More Deadly Than The Male (6 page)

George's finger curled round the trigger, and his face became grim.

George sighed. That was the way to treat swine like Eccles. He fondled the gun. Brant wouldn't be so keen to sneer and jeer if he thought George would stick this suddenly into his ribs. George had no time for cheap tricks. Look at the way Brant had got those names and addresses. Just a cheap trick. If that was the way he was going to cover the territory, Wembley would be useless for another World-Wide salesman to work. Of course, Brant wouldn't care. He was just a selfish, small-minded trickster. So long as he got what he wanted he didn't think of anyone else.

George pulled the magazine from the gun and turned it over absently between his fingers. Still, there was something about Brant. He was more powerful, more domineering than George. George knew that. But George with the Luger was more than a match for anyone, including Brant. 

George picked up the oily rag at the bottom of the box and wiped the gun over carefully. Then he picked up the wooden box of cartridges and slid off the lid. The cartridges were packed in rows of five, tight and shiny He had never put a cartridge into the magazine. He always made a point of keeping the cartridges away from the pistol. Having cleaned the weapon, he would return it to its cardboard box before taking out each cartridge and polishing the brass cases. He had never wished to fire the gum, and the idea of feeding these small, shiny cartridges into the magazine alarmed him He had read so much about gun accidents that he was acutely conscious how easily something tragic might happen. In spite of his violent imagination, he would have been horrified if, through his own carelessness, anyone was hurt.

Time was getting on. It still rained, but rain never bothered George. He put the cartridges back in the box, and carried it to its hiding-place among his shirts. Then he went to the cupboard over his washstand and took from it a bottle of milk and an opened tin of sardines.

"Come on, Leo," he called, holding up the tin for the cat to see.

Leo was at his side in a bound, and began twining its great, heavy body round his legs.

George put the tin down on a sheet of newspaper and filled his soap dish with milk

"There you are, old son," he said, his face softening with pleasure. "Now I'll go out and get my supper."

Out in the street, the rain was cold on his face and the wind beat against him. As he hurried along, he felt the urge to sing or shout for no reason at all except that driving rain and a boisterous wind gave him a feeling of freedom.

The saloon bar of the King's Arms was almost deserted. It was early yet—not quite a quarter to seven—and only three of the usual
habitués
had braved the weather. George hung up his hat and mack, and went to his favourite corner.

"Hello," Gladys said, smiling. " 'Ere we are again."

"That's right," George said, sitting on a stool and looking at the cold meats, pickles and howls of salad and beetroot with a hungry eye. "Nasty night, isn't it?"

"Wretched," Gladys agreed. "I've got some nice cold pork if you fancy it, or some beef."

George said he thought he'd try the pork.

"That was the bloke with the scar you were talking about, wasn't it?" he asked as she cut him a liberal helping.

"That's 'Im," Gladys said darkly. "I was sorry to see you going off with 'in. Mark my words, 'e's a had 'un. I know a had 'un when I see 'im."

"I should think not indeed," Gladys said firmly. "You watch out. A fellow like that could get you into trouble quicker than wink "

"Oh, I don't know about that," George said a little crossly. Did she take him for a child? "I can look after myself all right."

"I'm glad to hear it," Gladys returned, as if she didn't believe him She set the plate before him, gave him a roll and butter and a pint of mild and bitter, and then hurried off to serve another customer.

George was quite content to keep in his corner, away from the main bar, and eat his supper, read the evening paper and watch Gladys cope with the bustling activity. The bar was filling up now, and the atmosphere became damp and steamy. 

No one paid George any attention. Mr Henry came in and nodded absently to him, but immediately looked away, as if he were nervous that George would wish to join him. Other h
abitués
came in. They also nodded to George, but it was a disinterested greeting more from habit than anything else.

His meal finished, George lit a cigarette, pushed his tankard forward so that Gladys, when she had a moment, could see that he wanted it filled, and settled down to the crossword puzzle. The warm, damp atmosphere, the buzz of conversation, the click of billiard halls in the next room, soothed him. It was, he thought, the nicest, most homely atmosphere a man could wish to be in.

At nine-thirty he called for his last pint. One for the road, he told himself. He was pleasantly sleepy, and he looked forward to stretching out in bed. Perhaps Leo would keep him company. Tomorrow still seemed a long way off, and George decided that perhaps, after all, life wasn't so had.

A hand reached out and touched his arm. George started, and peered at Sydney Brant, at first in blank surprise, then in embarrassed confusion. He felt blood rising to his face, and he nearly upset his beer.

Brant wore no overcoat; his threadbare jacket and worn trousers were black with rain.

"Hello," George said awkwardly. "You gave me quite a start. What are you doing here?"

Brant leaned up against the counter.

"I'm looking for you," he said. "I thought you'd be here."

" Well, you only just caught me," George said lamely. "I—I was just going to bed."

Brant eyed him contemptuously. Then he looked at Gladys and snapped his fingers impatiently.

"A lemonade," he said, and then turned hack to George. "What was your racket?" he asked.

George blinked. "Racket? What racket?"

"You said you worked with Frank Kelly. What did you do?"

George's brain crawled with alarm. This would never do, he told himself, flustered. He wasn't going to admit anything to Brant. It was all very well to tell Ella tall stories, but Brant was quite a different kettle of fish.

"That's my business," he said, looking away. "I don't talk about it."

"Don't be wet," Brant said. "I'm in the game myself."

