“Hello,” Sydney said quietly. “How’s the bold warrior?”
George blinked at him. Sydney was standing in the doorway, dressed in the dirty white dressing-gown, his lean, hard face cold and expressionless.
“I must have fainted,” George said, moving over to an armchair and sitting down. He examined his hand uneasily. “Did you do this?”
Sydney grunted. “Don’t worry about that,” he said casually. “I shoved a few stitches in it. It’ll be all right.”
“Stitches? You put stitches in it?”
“Why not? In my racket you get used to razor-cuts. Did you see what they did to Cora?”
“They beat her… didn’t they?” George went cold. “They certainly did. Nice mob. They’ll pay for this, George.”
George held his head in his hands. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why did she do it? She threw wine in his face.”
“Never mind why she did it,” Sydney said. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” George said, no longer caring what Sydney would say or do.
“That’s fine,” Sydney said, his eyes glowing like live coals. “I’m glad about that. You and me are going to fix Mr bloody Crispin.”
“Crispin?”
“The nice looking lad who beat Cora. She told me what happened. She was tight, but that doesn’t matter. No one’s going to touch her without getting into trouble. I’d handle him myself, only you and me can do it better.”
“Do what better?” George asked. He remembered the two Greeks and their razors, and he felt a little sick.
“We’ll see him tonight. You and me. He’s got a bungalow at a place called Copthorne. It’s not far. He’ll be down there today. Well, we’ll go down, too, and we’ll take a cane. It’s a lonely place, and we won’t be disturbed. We’ll see how he likes a heating. That’s what we’ll do.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to complain to the police?” George asked, in sudden fright. “They’re dangerous. Look what they did to me.”
“When you were in the States,” Sydney said, cold cruelty in his eyes, “did you go to the police?”
George waved his hands nervously. “That was different,” he said. “No one went to the cops in those days. It’s different now.”
“No, it isn’t,” Sydney said. “This is something personal. We’ll be dangerous too. We’ll take your gun.”
George stiffened. “No, we won’t!” he said. “I’m not doing a thing like that. That’s how accidents happen.”
“Oh yes, you are, George,” Sydney said, wandering across the room. “You don’t have to load it. Crispin will fall apart just to see the gun. I’m not suggesting you kill him. I don’t like murder myself. Feel like getting the gun now?”
Again George was going to refuse, when he suddenly thought of the blond man’s sneering smile He thought of the two Greeks creeping towards him with their razors. With the Luger in his hands, they would have been terrified. A smouldering anger—something he had never before experienced—urged him to seek revenge. Cora’s shrieks still rang in his ears.
He got to his feet. “All right,” he said, “but I’m not loading the gun.”
“I’ll come with you,” Sydney said. “Come and talk to me while I dress.”
George followed him into a tiny bedroom.
“Who is this Crispin?” he asked, leaning against the wall.
“I used to fool around with him,” Sydney returned, slipping his blue shirt over his head. “Keep this under your hat. He knocks off cars in a big way. There’s bags of money in that game.” He glanced quickly at George and went on, “I chucked it after a hit. Got too hot for me. Cora hates the guy. He doesn’t know she’s my sister. He’ll have a surprise when he sees me—and you.” He was dressed now. “You’d better have a wash. Those cuts on your face aren’t deep, but you look a bit of a mess. Those Greeks know how to use a razor all right.”
He took George into the grubby little bathroom. George stared at himself in the mirror. A long strip of plaster ran down the side of his face, and another strip was above his ear. He rinsed his face, getting rid of the blood smears. There was blood, too, on his coat and collar.
“I look a sight,” he said, suddenly secretly proud of himself. He looked tough and frightening: a real gangster.
“I’ll find you a scarf,” Sydney said. “You can change when you get to your place.”
“Where’s Cora?” George asked, drying his face on a grimy towel.
“Asleep,” Sydney said indifferently. “She’s got weals on her hack as thick as my finger.”
George flinched. His anger blazed up.
“Let’s go,” he said.
It was only seven-thirty by the time they reached George’s place, off the Edgware Road. The house was silent: no one was up. George took Sydney to his room and closed the door. While Sydney sat on the bed, whistling softly, George changed his shirt, put on another suit and had a hurried shave.
In the familiar surroundings of his room his anger died down. He was now beginning to realize what it meant to live dangerously. He had read so much about it in the past; had constructed scenes in which he had experienced breathless adventures, fought and killed men, and had gloried in it all. But this was different. This was something out of his control. He knew that if in one of his fantasies he were trapped by desperate men, he would not be killed. He would be able to create a situation that would save him at the last moment. But this business was different. If that Greek, Nick, had wanted to kill him, he could have done so. It was just sheer luck that he hadn’t cut George’s throat.
George suddenly hated the thought of what was going to happen that night. He had been angry, but now, back in his room, the thought of fresh danger gave him a sick, nervous feeling in his stomach. To beat this man Crispin was primitive justice, but it was hound to lead to trouble. If they did succeed in catching Crispin alone, did Sydney really think that Crispin wouldn’t get his own back on them later?
As he rinsed his razor, he considered whether he should refuse to go with them, but immediately saw the impossibility of this If he wished to keep Cora’s regard—and there was no question about that—he would have to go through with it. All he had to do was to threaten Crispin with the gun. Well, that was all right. He could do that. There would be no danger in that, as the gun wasn’t loaded. He was confident that Crispin would obey him if he had the gun in his hand. It was an ugly-looking weapon. It would scare him stiff. Besides, Sydney would be there.
“Getting cold feet?” Sydney asked in a sneering voice.
George started. He had forgotten that Sydney was in the room. He had been so busy with his thoughts that Sydney had gone completely out of his mind. He turned.
“Of course not,” he said. “I’ve been in tighter spots…” and then he stopped.
Sydney was holding the Luger carelessly in his hand.
“Where did you get that from?” George said, suddenly angry. “I’ll trouble you not to go to my drawers without asking me.”
Sydney smiled. “Keep your wool on,” he said, examining the Luger with interest. “I only wanted to satisfy my curiosity.”
“Well, give it here, then,” George demanded, crossing the room. “I suppose Cora told you where I kept it.” He decided that he would hide the gun in another place in the future.
“She did,” Sydney returned, his finger curling round the trigger. “What’s the matter with it? Is it jammed?”
“No,” George said shortly. “It’s stiff, that’s all. The trigger wants adjusting. Here, let me have it.”