George raised the Luger. His hand was steady. He pressed the trigger, lifting the cartridge from the magazine into the breech. Then he waited, tense, sweating.
There was another long, ghastly pause. Cora was holding her head between her hands, her mouth was open, and her smeared lips formed a soundless scream. Someone outside was breathing softly, making a faint, whistling sound. Then footsteps went away. The stairs creaked. Once more there was silence except for the hum of distant traffic along the High Street and the excited ticking of the clock.
“He’s gone,” George whispered, lowering the gun.
Cora lit another cigarette. “Not far. They’re used to waiting.”
“Let them wait,” George said. “We’ll see who gets sick of waiting.”
She lay back across the divan. “I didn’t think you had the nerve,” she said, a new note in her voice. “You looked fine standing up to him.”
George scarcely heard her. He was staring up at the ceiling. “We could get out that way,” he said. “You can’t live here any more, Cora. We’ll have to find some place where they’ll never find us.”
“We?” she said, rolling over on her stomach and looking at him. “So you’re not going to desert me?”
“Did you think I would? I may be a fool, but I love you. I don’t know why, because you’ve always been rotten to me. But I love you, and I’m going to look after you.”
She held up her hand. “What’s that?” she asked, her eyes dilating. He listened. A murmur of voices floated up from the alley: whispering, hushed voices of people in church. He went over to the window, and without moving the blind, he listened. He heard a woman’s voice and then a mutter of men’s voices.