George was startled: he turned and stared into Brant's hard, grey-blue eyes. He flinched away from what he saw in them.

"What game?" he repeated.

Brant smiled. "I don't talk about that either," he said. "Do you think I'd mess about touting books unless I had to? Would you?"

George had no idea what he was driving at. He said nothing.

"As soon as it's cooled off I'm going hack to my racket," Brant said, and he touched the raw, livid scar, his eyes clouding and his face set in grim lines.

So Gladys was right. He was a wrong 'un, George thought, and, somehow, he felt envious. He knew he shouldn't feel like that, but he had always longed to live dangerously.

For something to say, George blurted out, "That's a nasty scar you've got there. Is it recent?"

An extraordinary change came over Brant's face. It seemed to grow dark and thin. It twisted out of shape so that it was moulded into a mask of terrifying hatred.

He leaned forward and spat on the floor.

"Come on," he said, speaking through stiff white lips. "We're going to see Robinson."

"Not tonight," George returned hastily. "It's raining.

Besides, it's too late now. We'll see him tomorrow morning." With an obvious effort Brant controlled himself. Once more his face became blank and indifferent.

"Do you keep a record of the orders you've taken?" he asked.

"Why, yes," George returned, wondering why he changed the subject so abruptly.

"Got it with you?"

George produced a tattered notebook, and Brant took it from him He examined the pages covered with George's neat writing and then he glanced up.

"This the lot? I mean from the time you started?" George nodded blankly

"Robinson owes you thirty quid. Do you realize that?"

"As much as that?" George was doubtful. "Well, it can't be helped. I shan't get it from him He never has any money." 

"We'll see about that," Brant said, slipping the notebook into his pocket. He finished his lemonade with a grimace, put a shilling on the counter and turned to the door. "Come on," he went on impatiently.

He followed Brant out, avoiding Gladys' eyes. It was dark in the street and rain fell heavily.

"I'm going home," he said, water dripping off his long nose. "We'll see Robo tomorrow."

"Come on," Brant said, jerking his words out as if they burned his mouth. "We're going to see him tonight."

"But I don't know where he lives," George returned.

"Let's be sensible. We're both getting soaked."

Brant said an ugly word and walked on.

George went with him. He felt there was nothing else to do. Brant seemed to know where to go. He turned down a side street, lined with small, two-storey houses, and after a few minutes he stopped.

"That's it," he said, looking up at one of the houses. "He's got a room there." He pointed to a window on the top floor. Although the blind was drawn, they could see a light was still burning. "Come on," Brant went on, walking up the worn steps. He put his thumb on the bell and kept it there.

George stood at his side, feeling the rain against his face and his heart pounding uneasily. 

There was a shuffling sound beyond the door, and a moment later a fat old woman peered inquisitively at them. " 'Ood'yer want?" she demanded, holding a dirty dressing-gown across her ample bosom. "Ringing the hell like that. You'd think the 'ole blooming 'ouse was afire."

Brant advanced a step, his head thrust forward. "We're friends of Robinson," he said, steadily forcing the old woman back into the dark little hall. "He's waiting for us."

" 'Ere, 'alf a mo," the old woman said, trying to block Brant's progress. "I didn't tell yer to come in, did I? You come back termorrer."

Brant kept moving forward, staring down at the old woman, flustering her. "It's all right," he said. "He's expecting us. Don't worry. We'll go up."

George had followed Brant into the hall, and was aware that rain from his hat and coat was making puddles on the coconut matting that covered the floor.

Brant suddenly side-stepped the old woman and began to mount the stairs. She stood watching him, uneasy, unsure of herself. She stared at George, who hunched his great shoulders, unconsciously making himself look sinister and frightening. He went up the stairs behind Brant.

"The old cow," Brant said, under his breath. "Who does she think she is?"

He walked along the short passage to a door under which they could see a light burning. He paused outside the door and put his ear against the panel. He stood there listening, intent, menacing, and George, standing a few feet behind him, suddenly saw him in an unexpected and frightening light. It was as if he could see evil and danger emanating from him like a thought-form. He was aware, too, that the old woman had come halfway up the stairs and was watching Brant with fear and curiosity. 

Brant glanced over his shoulder at George, made a grimace, and jerked his head towards the door. George had no idea what he intended to convey. He had no time to ask, for Brant, turning the handle of the door, pushed it open and walked into the room.

Not wanting to be left in the dimly lit passage under the disconcerting gaze of the old woman, George took a few hesitating steps forward, which brought him to the door.

Brant was standing just inside the doorway, looking across the large room at Robinson. George peered past Brant, a sheepish, apologetic expression on his face.

Robinson stood before a dressing-table in his trousers and vest. His feet were hare, and the circle of dirt round the ankles embarrassed George, as did the dirty, tattered vest that covered his pigeon chest. He had taken out his false teeth, and his lips were sunk in, giving his mouth an odd, puckered look that reminded George of a dried pippin.

Robinson stood gaping at Brant, terror in his eyes, his blotchy complexion gradually paling as blood drained from his face.

Across the room was a large bed, the head and foot of which were ornamented by brass knobs. A woman lay huddled up in the bed. George could not guess her age. He thought perhaps she was thirty-five to forty. She was big, blowzy and coarse. Her dyed hennaed hair, black at the roots, frizzed round her head like a soiled halo. She wore a pink nightdress which was creased and dirty and through which her great, bulging figure strained to escape.