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
