George rammed the gun into his side. 'I warned you, you rotten little rat. You won't get a car this time,' and he pulled the trigger three times.
The noise of gunfire crashed down the empty street. The flash blinded George. But he wasn't nervous nor frightened. He watched Little Ernie flop on the steps of the house and then, bending over him, he shot him again.
A woman began to scream at the other end of the street.
George slipped the gun into his pocket and stepped from the shadow of the doorway. There was still no one about. Without hurrying, he walked to Clifford Street and stopped a passing taxi.
'Hyde Park Corner,' he said, and got into the taxi.
He glanced through the little window at the hack. People were appearing now. A policeman was running down Old Burlington Street. It was going to be all right. His luck was holding. In another few seconds he'd be out of danger. He sat back in the cab and closed his eyes.
He did not allow himself to think until he had paid off the taxi and was walking towards Knightsbridge. He had no horror at what he had done. It was as if he had stepped on a beetle, no more, no less.
What would Cora do? Would she tell the police? If she did that it would be the end of him; but he somehow didn't care. He was tired of this business, sick and tired of it. He wanted a little peace. Better keep away from the flat tonight, he thought. He wanted one more night of freedom. He'd go back the next morning. If the police were waiting for him, then he'd let them take him. But not tonight. He'd walk and walk, because he wanted to think He wanted to make plans.
He woke the next morning in a Salvation Army hostel off the Cromwell Road. He remembered walking until he could walk no more, and had crawled into this place at three o'clock in the morning. Now it was just after seven o'clock, and he decided to return to his flat immediately.
On his way back he tried to think about Little Ernie, but what had happened the previous night had a dream quality about it, and he could not get his mind to believe that it had happened.
Even when climbing the stairs to the flat high above Holles Street, he could not believe that the police might be waiting for him He was so tired, anyway, that he couldn't care one way or the other.
He pushed open the door, and for a moment hesitated, listening. There was no sound in the flat. He went into the sittingroom. There was no one there, but there was a distinct smell of sandalwood in the room. He stood very still, trying to remember whether the scent had been there before Eva came to see him. He couldn't remember. Anyway, Cora wasn't likely to have returned. But the thought disturbed him, and he went quickly to his bedroom. Then he paused and looked blankly round the room. His cupboard and chest of drawers were open and empty. His clothes were scattered all over the room. One look at them was enough. They had been systematically ripped to pieces. His flannel trousers were in shreds. His tweed coat was armless and ripped down the back. His shirts were a mass of holes. Even his shoes were cut with a knife. Everything he owned was torn to pieces, as if it had been set upon by a wild animal.
Cora! Of course! She had cone back to revenge Little Ernie. Then he remembered Leo, and he felt so sick and faint that he had to sit on the bed. As he did so, he became aware of something in the corner, half hidden by the dressing- table. He saw red streaks on the wall. He peered forward fearfully. In the shadowy light he could make out fur, blood, and then a squashed paw, and he closed his eyes. He sat there shivering. After a while, he began to cry.
19
Light rain began to fall, and islands of sullen grey clouds knitted together to form a depressing curtain of mist that blotted out the watery moon.
George stood in a shop doorway, his collar turned up and his hat well down on his cars. He carried Leo, wrapped in a bath-towel; the bundle felt hard, a wood carving, against his side. He remained in the shelter of the doorway for some time, a lonely motionless figure, merged into the darkness, unseen.
One by one the lights behind the big window opposite, screened by the yellow muslin curtains, went out like the eyes of a robot figure closing in sleep. Several times the green-painted glasspanelled door with the gilt letters 'Restaurant' on it, opened, and men and women, in pairs or singly, came out. George watched them disperse, their heads down, some arm in arum, moving rapidly to another more distant shelter.
There was only one light burning now. He could see the shadowy outlines of the big blonde woman, Emily, and the whitecoated Hebrew, Max, through the curtain. The woman sat at the cash desk. He guessed she was emptying the till. The Hebrew seemed to be clearing up at the bar, washing glasses, drying them and putting then away.
It was time to talk to them. George crossed the street, pushed open the green-panelled door and entered the restaurant. The long room was stuffy, and smelt of food, cigars and coffee. The shaded light above the cash desk threw off an isolated yellow pool in the dim, smoky room.
'We're closed,' Max said, continuing to put the glasses under the counter.
George looked first at the Hebrew and then at the woman, Emily He closed the door and moved further into the light.
Emily recognized him.
'Max . . .' There was a quick, urgent note in her voice. She put her hand under the desk, and a bell began to ring somewhere in the building.
Max was bending down behind the counter, arranging the glasses in an orderly row. As he heard the hell and caught the sharp note in Emily's voice, he clashed the glasses together. One of them slipped from his fingers and dropped with a little thump on the carpet. He raised his head and peered at George, his pebbly eyes blank with alarm.
George waited. It was no use talking to them until they were ready to listen. At the moment their attention was concentrated in keeping him there, in trapping him.
'It's all right,' he said, wanting to reassure them. 'I've come to explain.'
The two Greeks, black shadows, threatening, slid out of the darkness and stood between him and the door. The shaded light glittered on their razors.
