Why Pick On ME? by James Hadley Chase

friendly grin as he opened the garage doors.
    “I’m not,” he said. “What are you doing down here?”
    She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug.
    “Looking for a boy like you,” she said, and moved closer. She was wearing a perfume that reminded Corridon of lilac. He rather liked it. “Let’s have a little fun, darling.”
    “Not tonight,” he said, and climbed into the car. “You’re wasting your time. I haven’t any use for naughty girls.”
    Without waiting for her reply, he drove the car into the garage, got out and closed the garage doors. As he did so, he glanced down the length of the mews. At the far end was a street light, and his sharp eyes detected a shadowy figure half concealed in a doorway.
    The girl moved up to him again.
    “Change your mind, darling,” she said. “After all it is spring-time in Paris.”
    Corridon laughed.
    “That has a familiar ring. Where have I heard that before?” he said.
    She said in a whisper he could scarcely hear, “If it is white jade, it should be familiar.”
    Corridon drew her close to him and stood with his hand on her arm. To the watchers at the end of the mews they made a very ordinary Piccadilly picture: a man striking a bargain with a street-corner girl.
    “There are a couple of blokes watching us,” he said, keeping his voice down. “Do you want to come in?”
    “Yes. He said they would probably be watching you. It was his idea I should act this way; not mine.”
    Corridon smiled at her.
    “He never did think much of my morals,” he said. “Well, never mind. I can stand it, if you can.”
    Still holding her arm, he led her to his front door, sank the key it the lock and opened the door.
    “Straight upstairs. The first door on the right.” He thumbed down the electric-light switch and stood for a moment watching her climb the stairs. His eyes dwelt on her nylon-clad legs, and he pursed his lips. Quite a girl, he thought. I bet Ritchie hasn’t noticed the shape she’s got.
    He closed the front door and took the stairs three at the time, arriving as she turned on the light in his little sitting-room.
    They faced each other. The hardness had gone out of her face, and in spite of the paint and rouge, he could see the fresh beauty behind the mask.
    “That’s a pretty cute make-up you’re wearing,” he said. “You had me fooled, and I consider myself an expert.”
    “It was Ritchie’s idea,” she said, and made a little face. “He said they wouldn’t think twice if I hung about your flat. I hope he’s wrong.”
    Corridon stripped off his hat and coat.
    “Ritchie has a sensational mind,” he said. “Yes, he’s wrong, but the trouble is it’s what they would expect of me. That’s where he’s proved himself smart. Well, sit down. Who are you?”
    She sat down on an upright chair by the table. While she settled herself, he examined her curiously. He could see she had been through the rigour of military training and discipline. Now she was no longer playing a part, and had relaxed, her eyes were serious and direct; there was a no-nonsense set to her mouth and she sat well, her back straight and her shoulders square.
    “I’m Marian Howard,” she said. “I’ll be here every Tuesday night at this time for news.”
    Corridon grinned.
    “Looks as if my reputation won’t be worth much,” he said. “How about a drink?”
    She shook her head.
    “I don’t drink.”
    “A cigarette?”
    “I don’t smoke.”
    “No vices at all?” Corridon asked.
    “I haven’t the time for them. By the way, I have some money for you.” She opened her bag. “They’ve been fantastically generous: fifty pounds.”
    Corridon whistled.
    “Good Lord! What’s got into them? The most I’ve ever got out of them was twenty-five.”
    “I know.” She took out ten five-pound notes and dropped them on the table. “They consider this a pretty important assignment. How did you get on?”
    Corridon sat on the settee and lit a cigarette.
    “You seem pretty