More Deadly Than The Male

"Yes. I'd much sooner give you one than have to go home without a stitch." She suddenly laughed. "I have to think of Daddy. It would give the poor darling a stroke; and think what the servants would say!"

Was this a trap? George wondered, suddenly suspicious. Was she going to get him to the house and then send for the police? Why should she give him the clothes? She had never seen him before. What was behind this?

She seemed to read his thoughts. "It's all right," she said, looking down at him "I'm not going to trap you into anything. It's just that I have a lot of clothes and it pleases me to help you. What do you say?"

Still George hesitated. The suggestion was preposterous. He had set out as a desperate bandit, and now the girl he had planned to rob was actually going to give him what he wanted.

"Do make up your mind," she said, throwing away her cigarette. "It's getting late, and I ought to be home."

He got slowly to his feet. "I don't know what to say," he muttered, looking at her uneasily. "It's fantastic."

"No, it isn't. You're nervous I'll send for the police, aren't you? I won't. I promise."

He remembered Cora's promise. Women made promises lightly, he warned himself, but looking at her he was inclined to believe her. Anyway, if he became suspicious he had his gun . . . and he'd use it, too!

"Well, thanks," he said. "I think it's awfully decent of you," and he opened the cab door for her.

"Has she my colouring?" the girl asked, sitting on the little turn-up seat so that she could talk to George as he drove. Cora had her colouring all right, but that was as far as the resemblance went. She had a better figure, more character in her face than this girl—not that this girl wasn't nice looking. In a way, George preferred her to Cora. She hadn't Cora's sulky expression, nor the lines near her mouth. She had a better skin than Cora's, and her hair was more beautiful. But that didn't mean she was more exciting than Cora: she wasn't. There was something about Cora which tortured George. He knew this girl would never torture him. "Yes," he said. "She's about your size, and she's got hair like yours."

"What do you think she'd like?" the girl asked. "Would she like a frock, or a costume, or a coat and skirt?"

Was she pulling his leg? George wondered. Had she got so many things to give away?

"Well, I don't know," he said. "I thought something like you're wearing."

She laughed. "Of course, that's why you picked on me, wasn't it? I think I've got something that'll do. I don't mind parting with clothes. It's money I hate parting with. You see, Daddy pays for my clothes, and gives me pocket money for extras. He doesn't seem to mind how many clothes I have, but he just won't part with any more cash."

George drove on, bewildered.

"We're just here," she called after a few minutes. "The gate's on the right."

George hesitated. Should he drive in? Should he risk a trap? Before he could make up his mind, he had reached the gates and had turned into a long, winding drive. But when he sighted a vast house through the trees, he slowed down and stopped the cab.

She jumped out. "Stay here," she said. "I won't be long."

"All right," he said uneasily, and watched her walk swiftly towards the house.

As soon as she was out of sight, George left the cab and moved off the drive into the garden. He couldn't afford to trust her. He would give her ten minutes, and then he'd go. From where he stood, in the shadow of a big magnolia tree, he could see the house. He could see her run up the broad, white steps, open the door and go in. The ground floor was in darkness, but the windows of both the wings on the two upper floors showed lights.

He stood still, watching the house, his hand on the butt of his gun. A moment or so later a light sprang up in one of the centre windows, and he caught a glimpse of the girl as she passed to and fro before the window.

He relaxed slightly. Anyway, she wasn't telephoning, he thought. How astounding! He was sure if anyone had tried to hold him up, he would have given them over to the police at the first possible opportunity.

Scarcely ten minutes had gone by before he saw her coming down the steps again. She held a bundle under her arm, and George, convinced of her sincerity at last, went to meet her.

"I bet you had a bad ten minutes," she said, smiling at him. "I hope I haven't been too long. You'll find everything there. I duplicated the underclothes. The hat's the only thing I wasn't sure about. Does she wear hats?"

George blinked. "No," he said. "How did you know?"

"I somehow felt she didn't." She pressed the bundle into his arms.

George stood gaping at her, a prickly sensation behind his eyes. "I—I don't know how to thank you. I don't really."

"I've got to get in now. Good night, and please don't hold up any more girls. You know, we don't really like it."