More Deadly Than The Male

Emily and Max walked in. The two Greeks followed them. Nick slid across the room to the window, while Poncho closed the door and set his back against it.

Cora's hand flew to her mouth. "No!" she screamed, and her eyes rolled up, so that only the whites showed.

Emily marched over to the armchair and sat down. She opened her coat and fluffed up her untidy hair.

"Before we get down to business," she said, ignoring Cora, "I'd like a cup of tea. Can you make tea?" She looked at George.

"Oh yes," he said blankly, "but don't you think . . .?"

"I don't," Emily snapped. "Get me a cup of tea, there's a good fellow."

George turned and looked helplessly at Poncho, who stared hack at him with menacingly dark eyes.

"Let him make some tea," Emily said, watching them.

"He'll run away," Poncho argued, a little angrily.

"I don't think he will," Emily returned, taking out a packet of Woodbines from her hag and lighting one. "If he does, it won't matter." Poncho shrugged and stood away from the door. George went out through the lobby into the little kitchen across the way. Not quite knowing what he was doing, he put on the kettle and laid a tray. He was glad to have something to do. Every now and then a tiny spark of horror flared up in his mind, but instantly it sparked out. He knew now that Emily was going to let him go free. By telling him to make the tea, she had shown that she had believed his story and she wasn't holding him responsible. It was justice. He had no pity for Cora. There would he nothing to worry about, not the way Emily would do it. Although he did not know how she would do it, he was sure that it would he as efficient and undetectable as Sydney's death.

He made the tea and carried the tray into the sitting-room.

Max had sat down. His bowler hat and umbrella lay at his feet. He was glancing through a notebook, absorbed.

Emily sat in a heap, her fat little feet stretched out before her, the cigarette dangling limply from her lips. She was looking round the room with a blank look in her eyes, her mind far away.

Cora still stood against the wall, her face twisted in a mask of frozen terror. She did not look up as George entered. The room was silent, and he distinctly heard the rumbling of her insides. She coughed nervously, as if to hide the sound, but George knew how frightened she was.

Poncho closed the door after George. He seemed startled to see him again.

George put the tray on the table. He was surprised to find how indifferent he was to all this. He felt cold, pitiless, and he realized then what real hatred meant. The discovery shocked him.

"Will you have some?" he asked vaguely, looking round. No one said anything, and he looked helplessly at Emily for guidance.

"I want a cup," she said. "Never mind about anyone else." He poured out the tea and handed the cup to her.

"I think perhaps . . . I'll have a cup myself," he said apologetically.

Emily stirred her tea, added sugar and sipped. Then she nodded to George. "It's good tea."

"Don't you think?" Max said, glancing at Cora.

Emily's hard little eyes snapped. "We don't have to talk to her," she said. "It's a question of how it's to be done."

Cora pointed to George. "He did it," she said breathlessly. "You can't blame me. He did it. He shot Crispin."

Emily smiled. "We know all about that," she said. "He told us." She looked Cora up and down. "No one can harm us without paying. You were in it as deep as Sydney. You must go too." She glanced at Poncho. "Arrange it, and he quick. An accident with an electric iron . . . if there is one here."

Poncho came back after a few minutes with a portable ironing board, an electric iron and some underwear he had found in Cora's bedroom.

"Everything," he said, with a triumphal grin.

He worked quickly and methodically, setting up the ironing board and plugging in the iron. Then he produced a penknife and began working on the flex.

Emily noticed George's blank gaze.

"He's clever," she said, smiling "Ill a moment that iron won't be safe to touch." She leaned forward. "They'll find her some time, and they'll think she died because of a faulty flex. The joke is, it will be because of a faulty flex."

Cora crossed the room slowly and stood before George. Her eyes were dark with terror.

"You're not going to let them do this to me, are you?" she said. "You can't do it." Then her voice suddenly rose to a scream. "George! You can't let them. Don't you understand what they're doing? They're going to kill me. Save me! I'll do anything! I swear I'll do anything if you'll only stop them! You can do it! You're big enough! Save me, George!" And she rushed forward, putting her arms round his neck, her face against his. "I'll never leave you, George," she went on wildly. "Forgive me! Don't let them touch me."

The feel of her slight body against his, the smell of her perfume, her hair against his face suddenly weakened him. He felt sick and faint.

Nick snatched her away from him, twisting her arms behind her.