!" he said. "I'm not doing a thing like that. That's how accidents happen."

"Oh yes, you are, George," Sydney said, wandering across the room. "You don't have to load it. Crispin will fall apart just to see the gun. I'm not suggesting you kill him. I don't like murder myself. Feel like getting the gun now?"

Again George was going to refuse, when he suddenly thought of the blond man's sneering smile He thought of the two Greeks creeping towards him with their razors. With the Luger in his hands, they would have been terrified. A smouldering anger—something he had never before experienced—urged him to seek revenge. Cora's shrieks still rang in his ears.

He got to his feet. "All right," he said, "but I'm not loading the gun."

"I'll come with you," Sydney said. "Come and talk to me while I dress."

George followed him into a tiny bedroom.

"Who is this Crispin?" he asked, leaning against the wall.

"I used to fool around with him," Sydney returned, slipping his blue shirt over his head. "Keep this under your hat. He knocks off cars in a big way. There's bags of money in that game." He glanced quickly at George and went on, "I chucked it after a hit. Got too hot for me. Cora hates the guy. He doesn't know she's my sister. He'll have a surprise when he sees me—and you." He was dressed now. "You'd better have a wash. Those cuts on your face aren't deep, but you look a bit of a mess. Those Greeks know how to use a razor all right."

He took George into the grubby little bathroom. George stared at himself in the mirror. A long strip of plaster ran down the side of his face, and another strip was above his ear. He rinsed his face, getting rid of the blood smears. There was blood, too, on his coat and collar.

"I look a sight," he said, suddenly secretly proud of himself. He looked tough and frightening: a real gangster.

"I'll find you a scarf," Sydney said. "You can change when you get to your place."

"Where's Cora?" George asked, drying his face on a grimy towel.

"Asleep," Sydney said indifferently. "She's got weals on her hack as thick as my finger."

George flinched. His anger blazed up.

"Let's go," he said.

It was only seven-thirty by the time they reached George's place, off the Edgware Road. The house was silent: no one was up. George took Sydney to his room and closed the door. While Sydney sat on the bed, whistling softly, George changed his shirt, put on another suit and had a hurried shave.

In the familiar surroundings of his room his anger died down. He was now beginning to realize what it meant to live dangerously. He had read so much about it in the past; had constructed scenes in which he had experienced breathless adventures, fought and killed men, and had gloried in it all. But this was different. This was something out of his control. He knew that if in one of his fantasies he were trapped by desperate men, he would not be killed. He would be able to create a situation that would save him at the last moment. But this business was different. If that Greek, Nick, had wanted to kill him, he could have done so. It was just sheer luck that he hadn't cut George's throat.

George suddenly hated the thought of what was going to happen that night. He had been angry, but now, back in his room, the thought of fresh danger gave him a sick, nervous feeling in his stomach. To beat this man Crispin was primitive justice, but it was hound to lead to trouble. If they did succeed in catching Crispin alone, did Sydney really think that Crispin wouldn't get his own back on them later?