More Deadly Than The Male

Thinking of her, remembering her, brooding on that exquisite moment of fear and excitement when she had kissed him so passionately in the stolen car, he began to make excuses for her behaviour. Perhaps it wasn't her fault. Perhaps she had been in the power of her brother, and had been forced to betray George against her will.

Was it possible that she had really loved him all the time, and that Sydney was at the bottom of the whole business?

George got to his feet and began to pace up and down. He must see her again. It was no good torturing himself like this. He must see her, and have it out. She might be longing for him, too, wanting to see him, but afraid of what Sydney would say.

His physical need for her was so overpowering that it swamped all caution and reason. He knew at the hack of his mind that she had trapped him into murder, that she was as had as Sydney, but he wanted her too badly to care.

He didn't believe really that she could ever love him. In his present mood of frustrated desire, he did not mind, just so long as she would he "very nice to him" even just once. If he could only have his moment with her, a brief spell of bliss, he would be content, even if she were a beast to him afterwards.

He sat still, gnawing his underlip. If he wanted her so badly, he'd have to do something about it. He would have to see her. Then why was he hesitating? He would go to her flat now—this very minute. As soon as he had made the decision, a great weight rolled from his mind. The decision was something he had been longing to make for the past few days.

He picked up his hat, and as he crossed the room he looked at himself in the mirror. He stared at his white, drawn face in astonishment. It was as if he had only just become aware of himself, and the change shocked him He had aged; there were streaks of white in his hair at the temples. He had lost weight, his eyes were feverish and deep set, and the thin red scars from the razor-cuts gave him a look of menace. He continued to stare at himself for some minutes, then left the room, uneasy, worried. When he reached Southampton Row, he got off the bus and walked towards Russell Square. He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after four. He wondered if she would be in. What was he going to say to her? Suppose Sydney came to the door? He became more and more undecided as to what he was going to do. But he kept on, refusing to heed the warning note that was sounding at the back of his mind, determined, if he did nothing else, to look at her flat once again.

He turned the corner of her street. People busied themselves with their weekend shopping. The pavement before the row of small shops was crowded with women, small children and perambulators. He could see the greengrocer's shop over which was her flat. The greengrocer, elderly, bald and fat, was outside the shop. He was shovelling potatoes onto the scales while a tired- looking woman waited, a string hag ready to receive them. George stood for some time at the corner, unconsciously assuring himself that it would be safe to cross the street.

Finally, he made up his mind and walked towards the greengrocer's shop with mounting excitement. As he drew near, he looked up at the window of her flat. The drab muslin curtain told him nothing. For all he knew, she might be watching him, and the thought sent his blood racing through his veins.

He slowed down as he reached the shop. A smell of potatoes, fruit and onions hung in the air. He glanced at the door that led to her flat, and then he paused. There was a notice stuck on one of the glass panels of the door, and a sudden feeling of dread came to him

The greengrocer had gone into the shop: there was a momentary lull in trade.

George stepped quickly to the door. He read the sprawling handwriting on the notice:

FURNISHED FLAT TO LET

Two bedrooms, sitting room, kitchen, bath.

42/- weekly.

Apply: Harris & Son. Greengrocer. (Next door.)

So they had gone. They had packed up and bolted. In a way, he wasn't surprised. It was the obvious thing to do. They were making sure that no one would get on to them; that Emily and Max and the two Greeks wouldn't get the money from them.

He wondered how long they had been gone. It crossed his mind that they might have left a clue which would lead him to them. While he was hesitating, the greengrocer came out and glanced at him inquiringly. Without stopping to think, George blurted out, "I'm interested in this flat."

"Flat?" the greengrocer repeated. "Yes, it's still in the market. It's a nice little place. 'Ave it meself if it weren't for the stairs. Can't manage the stairs now. Not as young as I was."

"Can I see it?" George asked.

"I'll get the keys."

There was a short delay. Then the old man returned.

"It'll be a month in advance," he said, a hitter, injured note in his voice. "I've 'ad enough of fly-by-nights. If yet want the place, it'll be a month in advance."

"Had trouble with the previous tenants?" George asked, taking the keys.