In the network of narrow streets that he behind Shaftesbury Avenue there is one particular street where taxi drivers leave their cabs while they have a meal after the theatre rush.
It was to this street that George made his way. He moved along Piccadilly, past the Piccadilly Hotel, threading his way through the crowd of men and women lingering outside the hotel for a final word before dispersing to their homes. He stood on the kerb, his back turned to the darkened windows of Swan & Edgar, while he waited impatiently for the traffic lights to stop the flow of traffic towards Regent Street. There was an apprehensive feeling, like a lead weight, in his stomach. He had conceived a desperate, reckless plan. It depended for success on one thing: the strength of his own nerves. A week ago he would have shied away from such an idea as any person in their right mind would have shied away from touching a red-hot stove. It was the kind of thing he had read about, the kind of desperate act that, at one time, American thugs used to commit in the wild, dangerous days of prohibition. It was a plan conceived by desperation, the only possible solution of Cora’s demand.
At first he had thought of breaking into one of the big stores, like Selfridges or Swan & Edgar. Here, he knew, he would be able to steal some women’s clothes. But even if he succeeded in breaking into the store, he had still to select the right clothes, the right size, the right match. Cora had said she wanted a complete outfit. It was no use making a mess of it. She must have something that she could put on, complete to the last button, and that went for hat, shoes, stockings and hag as well as the clothes. He couldn’t possibly go from counter to counter picking the right things. That was out of the question.
There was only one thing to do. He had to find a girl of Cora’s size and take from her her clothes and everything that went with her outfit. Only in that way would he be sure that he had forgotten nothing, that everything fitted, that everything matched.
His great shoulders hunched, his head down, he walked across the Circus, pausing for a moment under the statue of Eros, before gaining a foothold on the crowded pavement of Shaftesbury Avenue. He went on past the Windmill Theatre into Archer Street, where chorus girls in their street clothes were coming out of the stage door.
The next street brought him to a long line of taxis. He slowed his pace, looking sharply at each taxi as he passed. They were all empty, and through the lighted door of an eating-place a few yards farther on came the sound of men talking and laughing. Without stopping he glanced through the glass door. A crowd of drivers sat over their food at long, wooden tables in a room hazy with tobacco smoke.
He stopped before the eating-house, turned and began to wander hack again. He continued on to where the first taxi headed the long row of deserted vehicles.
Once more he paused. He fished out a cigarette and lit it. As he did so, he glanced up and down the street, his eyes watchful, his face expressionless.
Satisfied that there was no one coming, he got quickly into the driver’s seat. It was some time since he had driven a car. His feet fumbled, feeling for the accelerator, the foot- brake and the clutch. His hand grasped the gear lever, and pushing out the clutch, he manoeuvred the lever through the gate. It worked smoothly, and he was surprised and pleased that he made no mistake.
This begins it, he thought, his heart thumping against his side, and he pressed the starter. The engine growled, but nothing else happened. He caught his breath sharply, and stabbed at the starter again. The whirring, frustrated sound of the engine trying to start made a tremendous racket in the silent street.
His nerve wilted. In a few seconds they would be out after him. He cursed the engine feverishly as he stabbed at the starter again. Then he cursed himself. He hadn’t switched on! What a damn, stupid, frightened clod he was! He turned on the ignition with fumbling fingers, pressed the starter and immediately the engine sprang to life.
Somehow he got the cab moving, and turned the corner. He was now in such a fever that he clamped down on the accelerator, yet the cab moved slowly, making a terrific din. He clung to the wheel, his eyes bolting out of his head, terrified, wild. Then, as no one shouted after him, he gained control of his nerves and managed to change into second and then into top.
The cab went on. Ahead was Oxford Street. George swung blindly into the busy thoroughfare. He nearly collided with a bus, and he realized with alarm that he had crossed against the red traffic light. The bus driver shouted at him, but he accelerated and left the bus behind.
He was coming to Oxford Circus now. The lights changed to red when he was a few yards away, and he pulled up so sharply that he stalled the engine.
He sat in a heap, sweat running down his face, his ears pricked. He felt he was experiencing some horrible nightmare.
