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.