More Deadly Than The Male

Back in his room, he took the gun from under his shirts. It still smelt of gunpowder. What a careless fool he had been! That alone could have hanged him. He spent ten feverish minutes cleaning the gun, and then, without hesitation, he pulled out the magazine and filled it from the box of cartridges. He was careful not to jack a bullet into the breech, and he was careful also to make sure that the safety catch was down. He put the gun into his hip pocket and picked up his hat. All right, he thought, if they start being funny with me, they'll find they've bitten off more than they can chew. They weren't going to scare George Fraser! And they'd better not get ideas about Cora either. Cora was his girl now; she was under his protection. He paused, frowning. This is extraordinary, he thought. I don't feel frightened any more. He looked at himself in the mirror. He saw a great, bulky figure; the scarred face looked tough and hard, the eyes were cold and steady. It was the gun, of course. It had given him a sudden, quite mysterious confidence in himself. He wasn't poor old George, the cat- loving lonely book tout any longer. He was George Fraser, millionaire gunman. He had killed a man, hadn't he? At this moment they were hunting for him, seeking revenge. Why, he was every bit as good as the gangsters he had read and dreamed about. He was better, in fact: he wasn't frightened; the Front Page Detective had always described the gangsters as frightened, yellow rats.

Deliberately he took out his battered cigarette case and selected a cigarette. Then he found a match in his pocket and flicked it with his nail. It flared up. That was a trick he had seen on the movies, and which he had tried again and again to imitate, but had never succeeded. He stared at the match, his face lighting up, then he lit the cigarette and tossed the match away.

All right, he thought, buttoning up his coat, I'm ready for them. They'll be damn sorry they started anything with me. Now for Cora; and he wasn't going to stand any nonsense from her in the future. She was going to be his girl. "I'm your gun moll," she had said. Well, that's just what she was going to be!

It was almost dark by the time he reached the garage mews off Kilburn High Street. He moved cautiously, aware of a feeling of excitement, and that his nerves were steady. As he stepped through the gateway and crossed the builder's yard, he drew the Luger, holding it down by his side.

The mews was in darkness. It was an ideal place for murder, he thought. The noise of the traffic in the High Street would drown any cry for help. It might even drown the sound of a shot.

He paused outside the flat. At first it seemed in darkness, but a second glance revealed a chink of light coming round the curtain of the front room. There was no bell nor knocker, so he rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles. He waited, his ears pricked, his breathing deep and steady. No one answered. He waited, and then rapped again. Perhaps she was out. It would be like her to leave the light on: typical of her indifferent carelessness. He stepped hack so that he could look up at the window. The hair on the nape of his neck bristled. The light had gone out. He stood hesitating. So she was in there. Why had she turned off the light? Why wasn't she answering the door? He flicked his fingers impatiently. Of course; she was taking precautions. She would have been insane to have cone down and opened the door in such a lonely alley, not knowing who it was who was knocking. He returned to the door and rapped again, then he pushed open the letter-box and called.

"Cora! It's George. Let me in."

Almost instantly, as if she had been waiting for this assurance, she jerked the door open.

"You frightened me," she said. "Come in quickly."

The sound of her voice, the smell of the sandalwood and the nearness of her presence had an overpowering effect on him. He stumbled forward into the darkness, and the front door closed behind him. He heard her shoot a bolt home.

"Can you find your way up?" she asked. "I don't want to show a light. They're watching this place." Her small, warm hand took his, and she drew him up a steep flight of stairs.

A moment later a light sprang up. He blinked round. The room was large and poorly furnished. A big divan bed stood in one corner. A table and armchair and a cupboard made up the rest of the furniture. A worn carpet covered only the centre of the floor.

He turned and looked at her.

She was still wearing the blue sweater and slacks. They looked as if they could have done with another wash. Her hair was untidy, and her lipstick put on anyhow. The blue smudges under her eyes had now turned to purple. She somehow looked older, more worn, more shop soiled.

"Good old George," she said in a low voice. "I was beginning to wonder what I was going to do."

"Do?" he repeated. "What do you mean?"