He became aware that cars behind him were blaring with their horns and klaxons. Without his noticing it, the traffic light had changed to green. Hurriedly he started the engine, forgetting he was still in gear. The taxi jumped forward and went hounding down the street like a startled frog.
People were staring at him from the pavement. Another taxi overtook him, and the driver leaned out: “Make it waltz, mate,” he pleaded as he passed. “You’ve done everything else.”
Gritting his teeth, George changed down. He turned right and drove on, past the BBC, up Portland Place and into Regent’s Park.
There was scarcely any traffic in the Park, and he became calmer. He must get used to this cab, he thought, before he ventured again into the wilderness of traffic lights and heavy traffic. He drove round the inner circle several times, stopping and starting, changing up and down, until he had regained some of his confidence. Then he stopped and lit a cigarette and tried to make a plan. He decided that he would go down Park Lane, along Piccadilly to Berkeley Square, up the square to Bruton Street, into New Bond Street and down into Piccadilly again. It was getting late, and his best chance was to catch some girl coming from a nightclub.
He would have to be quick, because the theft of the cab would be reported very soon and the police would be looking for it. He had, at the best, a half an hour in which to find the girl and get her out of the West End.
He started the cab again and headed for Park Lane. A number of people hailed him, as he drove along, hugging the kerb, but after a quick glance in their direction and seeing that they were all in parties, he kept on.
Without stopping, he drove along the route he had planned. His nerves began to ease as he went on. There seemed to be no unescorted girls waiting for a taxi, and he began to hope that the plan would fizzle out.
But as he drove down New Bond Street for a second time, he saw a girl standing on the kerb, and she waved to him.
One look was enough. She was about Cora’s build, and she was wearing a dark coat and skirt; a smart little hat was perched on her head, and as she waved at George a gold bangle glittered in the street light.
George pulled up, eyeing the girl, his mouth suddenly dry, his nerves tingling. The girl was a typical Mayfair deb—the kind of girl whose picture appeared regularly in the Bystander and Tatler, and who seemed to spend their lives either smiling vacantly at some sleek young man in tails and white tie at Lady Someone or other’s ball, or resting their hard little sterns on shooting- sticks while attending a shoot in Scotland.
“Chunks!” she shouted excitedly. “I’ve got one. Chunks, do come on!”
Oh, hell! George thought in a fever, she’s not alone! He wanted to engage gear and drive away, but the girl had already jerked open the cab door, and was standing looking over her shoulder at the open door of a building, partly obscured by the darkness.
“Do come on, Chunks,” she called again. She turned to George. “He won’t be a minute. I want to go to Highgate Village.”
At this moment a tall young man came running down the steps. “You are marvellous, Babs,” he said. “I don’t know how you do it. You’re just too nauseatingly efficient. Why couldn’t you let the porter find you a taxi?”
“I like doing things for myself,” the girl said.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” the young man asked. “I don’t mind. I don’t mind a hit.”
George stiffened. He looked quickly at the girl, willing her to refuse.
“Of course, I don’t,” she returned. “Besides, you always get a hit hectic in taxis, Chunks, and it’s too hot to wrestle with you all the way to Highgate.”
The young man giggled. “All right, darling,” he said. “Have it your own way. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks for a terrific evening,” she returned, climbing into the taxi.
The young man slammed the door.
“Manor House, Parkway,” he said to George. “Do you know it?”
George nodded, keeping his face in the shadow. He was shivering with excitement, and he let his clutch in with a jerk and roared away towards Hyde Park Corner. What a bit of luck! he thought. She’s just right. I’m sure she’s just right. Now, what’s the next step? Highgate Village lay beyond Hampstead Heath. That was a good spot to do what he had to do. At this hour it would be unlikely that anyone would be about. He gripped the steering wheel tightly. He had perfect faith and confidence in his gun. He felt positive that all he had to do was to point the gun at this girl and she would obey him There was nothing the Luger couldn’t get for him—and for Cora.
He turned up Park Lane and slid to a standstill as the traffic lights changed. As he sat waiting, he noticed a policeman at the corner, watching him, and his heart lurched. Were they looking for him already? The light turned to amber, and he hurriedly drove on.
