“It’s a club in Mortimer Street, not far from you. They’re not on the blower, otherwise I’d’ve rung ’em,” Sydney had said.
But they had been on the blower. He had seen for himself the telephone booth in the Club.
Sydney must have known that. But if he hadn’t lied about the telephone, there would have been no reason for George to go to Joe’s and leave a message for Cora. And that would have meant that he would never have met her, never have fallen in love with her, never have been a besotted fool and never have allowed himself to be persuaded to commit murder.
The more he thought about it, the plainer it became. The story about the key and Cora not being able to get into the flat had been part of the plot. It was so simple that it had never crossed his mind that he was walking into a trap.
What devils these two were! The trouble they had taken to trap him into murder. He remembered the briefcase full of money. There must have been five or six hundred pounds in that case. That was the motive, of course! They had trapped him into killing Crispin so that they could steal the money! He sat up in bed, his eyes wild. Then the scene in the restaurant had been part of the plot. Cora had deliberately staged that business to fool him into believing they had no other motive in visiting Crispin but for revenge. And they had fooled him. Was it possible that she had allowed herself to be flogged like that just to fool him? There was no doubt that she had been flogged. He had heard her shrieks and had seen the marks. The red, bruised, broken skin was something you couldn’t fake. Had she really accepted such a beating in order to provide a false motive just to fool him.
He floundered in a pit of doubt, turning the facts over in his mind. Then he remembered something she had said to Sydney when they had returned to the flat, just before he had fainted, “You said he wouldn’t touch me!” He remembered, too, how nervous she had been, and that after she had thrown the wine in Crispin’s face she had begged him not to let Crispin touch her. It looked as if Sydney had also double- crossed Cora. He had trapped her into picking a fight with Crispin, assuring her that she would come to no harm.
The more George thought about it, the calmer he became. It was an utterly fantastic story, but he felt confident that if he kept his head and explained everything very carefully, and in its proper sequence, the police would believe him.
The face of Little Ernie suddenly swam into his mind, blotting out the vision of hope he had so carefully constructed.
Cora had practically told Little Ernie that George was going to get even with Crispin.
“I had a little fun,” she had said. “Crispin’s share is on ice at the moment, isn’t it, George?”
And Little Ernie had looked uneasy. He would remember the conversation, and when he heard about Crispin’s death, he would go to the police.
George began to sweat again. What would the police say after they had listened to Little Ernie? And then he thought of the whip. What had happened to the whip? Cora had been diabolically clever in the way she had persuaded him to buy the whip. So much for her promises. Well, he would know another time—if there was another time. If the police found the whip, they would trace it to him. The old Jew would remember him. He had been so anxious to get Cora back to the flat that he had behaved like a madman. He put his hand to the strips of plaster on his face. The Jew would remember those strips. How easy it would be for the police to spot him! The Jew would give the police a full description of him It would tally with the description that Little Ernie would give them. No one had seen Cora. She had kept away from the shop. The whip had been left in the bungalow. It was an obvious clue. He hadn’t even removed the price ticket. It wouldn’t take them more than a few hours to trace it, and then his description would be in the newspapers.
He lay back in bed, his throat dry and his heart pounding. He felt he could explain everything except the whip. It proved that he was planning revenge. Without the whip it would be Little Ernie’s word against his.
What a fool he had been! Why hadn’t he taken the whip with him? Why had he run out of the bungalow and pounded down the lane without making sure that he had left no fingerprints or anything that could incriminate him?
He stumbled out of bed and stood trembling on the cold linoleum. This wouldn’t do, he thought, wringing his hands, and he crushed down his fear. It was twenty minutes to seven. Ella would be in with his tea in a little while. He mustn’t let her suspect that there was anything wrong. She must find him as she always found him, sleepy and in bed. When she had gone he would get dressed and take a train to Three Bridges, which was the nearest station to Copthorne. It wasn’t likely that anyone would discover Crispin’s body for some time. With luck, no one ever went to the bungalow except Crispin. He would have to be very careful, of course. He thought of the Child’s Self-Educator. He could pretend that he thought there was a child in the bungalow, and he would go up to the door and ring the bell. If no one answered, he would break in and get the whip.
He became calm again. It was all right so long as you kept your head and used your brain. Once he had the whip he could go to the police and explain everything, but it wouldn’t be safe until he had it.
A soft scratching at the door startled him; then his face softened. He opened the door and let Leo in. He got hack into bed, and the cat jumped up and settled down close to him. It began to purr.
George stroked its long hair. “You’re all I’ve got, Leo,” he said softly. “There’s no one else, and even you can’t help me.”
The regular, contented noise the cat made soothed him. Very gently, he stroked the top of its head, and it stretched out a paw and touched his face, as if understanding that he was alone, in need of affection and sympathy.
Later, Ella came in. She put down the cup of tea and walked across the room to pull up the blind.
When she saw his face, she gave a little scream. “Why, Mr George,” she said in horror. “What have you done to your poor face?”
“I got into a razor fight,” George said after a moment’s hesitation. “That’s why I stayed out last night. They’re only scratches, Ella. Don’t look so frightened.”
She continued to gape at him. “A razor fight?” she repeated. “Oh, Mr George!”
Just to see the admiration and awe in her eyes was like a tonic to George’s crushed, frightened ego.
“It’s nothing,” he said carelessly. “I’ve been in tighter jams before. Mark you, I did have an anxious moment, but I taught the fellow a lesson.”
“How did it happen?” Ella asked. “Who was he?”
“Be a good girl and don’t ask questions,” George returned, suddenly cautious. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone. The fellow got hurt, and I don’t want to get into trouble. Mind you, he started it, but I did give him a terrific hiding. Now don’t ask any more questions, and if anyone asks if I was in last night, will you say I was?”
Ella, her eyes like marbles, promised.
“You’re a good sort, Ella,” George said. “I think I’ll go out and get something for my head. It aches like mad. The chemist will be open by the time I get dressed.”
Obviously Ella wanted to hear more details, but George seemed so ill and worried that she felt a sudden pity for him.
“Shall I put on your bath, Mr George?” she asked.
“No, I won’t wait,” he said quickly. “I want to fix this head.”
As soon as she had gone, he got up and had a quick, uncertain shave. It was difficult, with the plaster in the way, but he managed somehow. He dressed and gave Leo some milk
“I’ll have to get you some food tonight, old chap,” he said, rubbing the cat’s head. “I’ve been pretty busy, but I’ll bring you something nice tonight.”