Russell Square, or Soho, or Maida Vale. He slipped the card into his waistcoat pocket, pleased with himself.
Then he locked the door and went downstairs.
'I'll think it over,' he said to the greengrocer. 'I'd like my wife to see it.'
His wife! He thought of Cora, and there was a hitter taste in his mouth.
From the top of the bus he watched the crowded street. Then suddenly his heart gave a lurch. At the corner of Southampton Row and High Holborn he saw Nick, the Greek. He was standing on the kerb, a cigarette hanging from his thin lips, reading a newspaper. George shrank hack.
He remained uneasy and alarmed until the bus began to crawl tip Baker Street, and then his fears quieted. The Greek hadn't seen him. It was a near thing, of course, but he hadn't seen him. He got off the bus at Maida Vale and went immediately to the estate agent. It was a small office, and a fat little man, behind a shabby desk, was the only occupant. He seemed startled when George opened the door and entered, as if he seldom had callers. 'Good afternoon,' he said, fingering a heavy silver watch chain. 'Is there something?'
'I don't know,' George said, and smiled. He was anxious for the little man to like him 'I don't want to waste your time, but I believe you can help me.' He took out the card and studied it. 'It's Mr Hibbert, isn't it?'
The little man nodded. 'You're lucky to find me here,' he said. 'Most places close on Saturday afternoon, but I thought I'd hang on a little longer . . .'
'I'm looking for a couple of friends,' George explained. 'It's important I should find them.' He smiled again. 'You see, I owe them money.'
Mr Hibbert scratched his head. 'I don't know,' he said. 'Perhaps you'll tell me how I can help . . .'
'Oh yes,' George said eagerly, taking out a crushed packet of Players. 'Will you smoke?'
Mr Hibbert took a cigarette rather doubtfully. 'I don't usually smoke in office hours,' he explained. 'But seeing it's Saturday . . .' He had a trick of not finishing his sentences.
They lit up.
'You see,' George went on, 'they were looking for a place. I've been away for some time As a matter of fact, I've been in the States. I traced them to a flat near Russell Square, and now I learn they've moved to Maida Vale. I think they came to you for a place.'
'The States?' Mr Hibbert's eyes grew dreamy. 'Often thought I'd go there myself. Wonderful place, I believe.'
George nodded. 'It's all right,' he said with assumed indifference. 'But I suppose I've seen too much of it. Give me England any day.' He dropped ash carefully into the tobacco tin lid that served as an ashtray. 'These two,' he went on, anxious not to stray from his purpose. 'They were young—brother and sister. Brant is the name. The fellow had a bad scar: a bum.'
Mr Hibbert's face darkened. 'Oh yes,' he said, frowning. 'I remember them. Hmm, yes, I remember them quite well.' He conveyed that he did not approve of them, and that because George knew them, he wasn't sure whether he should approve of him
'It's just that I owe them money,' George said apologetically. 'They did me a good turn once.' What was he saying? A good turn? But he went on, 'They're not friends of mine, you understand; but one must honour one's debts.'
Mr Hibbert nodded. He looked at George with sudden warmth. 'Those sentiments do you credit. I like to hear a man talk like that. Wouldn't think they'd honour anything.'
George shook his head. 'A wild pair,' he said. 'Did you fix them up?' He waited, his heart thumping dully against his side.
'Against my will,' Mr Hibbert told him sadly. 'Business is not what it was. A year ago I'd 've sent them packing. As it happened, I had a place. A couple of rooms over a garage. There were rats in the place; no one seemed to want it, so I let them have it. They can be as wild as they like there. They'll have no neighbours.' A sly, lewd look came into his faded eyes. 'The girl's remarkable, isn't she? No better than she makes out to be, I shouldn't wonder. Her figure . . .' He shook his head. 'Wants a mother, I shouldn't doubt . . . brazen . . .'
A hot flame of desire flickered in the pit of George's stomach. He knew what Mr Hibbert meant.
'I'm most grateful,' he said, after a pause. 'Could you write the address down for me?' He stubbed out his cigarette and added bitterly, 'It'll be a surprise for them.'
Mr Hibbert wrote the address on the back of his card.
'It's a turning off Kilburn High Street, a mews. It's easy enough to find.'
They parted warmly.
While George waited for a bus to take him down the long, straight road to Kilburn, a man with a bundle of evening papers passed, and George bought one. He glanced down the columns, scarcely concentrating. An item of news caught his attention for a second. An unknown man had fallen on the live wire at Belsize Park Station. A train had entered the station a moment later, and the hold-up had caused a considerable delay on the line. George was glad he hadn't been there: a beastly, messy death. He looked down the road impatiently. A bus was in sight, but it was taking its time. Then George stiffened, spider's legs ran down his spine. He looked at the newspaper again. The small print swam before his eyes. The unknown man, the reporter wrote, was about twenty-two. He had a scar—a had bum—on the right side of his face, and a shock of straw- coloured hair He wore a dark blue shirt, a red tie, grey flannel trousers and a tweed coat. The police were anxious to identify him. There was nothing in his pockets nor on his clothes to say who he was and where he had come from. The bus passed George. He made no attempt to signal to it. He stood reading the notice over and over again. Could it be Sydney? The description was exact. Were there other men with scars, strawcoloured hair, who wore dark blue shirts and red ties? It seemed unlikely.
He had to find out. The trip to Kilburn could wait. He had to find out whether Cora was now on her own. It might make a tremendous difference.
He began to walk towards Kilburn, not knowing where he was going, but anxious to think. What a death! How unlike Sydney to fall in front of a train! Was it suicide? He thought of the cold, ruthless face, and decided that Sydney most certainly would not have taken his own life. An accident, then? But how did people fall in front of trains unless they deliberately jumped or were pushed? Pushed? His mind began to crawl with alarm. Was he pushed? Suppose Emily and Max and the two Greeks . . .? He gritted his teeth. Was this the beginning of their revenge? He