He heard the girl singing to herself. She seemed a pretty lively type, he thought. Rich, and spoilt, without a care in the world. What a different world Cora lived in! He went on up Orchard Street, past Baker Street station and on towards Swiss Cottage.
It wouldn’t be long now. A distant clock chimed the quarter past midnight. He’d have to look slippy. Any moment now the police might be looking for him. He sent the cab whizzing up Fitzjohn’s Avenue, and in a few moments he was on the Heath.
A bright moon hung in the sky, lighting the trees and the scrub, throwing heavy black shadows. The place seemed completely deserted. He kept on until he saw a large clump of trees standing by the roadside, then he reached forward and cut the ignition. The engine died with a splutter and the cab coasted towards the trees, finally coming to a standstill in the deepest shadows. George sat for a moment, screwing up his nerve, then he climbed down stiffly onto the road.
The girl poked her head out of the window.
“Why are you stopping?” she asked. “Is there anything wrong?” She seemed quite calm and mildly interested.
George pulled his hat farther down over his eyes.
“Petrol,” he grunted. “I’m sorry, miss; I thought I’d filled up.”
“What a bore!” she exclaimed, opening the cab door. “Now, I suppose I’ll have to walk. Well, it’s not so far. What are you going to do?” George was startled that she should think of him. It was not what he expected from the upper classes.
“I’ll manage,” he said, his hand on the cold butt of the gun.
“If you like to walk along with me,” she said, “I’ll give you a tin of petrol. You’ve got miles to go hack.”
He wished feverishly that she hadn’t been like this. He wished she had flown into a temper and had upbraided him. It would have been so much easier. Now she was making him feel like a rat. His mind flew to Cora. He had to go through with it. He couldn’t return to the flat empty handed. He eyed the girl’s clothes furtively. They were expensive and well cut. He was sure they would fit Cora. He could imagine her face when she saw them: that thought decided him.
“Would you like to do that?” the girl was saying. She had opened her bag and was lighting a cigarette. “You can leave the cab…”
“Don’t be frightened,” George said, pulling the Luger from his hip pocket, and pointing it at her. “This is a—a hold-up.”
She stood staring at him, the match burning in her fingers. Her eyes went to the gun and then back at him. She flicked the match away.
“Oh,” she said, and stood very still.
George kept the muzzle of the gun pointing at her. He looked at her for signs of fear, a change of expression, any reaction which would give him courage to complete this beastly business. But her expression didn’t change. She seemed very calm, and she took the cigarette from her lips as if she were in a drawing-room full of her own kind.
“I’m not going to hurt you, if you do what you’re told,” George went on, making his voice gruff.
“Well, that’s a blessing,” she said quietly. “I most certainly don’t want to get hurt. What do you want?”
George gulped. This was going all wrong. She ought to be frightened, she ought to be grovelling before the menacing threat of the gun.
“I want your clothes,” he said.
A look of complete astonishment crossed her face. “My clothes?” she repeated. “Oh, come. How can you have my clothes? I want them myself; and besides, what in the world would you do with them? You can have my money—not that I’ve got much—but I really can’t let you have my clothes. Do he reasonable.”
“I see,” George heard himself say feebly. He stood baffled. The calm tone of her voice, her obvious disregard for the Luger, the quiet reasoning of her argument, flummoxed him. She opened her bag and took out several pound notes. “That’s all I’ve got. Four Pounds. I Suppose I’ll have to give it to you, but it’ll make me beastly short. You’ve no idea how close Daddy is. He won’t give me a penny more than twenty pounds a month. That’s not much, is it?”
“Well, no,” George said, gaping at her. “I suppose it isn’t.”
“Of course it isn’t,” the girl went on, holding out the money, “but I suppose you want it more than I do, otherwise you wouldn’t be taking such a risk. I do think you’re being awfully silly, you know. You could get six months’ hard for this.”
This was quite fantastic, George thought. I must control this situation. But he made no move to take the money. The girl was so reasonable, so unafraid. He wondered wildly what Frank Kelly would have done in such a situation. He would probably have shot the girl, but George couldn’t do that. Besides, he admired her. She’d got more guts than he had. He had the gun, but he was flustered, near panic, while she was cool and at ease.
