More Deadly Than The Male (15 page)

Of course, to make matters worse, Sydney got three orders. At the end of the evening, when they decided to go home, Sydney joined him at the corner.

"How many?" he said, looking at George with a jeering expression in his eyes.

George was tempted to lie, but he knew Sydney would demand to see the completed order forms, so he just shrugged and admitted he hadn't had any luck.

"Well, I got three," Sydney said in triumph. "What's the matter with you? Got something on your mind?"

Of course he had something on his mind, but he couldn't tell Sydney about that.

"It's just the luck of the game," he said, envious and disappointed. "I've worked through a lot of dead calls, and I'll get a hatch of orders tomorrow."

"You hope," Sydney said, and laughed.

Monday wasn't much better. He was in a fever of excitement all the morning and afternoon. When Sydney and he reached Wembley at four o'clock, and as soon as Sydney was safely out of the way in one of the little houses, George rushed to the telephone box.

"'Ullo?" said a man's voice in George's ear.

"Could I speak to Miss Brant?" George asked, trying to imagine what the man looked like from the sound of his voice.

"'Oo?"

"Miss Brant," George repeated, raising his voice. "Not now, yer can't. I got no one to send."

"But I must speak to Miss Brant," George said firmly. "Well. I dunno. I can't leave the shop, now can I? It means going hup the stairs. I ain't good at stairs, either . . . not at my age, I ain't. Can't you ring later? The missus'll be hack then."

"No, I can't," George said, thoroughly irritated. "I understood that Miss Brant could use your 'phone. I want to speak to her." 

"Orl right, orl right," the voice said crossly. "I'll give 'er a yell. 'Ang on, will yer?"

George waited. It was insufferably hot in the telephone box, and he pushed the door open. He could hear voices faintly over the line. Once he heard the voice that had spoken to him shout, "Two pounds of greens, six pounds of spuds and a pound of onions . . ." And he swore under his breath. The old devil wasn't getting Cora at all, he thought savagely. He was serving his rotten customers! But there was nothing else to do but wait. Time was going. He really ought to be on the job. Well, he wasn't going to hang up now he'd got so far. He would have to work a hit longer to make up for losing time like this. Oh, come on! Come on! he thought furiously. Why don't you hurry!

He waited nearly five minutes, then he heard the voice bawl, "Emmie Emmie someone wants that Brant girl on the blower . . ."

"That Brant girl!" How dare a greengrocer talk like that! Well, anyway, it wouldn't he long now. Any second he would be hearing her voice.

"You doing your selling by 'phone?" Sydney asked.

George nearly jumped out of his skin, he whirled round, his face turning crimson, to find Sydney lolling against the telephone booth, watching him with suspicious, calculating eyes.

"I shan't be a minute," George spluttered, not knowing which way to look. "I'll be right out," and he tried to pull the door to, but Sydney had wedged it hack with his foot.

"What's all this telephoning about?" Sydney asked. "Yesterday and now today. I thought you were a keen salesman."

"Hello?" Cora said in George's ear.

George looked from Sydney to the telephone mouthpiece. Sweat was running down his face. He didn't know what to do.

"Hello? Who's there?" Cora asked, her voice snappy and impatient.

He daren't speak to her with Sydney listening. Damn the rotted George thought desperately. Why can't he go away!

"'Phoning your best girl?" Sydney asked, a sneering grin on his face. "I wish you could see your mug! You look like a pickpocket caught in the act. Well, I won't embarrass you; only time's getting on, you know."

"Hello? Hello? Hello?" Cora was saying.

George waved Sydney away: an imploring, frantic gesture. Shrugging, Sydney slouched off, and as the booth door closed, a sharp click sounded in George's ear. Cora had hung up!

Sydney was still hanging about a few yards away, watching George through the glass panels. It was no good! He didn't dare risk dialling the number again. He was sick with disappointment and frustrated rage. Damn Sydney! Damn the greengrocer! Oh, damn everything!

