More Deadly Than The Male

"You see," George went on, "they were looking for a place. I've been away for some time As a matter of fact, I've been in the States. I traced them to a flat near Russell Square, and now I learn they've moved to Maida Vale. I think they came to you for a place."

"The States?" Mr Hibbert's eyes grew dreamy. "Often thought I'd go there myself. Wonderful place, I believe."

George nodded. "It's all right," he said with assumed indifference. "But I suppose I've seen too much of it. Give me England any day." He dropped ash carefully into the tobacco tin lid that served as an ashtray. "These two," he went on, anxious not to stray from his purpose. "They were young—brother and sister. Brant is the name. The fellow had a bad scar: a bum."

Mr Hibbert's face darkened. "Oh yes," he said, frowning. "I remember them. Hmm, yes, I remember them quite well." He conveyed that he did not approve of them, and that because George knew them, he wasn't sure whether he should approve of him

"It's just that I owe them money," George said apologetically. "They did me a good turn once." What was he saying? A good turn? But he went on, "They're not friends of mine, you understand; but one must honour one's debts."

Mr Hibbert nodded. He looked at George with sudden warmth. "Those sentiments do you credit. I like to hear a man talk like that. Wouldn't think they'd honour anything."

George shook his head. "A wild pair," he said. "Did you fix them up?" He waited, his heart thumping dully against his side.

"Against my will," Mr Hibbert told him sadly. "Business is not what it was. A year ago I'd 've sent them packing. As it happened, I had a place. A couple of rooms over a garage. There were rats in the place; no one seemed to want it, so I let them have it. They can be as wild as they like there. They'll have no neighbours." A sly, lewd look came into his faded eyes. "The girl's remarkable, isn't she? No better than she makes out to be, I shouldn't wonder. Her figure . . ." He shook his head. "Wants a mother, I shouldn't doubt . . . brazen . . ."

A hot flame of desire flickered in the pit of George's stomach. He knew what Mr Hibbert meant.

"I'm most grateful," he said, after a pause. "Could you write the address down for me?" He stubbed out his cigarette and added bitterly, "It'll be a surprise for them."

Mr Hibbert wrote the address on the back of his card.

"It's a turning off Kilburn High Street, a mews. It's easy enough to find."

They parted warmly.

While George waited for a bus to take him down the long, straight road to Kilburn, a man with a bundle of evening papers passed, and George bought one. He glanced down the columns, scarcely concentrating. An item of news caught his attention for a second. An unknown man had fallen on the live wire at Belsize Park Station. A train had entered the station a moment later, and the hold-up had caused a considerable delay on the line. George was glad he hadn't been there: a beastly, messy death. He looked down the road impatiently. A bus was in sight, but it was taking its time. Then George stiffened, spider's legs ran down his spine. He looked at the newspaper again. The small print swam before his eyes. The unknown man, the reporter wrote, was about twenty-two. He had a scar—a had bum—on the right side of his face, and a shock of straw- coloured hair He wore a dark blue shirt, a red tie, grey flannel trousers and a tweed coat. The police were anxious to identify him. There was nothing in his pockets nor on his clothes to say who he was and where he had come from. The bus passed George. He made no attempt to signal to it. He stood reading the notice over and over again. Could it be Sydney? The description was exact. Were there other men with scars, strawcoloured hair, who wore dark blue shirts and red ties? It seemed unlikely.

He had to find out. The trip to Kilburn could wait. He had to find out whether Cora was now on her own. It might make a tremendous difference.

He began to walk towards Kilburn, not knowing where he was going, but anxious to think. What a death! How unlike Sydney to fall in front of a train! Was it suicide? He thought of the cold, ruthless face, and decided that Sydney most certainly would not have taken his own life. An accident, then? But how did people fall in front of trains unless they deliberately jumped or were pushed? Pushed? His mind began to crawl with alarm. Was he pushed? Suppose Emily and Max and the two Greeks . . .? He gritted his teeth. Was this the beginning of their revenge? He looked furtively over his shoulder, and quickened his pace. It was the kind of clever, ruthless trick they would stage: a murder that looked like an accident. Of course, the dead man might not be Sydney, and in that case he was getting alarmed over nothing. But he wouldn't rest until he knew for certain. He supposed the body would be in some mortuary, but he hadn't the vaguest idea which one. He was scared to go to a police station. The memory of Crispin now filled him with nervous dread.