More Deadly Than The Male

He had sulked, and was determined that when she asked him which of the three cinemas they should choose, he would pointedly show his indifference.

But she didn't ask him. She walked down the street a step ahead of him, passed the first cinema and went straight to the box office of the second one, a few hundred yards farther down the road.

"Get circle seats," she said abruptly, and went on towards the stairs. He got the tickets and followed her, seething with frustration and disappointment. And when she pushed one and sixpence into his hand, he snatched the money from her and pocketed it without a word.

But once he had settled down in his seat, the magic of the darkness, the music and the drama on the screen overcame his ill temper.

It was a good picture: the kind of picture he liked. There were beautiful women, tough, well-dressed men, and music. There were long sequences of dimly lit streets and shadowy figures, guns in hand, moving silently from doorway to doorway. There were gun battles in the dark. There was a bedroom scene that titillated his desire for Cora, so that he fumbled for her hand and held it moistly, until she impatiently withdrew it.

As the drama progressed, he became so engrossed that he even forgot Cora was with him, and when the film came to an end he was sorry.

Moving down the stairs, a little dazed by the bright sunlight, he realized that he was a few hours closer to pending danger. Perhaps, after all, he could persuade them not to go; but his courage failed when he saw the cold, distant expression on Cora's face.

She, too, seemed to realize that time was running out. He could tell that she was uneasy. There was a subtle tension about her which hinted at taut nerves. When he made a comment about the film, she did not seem to hear him. She walked on, moving through the crowds almost as if she were sleepwalking.

It was six o'clock, and George wanted a cup of tea. He suggested they might have one, but she paid no attention. She kept on inexorably, alone in a crowd of people, deep in her secret thoughts.

He felt she was going to a definite place, and as he followed her, he had a premonition of danger. It was so acute that he stopped and caught at her arm.

"Where are we going?" he asked sharply. "Why are you so quiet? Is there something wrong?"

They stood in the middle of the pavement. The crowd broke up, passed them and joined up again. They received angry glances.

"Come on," she said with equal sharpness. "It's only round the corner."

She went on. His uneasiness growing, George followed her. In a few minutes they were in a quiet side street, and this time it was Cora who stopped.

"There's a shop down there," she said, pointing and looking at him with a curious intentness. "Go and buy a whip. A horsewhip will do. Something you can hide under your coat." She thrust a pound note into his hand.

In spite of the sun and the hot pavement, George suddenly went cold. His instinct warned him to have nothing to do with this. It was as if he were being asked to cross a piece of ground which he knew was not solid and into which he was certain he would sink, and then suffocate.

"It's Sunday," he said, drawing away from her. "You can't buy anything today."

"Why do you think I came here?" she said impatiently. "They are all Jews down here. They closed yesterday."

His mind darted like a startled mouse for a way of escape.

"I'm not buying it," he said obstinately. "If you want it, you'll have to get it yourself. I'm not having anything to do with it. I—I don't believe in that sort of thing."

She looked at his set, obstinate face and she suddenly smiled. "You're quite right, George," she said softly; "it's stupid to wait. When two people are in love . . ." She pushed the pound note again into his hand. "Get the whip and let's go hack. We've still time before he returns."

George stared at her, seeing in her eyes a fainting desire: an unmistakable invitation of receptive, expectant femininity.

"Cora!" he said, his fingers clutching the pound note, "you mean—now? You really mean now?"

"I said I'd be nice to you, didn't I? Well, why should we wait? . . . Only you'll have to hurry."

He went down the street with an unsteady, shambling gait, a feverish, incoherent puppet, without a will, without regard to danger, without a thought for anything except what she was offering him.

He blundered into the shop she had indicated. Saddles, rolls of leather, horse blankets, dog collars, trunks, bags and whips overflowed on the counter, the floor and the shelves behind the counter.

An elderly man with a great hooked nose came out of an office at the back of the shop. He looked curiously at George.

"Good afternoon," he said. "Is there something I can show you?"

George looked round the shop, his eyes bloodshot and wild. He saw a whip, a riding switch, whalebone bound in red leather, with an ivory handle. He picked it up with a shudder.

"I'll have it," he said, thrusting it at the Jew, and threw down the pound note.