Somewhere in the building came the faint tinkle of breaking glass.
“They’re getting impatient,” she said, and ran her fingers through her hair. “I hope I don’t start screaming, George. I’m in an awful funk.”
George sprang to his feet. “Barricade the door,” he said, his voice quivering with excitement. “We ought to have thought of that before. Help me with the cupboard.”
She did not move.
Without waiting for her, he pulled the cupboard towards him and began to drag it across the room. It was heavy, but with a tremendous effort he managed to wedge it against the door.
“They can’t get in that way,” he said, panting from his exertions. “Can they get in through the window?”
She giggled. “Not unless they’ve got wings,” she said. “You are a scream, George. Why don’t you go down and kill them, like you killed Wineinger, Barrow and Banghart?”
He stared at her, not understanding for a moment what she was saying. Then he flinched. He had forgotten about Wineinger, Clyde Barrow and Gustave Banghart. It seemed a long time, another age, since Cora and he had sat in that restaurant together and he had told her all those stupid lies.
“I thought you liked tough spots,” she went on, watching him with frightened, jeering eyes. “I thought you were out for excitement, and you didn’t care which side you were on, so long as you got into a scrap.” Her inside rumbled again. “Well, there’s a juicy scrap waiting for you downstairs. Why don’t you get into it? You’re not scared of two little Greeks and a fat old woman, are you?”
“Stop it!” George said, sharply. “I was lying. You may as well know now. I’ve never been to the States. I’ve never seen a gangster. I was a fool. A vain, stupid fool.”