was so ill and weak she accepted him ... a nut ... but she was grateful for what he had done for her. During these ten days she constantly thought of Jerry Hogan, wondering where he was, who he was sleeping with, how he was making money enough to live.
Then suddenly, one morning, she woke up and she knew she was well again. Her one thought was to get out of the hospital, but she shrank from returning to that sordid room with its inadequate stove and the bitter wind that whistled under the door and through the cracks of the ill-fitting windows.
Barlowe came in the evening. They talked. 'I've been pretty ill,' she said. 'I don't know anything about you ... why have you been so kind?'
'It's not kindness,' he said quietly, his pale brown eyes moving over her in a way that made her uneasy. 'You and I are lonely people. I have a cottage: a garden: a good job. I've lost my mother. I'd like to marry you. Will you marry me?'
Right at that moment, thinking of the life that lay before her if she continued to try to battle along on her own, Meg didn't hesitate. She regarded marriage as a convenience. If it didn't work out, you could always get a divorce, so she accepted his offer.
They were married by a special licence a week after Meg had left hospital. She had been at first intrigued and pleased with the isolated house and the garden. She believed that she would be able to find some kind of happiness here, but she was quickly disillusioned.
She now never wanted to remember their first and only night together. It ended by Meg locking herself in the spare room while Barlowe scratched on the door as he knelt outside in the passage. She realized bitterly that she had married one of those sick minded men whom she had had to cope with so often during the time she had walked her beat in Hollywood.
But she knew herself to be hard and ruthless enough to control this poor, sick little man. They lived their individual lives. Then, some months later, as she was shopping in Brent, she came face to face with Sailor Hogan.
The sight of his reckless, handsome face sent a knife stab into her heart. Less than an hour later, they were lying on his bed in his small two-room apartment and she was telling him about Barlowe.
They met frequently, and during the weeks, while they talked, after Hogan had made brutal love with her, the idea that Barlowe could bring them the money they craved for began to evolve.
Hogan knew an insurance agent. Meg thought of the idea of insuring Barlowe's life. Between the two of them they concocted the murder plan.
But now, as Meg, slightly drunk, sat on the settee staring into the fire, she realized that unless she came up with some bright idea, she would again lose Hogan. She sat there, her fists clenched between her knees, her mind active, her heart pounding with the sick thought of once again facing life without her brutal, vicious pimp.
Chapter 6
Barlowe stood by his bedroom door, listening. The time was just after nine thirty. It was Sunday night. Downstairs, Meg was watching a television programme. He had told her he was tired and was going to bed early. She had shrugged indifferently.
Satisfied she was occupied with some pop-singer who sounded to Barlowe like a banshee, he unlocked the cupboard on the wall, took from it the white bathing cap and the cheek pads, and with a fixed grin on his face, he picked up the .38 automatic, checked to see it was loaded, then dropped it into his overcoat pocket.
Moving stealthily, he left his bedroom, locking the door. He crept down the stairs, paused outside the sitting- room door to listen to the strident singing of the pop singer, then let himself out into the hot, still night.
He was afraid to use his car for he knew Meg would, hear him drive away, so he set out for the long walk across country to Glyn Hill, yet another quiet, favourite place where the young made love in their cars.
He arrived at the open space that overlooked Pru Town a little after ten-fifteen. Moving like a black, sinister crab, he edged his way through the shrubs.
There was one lone car parked under the trees. It was early yet. In another hour, there would be several cars. From the lone car, came the faint sound of dance music on the radio. Satisfied there was no one on this plateau except the two in the car, Barlowe took off his hat and pulled the white bathing cap down over his head. He then replaced his hat. He put the cheek pads into place, then taking the gun from his pocket, he began to move silently and swiftly towards the car.
His heart hammered, his breath came in short, snorting gasps ... this time, he was no longer going to be a mere onlooker; a mere peeping Tom.
On the following Monday morning as Anson was preparing to go to Pru Town, the telephone bell rang.
Anna answered the call, said, 'Yes, he's here: who is it please?' Then to Anson, 'A Mrs. Thomson wants you,' and she flicked down the key.
Impatiently, Anson scooped up his receiver.
'Yes? This is John Anson.'
'John ... it is me.'
With a feeling of shock, Anson recognized Meg's voice. He looked furtively across at Anna who was threading paper into her typewriter. Alarmed that Meg had been reckless enough to call him at his office, but excited to hear her voice again, he said 'Yes, Mrs. Thomson?'
'I must see you tonight. Something has happened.'
Guardedly, Anson said, 'I'll be able to manage that. Thank you for calling,' and he hung up.
As Anna showed no interest in the call, Anson didn't bother to lie to her. He hurriedly completed his preparations.
Telling Anna he would be back the following morning, he went down to his car.
During the day he kept thinking of Meg and wondering what had happened to make her call him. On his way to lunch at the Marlborough he stopped off at a drug store for some after-shave lotion. As he was paying for his purchase a woman who had come in after him, said, 'Hello Johnny ... long time no see.'
Turning sharply, he found Fay Lawley, the girl he used to go around with before he had dropped her for Meg, standing by his side...
Fay's coarse prettiness and her enthusiastic wantonness had once attracted Anson; but looking at her now, he marvelled that he had ever found her interesting.
'Hello, Fay,' he said in a cold, flat voice. 'Excuse me ... I'm pressed for time.'
'See you tonight, Johnny?' Fay asked, staring at him, her eyes hard and challenging.
He forced a smile.
'I'm afraid not... not tonight. I'll call you the next time in town.'
Side stepping her, he made a move to the door, but she caught hold of his arm.
'Remember me?' Her eyes now granite hard, scared him. 'You and me met once a week... remember?' He steeled himself and shook her off. 'Take it easy, Fay ... I just happen to be busy.' He pushed past her and walked to his car. He was aware sweat was on his face and there was a hollow feeling of alarm around his heart.
He drove to the Marlborough, and parking his car, he entered the restaurant where he was joined by Harry Davis, an oil and gas salesman whom he often met on the road.
Davis was a fat, middle-aged man who had the happy knack of getting along with anyone. But with this puzzle of what Meg had said on his mind, Anson would have preferred to have eaten alone.
After they had ordered the lunch, Davis asked Anson how business was. The two men discussed business conditions while they ate the excellent pea soup, then as the waiter brought them the fried chicken, Davis said, 'I don't know what this town is coming to! Two shootings in ten days! We want a smarter police chief! We've got to stamp out this kind of violence and at once!' Anson looked up sharply. 'Two shootings!
What's this?' 'Haven't you seen this morning's newspaper?' 'No. What's all this?' Happily, Davis relaxed back in his chair. 'A real juicy murder-cum-sex crime! A young couple were necking out at Glyn Hill last night when some maniac crept up on them with a gun. He shot the man and raped the girl. I knew the murdered man ... he had been going steady with the girl for the past six months. It's a hell of a thing! The girl was horribly used. Of course,