“Look here,” he said desperately. “I’m sorry about this, but I’ve got to have your clothes. I don’t want to hurt you, but if you don’t give them to me, I’ll have to…”
She looked at him intently. “You’re not a sex maniac, or something, are you?” she asked, then, before he could say anything, she answered her own question. “No, I’m sure you’re not. Would you like to tell me why you want my clothes so badly. It sounds interesting.”
George stared at her helplessly.
“Do tell me,” she went on. “Let’s sit down.” She went over and sat on the running-board of the car. “I might be able to help you. Don’t look so worried. I’m not going to run away.”
Slowly, bemused, George lowered the gun. It was going all wrong. He knew now that he would never be able to attack this girl, he knew that he was not going to get her clothes, and the reaction of the excitement and strain made him feel giddy. He came over and sat limply down by her side.
“You’ve never done this kind of thing before, have you?” the girl went on. “Not that you’re had at it. You fooled me completely, but I think you’re a hit too kind really to make a success of it, aren’t you?”
George nodded miserably. “I suppose so,” he said. “No, I’ve never done this kind of thing before. But I was desperate. I’d better drive you home now. I—I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
“Well, you did give me a hit of a turn,” the girl admitted, “but now you’re being nice, I don’t mind. But do tell me why you wanted my clothes. I can understand you wanting my money, but why my clothes?”
George hesitated. Then he blurted out, “They were for my girl,” he said. “She’s got nothing to wear…”
“Your girl?”
George nodded. “I promised her I’d get her anything she wanted, and she thought I was bluffing. She said I could get her a complete outfit. She wanted it tomorrow morning.”
“How romantic!” the girl exclaimed. “Why, if I asked Chunks to get me a complete outfit in the middle of the night, the poor lamb would commit suicide. He’d do anything for me. I think I must really try this one on him.”
George clenched his fists. She didn’t understand! And he was so hoping that she would.
She noticed the change of his expression. “I say, I am sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to be funny. I suppose you’re pretty badly in love?”
Instantly George warmed to her. “Yes,” he said. “Is she very lovely?”
George nodded. “She’s marvellous,” he said, looking across the limitless expanse of the Heath. “You see, she doesn’t think I’ve got any guts. She—she won’t have much to do with me. She deliberately laid this trap, knowing that I couldn’t do anything about it. That’s why I tried.” He drew in a deep breath. “I—I stole that taxi.”
“Are you quite sure she’s the right one for you?” the girl asked, looking at him curiously. “She doesn’t sound your type at all.”
“She isn’t really,” George admitted, “but sometimes one can’t help that. A girl like that gets in one’s blood and there’s not much one can do about it. I can’t, anyway.”
The girl thought about this for a moment, then she nodded. “Yes, I can understand that,” she said; “but you ought to be careful. A girl like that could get you into a lot of trouble.”
Trouble? George thought bitterly. She had done that all right, if you could use such a word for murder.
“Well, I can’t help it,” he returned tonelessly. “I can’t do without her.”
The girl stood up. “All right,” she said. “I’ll help you. Take me home and I’ll give you an outfit. I’d like to surprise your girlfriend. I only wish I could be there to see her face when you give it to her.”
George stared at her, scarcely believing his ears.
“You’ll give me an outfit?” he repeated stupidly.
“Yes. I’d much sooner give you one than have to go home without a stitch.” She suddenly laughed. “I have to think of Daddy. It would give the poor darling a stroke; and think what the servants would say!”
Was this a trap? George wondered, suddenly suspicious. Was she going to get him to the house and then send for the police? Why should she give him the clothes? She had never seen him before. What was behind this?
She seemed to read his thoughts. "It’s all right,” she said, looking down at him “I’m not going to trap you into anything. It’s just that I have a lot of clothes and it pleases me to help you. What do you say?”
Still George hesitated. The suggestion was preposterous. He had set out as a desperate bandit, and now the girl he had planned to rob was actually going to give him what he wanted.
“Do make up your mind,” she said, throwing away her cigarette. “It’s getting late, and I ought to be home.”
He got slowly to his feet. “I don’t know what to say,” he muttered, looking at her uneasily. “It’s fantastic.”
