More Deadly Than The Male

As he rinsed his razor, he considered whether he should refuse to go with them, but immediately saw the impossibility of this If he wished to keep Cora's regard—and there was no question about that—he would have to go through with it. All he had to do was to threaten Crispin with the gun. Well, that was all right. He could do that. There would be no danger in that, as the gun wasn't loaded. He was confident that Crispin would obey him if he had the gun in his hand. It was an ugly-looking weapon. It would scare him stiff. Besides, Sydney would be there.

"Getting cold feet?" Sydney asked in a sneering voice.

George started. He had forgotten that Sydney was in the room. He had been so busy with his thoughts that Sydney had gone completely out of his mind. He turned.

"Of course not," he said. "I've been in tighter spots . . ." and then he stopped.

Sydney was holding the Luger carelessly in his hand.

"Where did you get that from?" George said, suddenly angry. "I'll trouble you not to go to my drawers without asking me."

Sydney smiled. "Keep your wool on," he said, examining the Luger with interest. "I only wanted to satisfy my curiosity."

"Well, give it here, then," George demanded, crossing the room. "I suppose Cora told you where I kept it." He decided that he would hide the gun in another place in the future.

"She did," Sydney returned, his finger curling round the trigger. "What's the matter with it? Is it jammed?"

"No," George said shortly. "It's stiff, that's all. The trigger wants adjusting. Here, let me have it."

Sydney pulled at the trigger, and with an effort managed to snap down the hammer

"With an action like that," he said, tossing the Luger on the bed, "you don't have to worry about accidents."

"That's why I keep it that way," George said, picking up the gun and slipping out the magazine. He made sure there was no cartridge in the breech, grunted, and shoved the gun in his hip pocket. It felt bulky and heavy, but it gave him a secret thrill to have it against his hip.

"Well, are you ready?" Sydney asked, getting up. George nodded.

"Let's go, then," Sydney said, and they left the room and began to walk downstairs.

George suddenly remembered Leo.

"Just a tick," he said. "I've got to feed my cat."

"Forget it," Sydney said shortly. "There are other things to think about besides cats."

George ignored Sydney's impatience, ran back to his room, put a saucer of milk and the remains of the sardines on the floor where Leo could find it, and then hurried after Sydney, who was waiting for him in the street.

"Go hack and keep Cora company," Sydney said. "I've got things to do." He looked at George with a jeering grin. "She thinks you're quite a hero."

George went a dull red. "Does she?" he asked eagerly. "Well, I don't know about that. I couldn't do much against those razors." He nursed his aching hand. "If it had been a fair fight . . ."

"I know, I know," Sydney said, moving away. "You tell her about it. I've got things to do."

George was delighted that Sydney wasn't returning to the flat. He hurried to Russell Square, eager to be alone with Cora. He passed a chemist's shop, and remembering what Sydney had said about the weals on Cora's hack, he retraced his steps, went in and asked for a bottle of witch-hazel.

It was after nine o'clock when he entered the little flat. Cora was in the bathroom. She shouted through the door that she wouldn't be long, and he wandered into the sitting-room.

He put the Luger on the mantelpiece, and after looking round the room, he decided that he might as well tidy up a bit. The decision gave him some pleasure. He had nothing to do, and he liked messing in a house.

He went hack to the bathroom and told Cora through the panels of the door what he intended to do.

"Come in," she shouted. "I can't hear you."

He opened the door and looked into the tiny, steam-filled room. Cora was lying in the bath; only the back of her head and white shoulders were visible from where he stood. She glanced over her shoulder. A damp cigarette hung from her mouth.

"What is it?" she asked, a little sharply.

"How—how are you, Cora?"

"I'm all right," she returned. "God! You look a sight."

George grinned happily. "I know," he said. "It's my hand that's had. These are only scratches."

"You've got guts," she said. "I didn't think you had it in you. "

It was worth the pain and the terror to hear that.

"This'll take the smarting away," George said, putting the bottle of witch-hazel on the wooden bath surround.

"You just rub it in . . ."

She regarded the bottle, reached out a wet hand and picked it up. She read the label, frowning.

"Thank you, George. You're thoughtful. Now run away and tidy up, as you put it. I won't be long."

George worked happily until Cora joined him. She was wearing Sydney's dirty white dressing-gown.

"You are a busy little bee, aren't you?" she jeered, looking round the room, her eyebrows making question marks.