Tuesday and Wednesday were as had. Both times when George rang he was told that Cora was out. In desperation, he risked calling her on Thursday morning before he went to the King's Arms, and after some delay Sydney's voice floated over the line. Hurriedly, as if he had trodden on a snake, George hung up. Five days now and he hadn't spoken to her or seen her. And he had thought he was never going to be lonely again! It was worse now: far worse.

Before, he didn't have this clamouring for the flesh, wasn't tormented by thoughts of loving Cora, holding her in his arms, feeling her smooth cheek against his lips.

He had to do something! This couldn't go on. His work was suffering. He had only earned thirty bob in five days, while Sydney had made himself seven quid. It infuriated George to hear the way Sydney sneered at seven pounds.

"Chick feed," he said, when George handed him the money order received from Head Office. "It's almost time I slung this job in. Seven nicker for slogging my guts out every evening. In the old days I'd do a job that'd take me an hour or so, and pick up twenty quid as easy as kiss your hand."

"What Job?" George asked curiously.

Sydney brooded. "When things cool off a bit," he said at last, "maybe I'll let you in my racket. But right now I've got to keep out of sight," and then, for no apparent reason, he flew into a vicious rage and went off, looking almost murderous.

The more George saw of Sydney the more uneasy he became. The fellow was unbalanced. Perhaps he really was cracked. These sudden vicious tempers, the vicious, fanatical look in his eyes, the mysterious hinting about "his racket" worried George. The thought of Sydney's razor worried George even more.

Well, he certainly wasn't going to mix himself up in Sydney's racket. He knew instinctively that it was crooked. Sydney was the kind of fellow who'd land up in jail. Jail bait, that's what he was!

In spite of his instinctive fear of Sydney, George was determined to speak to Cora the next day, Friday. Even if it meant doing no work at all and staying in a telephone box all the evening, he was going to talk to her! He wanted her to spend Saturday evening with him. He planned to take her to a movie and then to dinner somewhere. He had put away the eleven pounds that Sydney had got from Robinson, earmarked for this outing. He was determined to stand treat: he wasn't going to have any nonsense from Cora about paying for herself. And what was more, when they met he would kiss her: he'd show her he was a man of action. 

To be certain of speaking to Cora, he decided not to work that evening. He told Sydney he wasn't feeling too well. He said he'd drunk some bad beer: it had upset his stomach.

"I think I'll stay at home," he said, avoiding Sydney's probing eyes. "I don't feel like going out on the job tonight."

"Please yourself," Sydney said, shrugging; "it's your loss. You'd better pull up your socks. You've only taken one order this week."

George didn't need to be reminded of this unpleasant fact, but he assured himself that once he had seen Cora he would be able to settle down to work again. Selling hooks demanded all your attention. How could he concentrate when he was longing so much to hear Cora's voice?

As soon as he was sure that Sydney had taken himself off to Wembley, he left his room and hurried to the call-box at the end of his street. At first the line was engaged, then he dialled a wrong number, then he found he hadn't any more pennies, and he had to go to the newspaper shop across the street to change a shilling. When he got back there was a woman in the box, and she kept him waiting nearly ten minutes. He had ceased to be impatient. He was now obstinately dogged: determined, whatever happened, to speak to Cora. If it took him a hundred years to speak to her, he wouldn't mind, so long as he succeeded.

At last the woman left the call-box, and George took her place. There was a ghastly smell of cheap scent and stale perspiration in the box: it was like an oven, too. But George didn't care. He dialled the greengrocer's number and waited.

" 'Ullo?" asked the irritatingly familiar voice.

They went through the same dreary performance: the greengrocer wanting to know " 'ow I can leave the bloomin' shop?" and George coldly determined that the greengrocer should call Cora to the telephone.

"She's in 'er bawth," the greengrocer said after a wait of nearly a quarter of an hour, and he hung up before George could leave a message.

There were three people waiting outside the telephone box by now. They were all glaring at George, and when he came out one of the women muttered, "And about time, too. Some people think public telephones are private property!"

