“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.”