“No, it isn’t. You’re nervous I’ll send for the police, aren’t you? I won’t. I promise.”
He remembered Cora’s promise. Women made promises lightly, he warned himself, but looking at her he was inclined to believe her. Anyway, if he became suspicious he had his gun… and he’d use it, too!
“Well, thanks,” he said. “I think it’s awfully decent of you,” and he opened the cab door for her.
“Has she my colouring?” the girl asked, sitting on the little turn-up seat so that she could talk to George as he drove. Cora had her colouring all right, but that was as far as the resemblance went. She had a better figure, more character in her face than this girl—not that this girl wasn’t nice looking. In a way, George preferred her to Cora. She hadn’t Cora’s sulky expression, nor the lines near her mouth. She had a better skin than Cora’s, and her hair was more beautiful. But that didn’t mean she was more exciting than Cora: she wasn’t. There was something about Cora which tortured George. He knew this girl would never torture him. "Yes,” he said. “She’s about your size, and she’s got hair like yours.”
“What do you think she’d like?” the girl asked. “Would she like a frock, or a costume, or a coat and skirt?”
Was she pulling his leg? George wondered. Had she got so many things to give away?
“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “I thought something like you’re wearing.”
She laughed. “Of course, that’s why you picked on me, wasn’t it? I think I’ve got something that’ll do. I don’t mind parting with clothes. It’s money I hate parting with. You see, Daddy pays for my clothes, and gives me pocket money for extras. He doesn’t seem to mind how many clothes I have, but he just won’t part with any more cash.”
George drove on, bewildered.
“We’re just here,” she called after a few minutes. “The gate’s on the right.”
George hesitated. Should he drive in? Should he risk a trap? Before he could make up his mind, he had reached the gates and had turned into a long, winding drive. But when he sighted a vast house through the trees, he slowed down and stopped the cab.
She jumped out. "Stay here,” she said. “I won’t be long.”
“All right,” he said uneasily, and watched her walk swiftly towards the house.
As soon as she was out of sight, George left the cab and moved off the drive into the garden. He couldn’t afford to trust her. He would give her ten minutes, and then he’d go. From where he stood, in the shadow of a big magnolia tree, he could see the house. He could see her run up the broad, white steps, open the door and go in. The ground floor was in darkness, but the windows of both the wings on the two upper floors showed lights.
He stood still, watching the house, his hand on the butt of his gun. A moment or so later a light sprang up in one of the centre windows, and he caught a glimpse of the girl as she passed to and fro before the window.
He relaxed slightly. Anyway, she wasn’t telephoning, he thought. How astounding! He was sure if anyone had tried to hold him up, he would have given them over to the police at the first possible opportunity.
Scarcely ten minutes had gone by before he saw her coming down the steps again. She held a bundle under her arm, and George, convinced of her sincerity at last, went to meet her.
“I bet you had a bad ten minutes,” she said, smiling at him. “I hope I haven’t been too long. You’ll find everything there. I duplicated the underclothes. The hat’s the only thing I wasn’t sure about. Does she wear hats?”
George blinked. “No,” he said. “How did you know?”
“I somehow felt she didn’t.” She pressed the bundle into his arms.
George stood gaping at her, a prickly sensation behind his eyes. “I—I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t really.”
“I’ve got to get in now. Good night, and please don’t hold up any more girls. You know, we don’t really like it.”
He watched her go, then he turned and stumbled hack to the taxi. People were kinds he thought. He would never have believed it. Never! To think that a girl like that, so rich, who had everything, should have been so damned decent, especially after the fright he had given her. It was terrific of her! It really was marvellous.
Driving back across the Heath, George had this girl Babs more in his mind than Cora. Cora had never been kind to him. She had always jeered at him. Babs was the only girl who had ever been decent to him except, of course, Gladys; but Gladys didn’t count. It was her job to be decent to everyone. But Babs—why, she could have called the police, she could have trapped him easily enough; but instead, she had given him the impossible. She had done more for him—a complete stranger—than Cora would ever do for him, even though Cora knew he loved her.
He wouldn’t wait for the morning, he decided. He would go into her bedroom and wake her up and lay the clothes on the bed for her to admire. He would stand over her and grin. It was something to grin about, wasn’t it? “You cheap bluffer!” she had called him. Well, this would show her whether he was a bluffer or not.