George didn't care what they said or thought. He walked over to the King's Arins, had a pint, avoided conversation with Gladys— by this time he was almost hysterical with frustrated temper—and returned to the telephone box half an hour later.

Again he had to wait while a man finished his conversation. Watching him through the glass, George guessed he was talking to his girl. There was a fatuous, smug expression on his face, and he talked for a good ten minutes.

When George finally got through to the greengrocer's again, the rough voice nearly snapped his head off.

"Look 'ere," he said violently. "I got better things to do than answer bloomin' telephones like this. I'll 'ave to complain if this goes on much more. You've been ringing up every day this week!"

Complain! That'd mean Sydney would hear about it! He might even guess that it was George making the call. It might give him a clue that it was George who had spent the night with Cora. The memory of the gleaming razor blade became vividly unpleasant.

"But I haven't even spoken to her," George protested. "I can't help it if she's always out, can I?"

"'Ere, miss, 'ere," the greengrocer suddenly bawled. "This 'ere bloke's on the blower again. Every day 'e's been oil . . . it's got to stop."

"Hullo," Cora said. "Yes?"

George knew she was in a temper all right, but it was so marvellous to hear her voice—even if it did sound snappy—that he didn't care.

"This is George," he said, aware that he had begun to tremble violently.

"Have you been ringing every day?" she harked at him.

"I'm afraid I have," he returned in studiedly gentle tones, quite sick with fear that she was going to be unkind.

"Well, couldn't you have been a hit brighter?" she demanded. "You've caused a lot of bother as it is."

"I'm terribly sorry," George said, "but I did want to speak to you."

"What do you want?"

In that kind of temper it was quite likely she would refuse to go out with him. But it had to be now or never. Now he had at last caught her. He couldn't just fawn and cringe and go away.

"I—I was wondering . . . if you haven't anything to do tomorrow . . . I mean, would you like to come out with me? . . . that is, if you're not busy or something."

"What do you mean . . . or something?" The waspish note was still in her voice.

"Well, you know . . . if you're not going out with anyone else."

"Oh, I see." 

There was a long pause while he waited for her to add anything to this, but she didn't, so he screwed up his courage, and, knowing that he was inviting a direct snub and refusal, said, "Well, do you think you could?"

She still tried to make him pay for causing a bother on the telephone by appearing to be dense. "Could I . . . what?"

"Could you come out with me? I—I thought we might do a movie and have dinner somewhere."

"I can't waste my money on movies," she said shortly. "But this is my treat. I—I'm inviting you . . ."

"Oh."

There was another long pause, then he said, "What would you like to see? There's a good movie at the Empire . . . Spencer Tracy."

"I don't think I can go to a movie," she said, a gentler note in her voice. "I'm busy tomorrow."

It was his turn to say "Oh" now.

"I could cone to dinner "

He brightened at once.

"Oh, good! That's fine. Where shall we go?"

"I know a place."

"All right. Then when shall we meet?"

"Eight o'clock at the pub opposite Joe's." Now that she had made up her mind to go out with him she was taking charge of the outing. George didn't care. He had won his point about paying for the outing or at least he thought it was going to be all right—and if she wanted to say where they were to meet and where they were to dine, it was all right with him.

Even that didn't detract from his happiness. At last!

After all those beastly hours, trying . . . trying . . . trying to get her, he had finally succeeded, and she was coming out with him again!

He drew a deep breath and came out into the fresh air, feeling fine.

Cora, with George tagging along a step behind, turned off the main road into a narrow street, lined on one side by hacks of shops, and on the other side by a brick wall, along the top of which bristled pieces of broken glass, set in cement. At the end of this street she turned the corner and walked down an even more sordid street of small, shabby shops. A group of dark-skinned, hare-headed men stood at the corner; they glanced at George, and then concentrated on Cora. They stopped talking and eyed her, their faces expressionless, their eyes hot and intent. Cora went on her way, her small head held high, unaware of their interest.

They came to a double-fronted shop, the big windows hung with yellow muslin curtains. The glass panel of the door was painted green. Gilt letters, "Restaurant", crawled diagonally across the green expanse.