Then he had a dim recollection of Sydney, in a dirty white dressing-gown, staring at him in blank astonishment.
He took a step forward, and his knees gave under him He fell heavily. Before he blacked out he heard Cora scream: 'You swine! You said he wouldn't touch me! Oh, I hate you! I hate you!' and then he lost consciousness.
He had no idea how long he remained unconscious. He must have drifted into a heavy sleep before coming round. But when he opened his eyes it was morning and he was lying on the floor, a pillow under his head and a blanket over him. He sat up slowly and looked round, not quite remembering where he was.
He was aware of pain, and found his hand had been expertly bandaged and sticking plaster covered the cuts on his face. He pushed the blanket aside and stood up. He didn't feel too bad. A little weak, perhaps, but otherwise not bad. He looked round the room with blank astonishment. It was a perfect pigsty of a room. The mantelpiece was thick with dust. The fireplace was full of cigarette ash and butts. A table, pushed against the wall, was piled with old newspapers, unwashed crockery and empty bottles. A dish containing some evil-smelling meat was under an armchair. On all the flat surfaces of the furniture were sticky circles made by wet tumblers. Two bluebottles buzzed angrily against the dirty windows.
'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.