A sudden stab of desire caught him. She might be so pleased that—well, it was no good thinking along those lines just yet. But she might feel that she could be nice to him. She might be very nice to him After all, few people would have done what he had done. He wouldn’t tell her about Babs. He’d just say he kidnapped a girl and stripped her of her clothes. That’d startle her. That’d show her he had guts!
He was so excited at the thought of bursting into Cora’s room that he threw caution to the wind and drove right through the West End to Hanover Square. There was no difficulty in leaving the cab on the cab rank there. It was nearly one o’clock and the Square was deserted. He hurried down George Street, across Conduit Street and into Clifford Street. He ran up the stairs to the top flat. There was a light on in the hall, and he could hear Eva’s voice coming from the sitting-room. A moment later, Little Ernie answered. He wondered if Cora was with then; then he remembered she said she was going to bed. Well, he’d look in her bedroom first. He went down the passage very quietly, and opened the door. The room was in darkness, but the heady, exciting smell of sandalwood greeted him.
“Cora?” he called softly. “Are you awake?”
“Who is it?” Cora’s voice asked sleepily, then she said more sharply, “What is it?”
“It’s me, George.”
“What do you want?” She sounded irritable, and a moment later she snapped on a light over her bed.
George looked at her, feeling a great rush of love and tenderness to his heart.
She’s wonderful, he thought, looking at her. She was wearing a pair of satin, peach-coloured pyjamas he guessed she must have borrowed from Eva.
“What is it?” she repeated, looking at her wristwatch. “Why, it’s after one. Haven’t you been to bed?”
“May I come in?” -George asked, still standing awkwardly in the doorway. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Instantly a quick, calculating expression jumped into her eyes. "A surprise? What is it?”
“I’ve got you some clothes,” George said, showing her the bundle. Now he was in the light he saw that Babs had put the clothes in a pillowcase.
“Are you mad?” she said blankly. “What clothes?”
“You wanted an outfit,” George said patiently. “I—I’ve got you one.”
Cora sat up in bed. “You’ve got me one?” she repeated.
It was just as George had hoped it would be. He had staggered her. She was excited. She had never looked at him like this before.
He nodded. “I said you had only to ask and I’d get it for you.”
“But how?” Cora demanded. “Don’t stand there like a dummy. Come in, shut the door.” She slid out of bed, now thoroughly awake and excited. “How did you do it?”
This was George’s moment. This was the sweetest moment in George’s life.
“Well, it wanted a bit of thinking out,” he said, coming into the room and shutting the door. “I couldn’t rob a store. I hadn’t any money. So I decided to take the clothes off someone about your size.”
Cora gaped at him—actually gaped at him! “You didn’t!” she exclaimed. George nodded. Tears of elation pricked his eyes. “I had to pinch a taxi. That wasn’t too easy, and then I cruised around the West End until I spotted a well-dressed girl. I offered her a lift. She lived in Hampstead somewhere and—and I took her up on the Heath and made her take her clothes off and—well, here I am.”
“George!” Cora gasped. “I don’t believe it." But she believed it all right; he could see the look of startled admiration in her eyes.
“You did that for me?” she said, jumping up. “Why, George! Why, it’s wonderful!”
For a moment he thought she was going to throw her arms round his neck, but instead, she ran past him to the door and threw it open.
“Eva! Ernie! Come here! Come here at once!”
He didn’t want the other two. He wanted to hear Cora say over and over again that he was wonderful. He wanted her to be very nice to him in that lovely peach-coloured suit. He wanted to be able to hold her in his arms and feel her hair against his face.
Eva and Little Ernie appeared in the doorway. They looked startled.
“Wot’s hup?” Little Ernie asked, looking from Cora to George.
“You must hear this,” Cora exclaimed, excitedly. “I asked George to get me a complete outfit of clothes. Of course, I was fooling. I knew he couldn’t get them at this ti me of the night, but I wanted to pull his leg. I pretended to be dead set on having some clothes for tomorrow…”
“Well, I could have fixed you up,” Little Ernie said, leering at her. “I’ve got tons of clothes. It’s me job to keep my girls smart, ain’t it, Eva?”
