“Sit down. The sun will do you good.”
The Hebrew and the two Greeks sat down near her. They looked self-conscious, worried. The Hebrew still wept.
“The way you go on!” the woman said impatiently. “I’m his mother. Shouldn’t I be the one to weep?”
The Hebrew took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes.
“You’re hard, Emily,” he said. “What a burial to give a son!”
The woman, Emily, snapped her thick forgers. “He wouldn’t mind. He didn’t believe in God. Is that what’s worrying you?” She brooded, tearing the blade of grass with her sharp teeth. “What did you expect me to do? Leave him there for the police to find? They would be crawling over us like flies on bad meat in no time. Haven’t they done enough harm?”
When he didn’t say anything, she went on. “Who do you think did it?”
“Vengeance is mine, said the Lord,” the Hebrew said, pulling at his long, straggly moustache.
“You don’t fool me,” Emily said. “I know what you’re thinking, don’t I, Max?”
“Do You?”
The two Greeks had lit cigarettes. They were not listening to this conversation. They lolled back on their elbows, their dark faces raised to the sun, their eyes closed.
But Max listened. He sat bolt upright, his long, thin legs crossed like a working tailor, his bowler hat very straight on his pear-shaped head.
“We don’t have to worry about the police,” Emily went on. “He wouldn’t have liked it. We can find out who did it, and we can settle the score, can’t we?”
Max looked across the garden. “There’s the money,” he said. “He should never have brought it here. Seven hundred pounds!”
“Stop worrying about the money,” Emily said sharply. “Is that what you’re crying about?”
“The gun worries me,” Max said, not listening to her. “A razor, yes, but a gun!… It’s someone we don’t know.”
“Well, we can find out, can’t we?” Emily persisted.
“Does the whip mean anything?”
“It must do. It’s new. Crispin wouldn’t buy a thing like that.”
There was a long pause. A bee droned across the hot garden and lighted on a hollyhock.
“Who was that girl? The one Crispin thrashed?” Emily said, plucking another blade of grass and chewing it.
“I was thinking about her, too,” Max said. “The whip might tie up with her. Do you mean that?”
“It could do. And the big man. Who was he?”
Max shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen either before. There was something odd about the way that girl behaved. She wasn’t drunk. She was faking.”
“Crispin was a fool to have touched her. She might have complained to the police.”
“Why didn’t she?”
“Yes, why?”
There was another long pause while they brooded.
“Maybe they came down here for revenge; found the money and killed Crispin to steal it,” Emily said at last.
“How could they know Crispin had this place? No one knew that he came here.”
“Sydney Brant knew,” Emily said thoughtfully.
“Brant? He hasn’t been around for months. Besides, after Crispin burnt him, he was too scared to come near the place. This is nothing to do with him; but the girl and the big man maybe, I don’t know…”
“Well, we can’t waste time. We must settle this business. Whoever did it will have to pay.”
“They’ll pay all right.” Max’s harsh voice floated on the still air, and George shivered. These people, so calculating, so ordinary to look at, plotting revenge in the hot sunshine, had a nightmare quality that made his flesh creep. “We’ll have to find out about the big man. We’ll have to find out where the whip came from. Once we know that, it’ll be easy!”
Emily brooded. “Well, trace it. The price ticket will help.” She looked across at the Greek, Nick. “Get the whip,” she went on. “I want to examine it.”
With his blood freezing in his heart, George watched the Greek get up and wander into the bungalow. He was away a few minutes and then he came to the door.
“It is not there,” he called.
“The whip,” Emily said, snapping her fingers impatiently. “Don’t keep me waiting. Bring me the whip.”
“It is not there, I tell you,” Nick said indifferently. Emily and Max exchanged glances.
“Find it for the fool,” she said.
Max got up and walked stiffly into the bungalow. Nick shrugged. He came hack and sat down, a frown of irritation on his flat, ugly face.
“He will not find it,” he said sullenly. “It is gone.”
Emily said nothing, but her fat hands squeezed into fists.
Max called from the window. There was an urgent note in his voice. “Emily!”
The woman got up and stared at the gesticulating figure at the window.
“I told you,” Nick said. “It is gone,” and he lolled hack on his elbows and closed his eyes.
14
A week went by. As each day gave way to night, and night gave way to another day, George’s fears receded. He was not, after all, going to be hunted by the police. The murder was to remain a secret shared only by Cora, Sydney and himself, and Emily, Max and the two Greeks. The vast police organization, trained and equipped to track down a murderer, was not going to swing into action against him He had read so often about police methods, and knew that once the hunt was on, the fugitive seldom escaped. It was the thought of this efficiency and the vast man-hunting machine that had frightened him.
As long as no one discovered Crispin’s body, he would be safe. He had only to keep away from Russell Square and the Soho district to avoid being discovered by Emily and her mob. How could they possibly find him, unless he was stupid enough to visit their territory? They had no organization to trace him. They did not have thousands of uniformed, highly trained men to keep a constant watch for him. They could not circulate his photograph or his description in every newspaper in the country. How, then, could they hope to find him—so long as he was careful?
Although, as the days went by, he began to settle down to his ordinary routine life, the murder continued to prey on his mind. He no longer thought in terms of violence, nor did he read his American pulp magazines. The pictures of the bruised faces of the gangsters after the third degree, the bloodstained, bullet-riddled corpses, the gang battles, which before had thrilled him, now made him feel sick. He had been purged of violence. He had seen a man die violently, and now he had no further interest in reading about murder.
He had bad dreams, too. Continuous nightmares, that began as soon as he fell asleep, drained his vitality. One dream constantly recurred. It was a dream of terrible intensity. He dreamed that Cora came into his room, and he thought she leaned over him with the fainting desire in her eyes that inflamed his blood. And as he reached out to seize her, she seemed to waver before his eyes and slowly transform into the tall, elegant figure of Crispin—Crispin in all his horror: the twisted grimace of terror and blood welling thickly from a great hole in his chest.
George found also that he had to make a tremendous effort to go out each evening to work. He had lost his hearty manner with his prospective buyers, and they now seemed suspicious of his strained, white face and his brooding eyes. He had to make twice as many calls, and even then he sold fewer sets of hooks.
Saturday afternoon found him restless and uneasy. He was sitting alone in his room by the window, and his mind kept dwelling on that fateful, yet marvellous Saturday afternoon when he had first met Cora. It was about this time that Sydney had telephoned. Even now the house was empty except for Leo, who was somewhere in the basement. George thought of Cora, and his body cried out for her. Somehow, the murder now seemed trivial beside the clamouring desire that was torturing him, had been torturing him for the past days. At this moment he did not care how badly she had treated him. If she came into the room now and offered to be nice to him, he would have forgiven her everything.