More Deadly Than The Male

"Done a flit," the old man said, and spat in the road. "Might 'ave known no good would 'ave come from those two. Wot 'e did for a living I never did find out, and she . . . My misses said she took men up there, but seeing's believing. If I'd caught 'er at it, I'd 've 'ad 'er out, but I never did. I wish I'd got rid of 'em before."

George nodded, and turned to the door. "Don't bother to come up," he said. "I'll have a look round and then talk it over with you."

The old man grunted. "I ain't coming up," he assured him. "Can't manage them stairs. You'll find the place in a mess. The misses' been cleaning it up, but it ain't quite finished. The way those two lived . . . like pigs."

George's heart was thumping as he sank the key into the lock. He pushed open the front door and entered the tiny hall. The flat had obviously been cleaned, but there was still a faint smell of sandalwood in the air. It affected George. He felt alone, miserable.

He went into the sitting-room. Now that the curtains had been washed, the carpet swept and surrounds scrubbed, it looked quite a homely little place. He went through the drawers, looked into the empty waste-paper basket, and the cupboard, but he found nothing He went into Sydney's bedroom. He found nothing there, nor did the kitchen reveal anything. He purposely left Cora's room to the last. When he opened the door, a vein in his temple began to pound. The room had not been touched. He could tell that by the dust on the mantelpiece, the rubbish piled in the grate, and the soiled towel with a trace of lipstick that hung over the back of the chair

He entered the room and closed the door. He remained still for a few minutes, trying to sort out the various odours that hung in the stale, stuffy atmosphere. There was sandalwood and tobacco smoke, stale perspiration and dirt. There was an elusive smell which, although scarcely perceptible, excited him It was Cora's own intimate smell—a heady, slight smell, feminine, yet fleshly.

He pulled open the drawers of the dressing-table. They were filled with empty jars, sticky tubes, cigarette cartons, and bottles. Eye-black mingled with a spilt box of face powder. A tube of toothpaste oozed over a pair of sunglasses. A bottle of witchhazel—the bottle he had given her—had leaked, filling the drawer with a layer of white grease. He had never seen such a disgusting mess.

The second drawer was empty except for a soiled handkerchief. He closed the drawer with a grimace. Then he went to the fireplace and examined the scraps of paper, newspapers, a sheet of greasy brown paper that smelt strongly of decaying fish. He was very patient, and at last he found what he was looking for: a business card of an estate agent in Maida Vale.

He stood up, his eyes bright and excited. Maida Vale! Yes, they would fit in in Maida Vale. It had either to be Russell Square, or Soho, or Maida Vale. He slipped the card into his waistcoat pocket, pleased with himself.

Then he locked the door and went downstairs.

"I'll think it over," he said to the greengrocer. "I'd like my wife to see it."

His wife! He thought of Cora, and there was a hitter taste in his mouth.

From the top of the bus he watched the crowded street. Then suddenly his heart gave a lurch. At the corner of Southampton Row and High Holborn he saw Nick, the Greek. He was standing on the kerb, a cigarette hanging from his thin lips, reading a newspaper. George shrank hack.

He remained uneasy and alarmed until the bus began to crawl tip Baker Street, and then his fears quieted. The Greek hadn't seen him. It was a near thing, of course, but he hadn't seen him. He got off the bus at Maida Vale and went immediately to the estate agent. It was a small office, and a fat little man, behind a shabby desk, was the only occupant. He seemed startled when George opened the door and entered, as if he seldom had callers. "Good afternoon," he said, fingering a heavy silver watch chain. "Is there something?"

"I don't know," George said, and smiled. He was anxious for the little man to like him "I don't want to waste your time, but I believe you can help me." He took out the card and studied it. "It's Mr Hibbert, isn't it?"

The little man nodded. "You're lucky to find me here," he said. "Most places close on Saturday afternoon, but I thought I'd hang on a little longer . . ."

"I'm looking for a couple of friends," George explained. "It's important I should find them." He smiled again. "You see, I owe them money."

Mr Hibbert scratched his head. "I don't know," he said. "Perhaps you'll tell me how I can help . . ."

"Oh yes," George said eagerly, taking out a crushed packet of Players. "Will you smoke?"

Mr Hibbert took a cigarette rather doubtfully. "I don't usually smoke in office hours," he explained. "But seeing it's Saturday . . ." He had a trick of not finishing his sentences.

They lit up.