This was a triumph for George. Well, he’d beaten the little rat! In the morning Cora would have gone to him, and George would have had the humiliation of seeing her wear clothes from a pimp
“Shut up, Ernie,” Cora said sharply. “George has actually done it! It’s the most fantastic story I’ve ever heard. He pinched a taxi, picked up a girl, took her on the Heath and pinched her clothes." George could feel Eva’s admiring gaze. Even Little Ernie’s mouth fell open.
“For Gawd’s sake!” Little Ernie said. “The old Chicago stuff! Wot ’appened to the girl? Cor luv me! I’d given me eyes to ’ave seen ’er. She must ’ave been ’opping mad.”
George smirked uneasily. “I didn’t bother my head about her,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I told her to scram, and she scrammed!”
“I bet she did,” Little Ernie giggled. “And pinching a taxi! Wot an idea! That’s brains! Lolly Cheese! I wouldn’t ’aye thought of that one meself.”
“Let’s look at the clothes,” Eva said. “What has he got you?”
“Of course!” Cora cried, snatching the bundle from George. “Let’s see if his taste is good.”
George giggled with excitement. He couldn’t help it. Suddenly it seemed he was one of them. They were smiling at him, nodding at him. They said he had brains. Cora was like a kid in her excitement.
The two girls took the pillowcase over to the bed, while Little Ernie sidled up to George.
“Wot was she like, palsy?” he whispered. “Orl right?”
George winked. He suddenly quite liked this red-headed little man, and when Little Ernie nudged him in the ribs and put the obvious question, George shoved him off playfully and said, “That’s telling.”
There was a sudden silence that made him turn his head. Cora and Eva were looking at him They were no longer smiling. There was a look of suppressed rage and disappointment in Cora’s eyes that startled him.
“Do you like them?” he asked, with a catch in his voice. Little Ernie moved forward. “Wot’s hup?”
“Nothing,” Cora said viciously. “I might have known the fool was pulling my leg. What are you trying to do, George? Get even?”
George suddenly went cold.
“What do you mean?” he said, feeling the blood leave his face.
“What I say,” she said, pointing to the bundle on the bed. He pushed past her and turned the things over. At first he couldn’t believe what he saw. He held up one garment and stared at it stupidly. It looked like a pair of black combinations, only it had a long tail. He dropped it as if it had bitten him and stared down at the rest of the stuff.
“It’s a Mickey Mouse outfit,” Eva cried suddenly. “My God! It’s Mickey Mouse!”
Little Ernie started to laugh. Eva joined him Together they shrieked at George and Cora.
“Wot a card!” Little Ernie spluttered. “In the middle of the night! Stone me! ’Ad our Cora properly. Oh dear, oh dear, this’ll kill me!” He collapsed howling in an armchair
George turned away. He wanted to be sick. He wanted to die. He heard Cora say in a voice hoarse with frustrated rage, “Get out! Do you hear! Get out, both of you!" And when Little Ernie and Eva, roaring with hysterical mirth, had stumbled out of the room, Cora turned on George. "You rotten rat!” she said. “Do you think that’s funny? Do you think you can make a fool out of me?”
George wasn’t listening He picked up a scrap of notepaper that he had just noticed lying on the bed. It seemed to be a letter written in small, neat handwriting:
Dear Dick Turpin,
You really shouldn’t trust a woman, and you should never threaten if you can’t go through with it. I hope the girlfriend likes the costume. From the sound o f her I shouldn’t trust her either. It’s not April 1st yet, but remember this when it comes round. You did frighten me, you know. And I don’t like people frightening me.
He became aware that Cora was standing at his elbow, reading over his shoulder. He screwed up the note and turned away, crushed and dazed.
Cora suddenly burst out: “So you weren’t lying! You did it! And she made a fool out of you! God! What a sucker you are! What a damn, stupid, dim-witted fool!” And she suddenly went in peal after peal of jeering laughter. “Go away, you chump,” she cried, throwing herself on the bed and rolling backwards and forwards, holding her sides. “Oh, it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. You sucker! You big tough, stupid sucker!”
George opened the door and went slowly down the passage to his room.