“Would you like to do that?” the girl was saying. She had opened her bag and was lighting a cigarette. “You can leave the cab…”
“Don’t be frightened,” George said, pulling the Luger from his hip pocket, and pointing it at her. “This is a—a hold-up.”
She stood staring at him, the match burning in her fingers. Her eyes went to the gun and then back at him. She flicked the match away.
“Oh,” she said, and stood very still.
George kept the muzzle of the gun pointing at her. He looked at her for signs of fear, a change of expression, any reaction which would give him courage to complete this beastly business. But her expression didn’t change. She seemed very calm, and she took the cigarette from her lips as if she were in a drawing-room full of her own kind.
“I’m not going to hurt you, if you do what you’re told,” George went on, making his voice gruff.
“Well, that’s a blessing,” she said quietly. “I most certainly don’t want to get hurt. What do you want?”
George gulped. This was going all wrong. She ought to be frightened, she ought to be grovelling before the menacing threat of the gun.
“I want your clothes,” he said.
A look of complete astonishment crossed her face. “My clothes?” she repeated. “Oh, come. How can you have my clothes? I want them myself; and besides, what in the world would you do with them? You can have my money—not that I’ve got much—but I really can’t let you have my clothes. Do he reasonable.”