More Deadly Than The Male (7 page)

"Shut the door," Brant said, watching Robinson intently.

Not quite knowing what he was doing, George obeyed. He thrust his trembling hands into his mackintosh pockets and stared down at the worn carpet, fearful of what was going to happen.

The woman in the bed was the first to recover from the shock.

"Who in hell are you?" she demanded in a strident, furious voice. "Get out! Chuck 'em out, Eddie . . ."

Robinson, still clutching his trousers, backed away from Brant's baleful eyes.

"Have you fellows gone crazy?" he finally mumbled. He looked round with despairing eagerness, picked up his teeth and slipped them between his trembling jaws. He seemed to draw courage from them, and when he spoke again the quaver had gone from his voice. "You can't come in here like this."

Brant thrust his head forward. "We didn't know you had company," he said softly, "but now we're here, George wants to talk to you, don't you, George?"

"If you don't get out," the woman screamed at them, "I'll call the cops!" She slid out of bed, a mass of jiggling flesh, snatched up her dressing gown and wrapped it round her. "Don't stand there like a wet week," she went on to Robinson. "Get 'em out of here."

Robinson tried to pull himself together. "You'll pay for this, you two," he said, working himself into a rage. "I've a mind to sack you on the spot. You must he drunk. Get Out, and I'll see you in the morning."

George, wishing the ground would open and swallow him, groped for the door handle, but Brant's voice froze him.

"Talk to him, George. Tell him what we've come for."

Robinson turned to George. He felt that he could cope with him "So you started this, did you?" he snarled. "I'm surprised at you! You'll be sorry for this, you see if you aren't. You wait until tomorrow."

George opened and shut his mouth, but no sound came.

The woman, afraid of Brant, swung round on George. "If you don't get out, you big, hulking rat, I'll scratch your eyes out!" she shouted at him

The woman swung round on him with a squeal of rage- then she stepped hack, her furious, blood-congested face paling. Robinson also took a step hack, catching his breath with a sharp, whistling sound.

Brant was holding an odd-looking weapon in his hand. The harsh light of the unshaded overhead lamp made the blade glitter. The sight turned George's stomach.

"You'd better be careful," Brant said, addressing Robinson and the woman. "We don't want a scene, and you don't want me to get rough, do you?"

The woman sank down on the bed, fear and horror on her fat, flabby face. Robinson was so terrified that he looked as if he were going to have some kind of a fit. His face turned yellow-green, and his legs trembled so much that he had to sit on a chair

George wasn't in much better state. He expected the woman to scream at any minute and for the police to come rushing in.

Brant seemed to know by instinct that George wasn't going to be much use. He dominated the scene.

"You've been cheating Fraser," he said to Robinson. "I've found out how much you should have paid him." He took the notebook from his pocket. "It's all here. You owe him thirty quid. We've come to collect."

Robinson stared stupidly at him. He opened and shut his mouth like a dying fish, but no sound came from him. 

"Hurry Up!" Brant said impatiently. "I'm wet, and I want to go to bed. You know you've been cheating, so come on and pay up!"

Brant suddenly leaned forward. His hand moved so quickly that George only caught a brief flash of the weapon. Then Robinson started hack with a faint squeal. A long scratch now ran down his white, blotchy cheek from which a fine line of blood began to well.

The woman opened her mouth to scream, but the sound died in her throat as Brant looked at her.

"You'll get it too," he said softly, and he edged a little towards her. "Come on," he went on to Robinson. "Do you want any more?"

Robinson, blood on his dirty vest and neck, waved his hand in a frantic, despairing gesture to the dressing-table.

Brant picked up a wallet that was half hidden under a grimy handkerchief. He counted out twenty-two pounds and held them in hand, looking at Robinson.

"Where's the rest?"

"That's all I've got," Robinson sobbed. "I swear that's all I've got."

Brant put the money in his pocket.

"You're through," he said. "From now on we're working this territory. Do you understand? Get out and stay out. If I see you again I'll fix you." 

Listening to his words, George experienced a strange feeling that he was witnessing a scene from one of his own fantasies. Those words were the kind of words George Fraser, millionaire gangster, would have said to Al Capone or Charlie Lucky or any of the big shots. Somehow it took the horror from the situation: he half expected the door to open and Ella to come in with a cup of tea, interrupting this vivid, but surely unreal drama.

Brant was pushing him to the door. "Good night," he was saying. "You might be thinking of telling the cops about us, but I shouldn't if I were you. I don't carry this sticker around with me unless I've a job to do. They won't catch me as easily as that: but I'll come after you."

He stood in the doorway looking at Robinson and the woman, then, jerking his head at George, he walked out of the room.

This is ridiculous, George thought, as he followed Brant down the stairs. He can't get away with this. Who does he think he is? He can't steal my thunder in this way and then calmly walk off as if nothing had happened.

George had enacted the kind of interview they had just had so many times in his mind that Brant's flagrant trespassing on his preserves angered and humiliated him. Of course, he hadn't been particularly bright at the interview. He had to admit that. He had been scared of Robinson and the woman, but that was only because he had felt defenceless. How was he to know that Brant would produce a razor and commit violence? If he had known, he would have brought his gun. Then it would have been quite a different story. With the Luger in his hand, he would not only have dominated Robinson and that ghastly slut of a woman, but he would have also dominated Brant. What an opportunity to have missed! All because Brant hadn't taken him into his confidence. A sullen anger began to rise in him against Brant. It was like Brant to horn in, to push him aside and take all the credit.

Out in the darkness and the rain, George grabbed hold of Brant and jerked him round.

Anger and disappointment and a feeling of shame gave him courage.

"What are you playing at?" he asked roughly. "Why didn't you tell me what you were going to do? I could have handled it. I know how to handle a job like that—without messing or cutting people."

Brant stared at him: his gaunt, cold face startled. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, shaking off George's hand. "A fat lot of good you were . . ."

"So that's what you think?" George said furiously. "Well, it was your fault. I didn't want to go. I told you. If I had known what you were up to, it would have been different."

"How different?" Brant asked. "I've got the money and I've kicked him out of our territory. We're free to do what we like now. What more could you have done?"

George was a little taken aback, but he was so envious and angry that he blurted out, "It would have been different if I'd brought my gun."

"Gun?" Brant repeated. "What gun?"

George had never told anyone about the Luger. It was not the kind of thing you did tell anyone about. He had no licence for it. If the police heard about it, there would be trouble. They would most likely take it from him.

But he told Brant. There was nothing else he could do. It was either that, or loss of face.

"What do you think" he said gruffly. "I've had a gun for years. Brought it back from the States; only it's not a thing I talk about. The police don't stand for that kind of thing."

"A gun," Brant said, making it sound tremendously important. "So you've got a gun?"

"Had it for years," George repeated, uneasy, yet pleased with the impression he had made. "It saves a lot of talking. I'm not much of a one to talk. I don't need to talk with a gun."

"I didn't know," Brant said, and his hardness and confidence somehow didn't seem to matter any more to George. 

"I don't mess around with razors," George went on, his voice sounding strange even to him. "That's small-time stuff."

"We scared him all right," George returned, losing his ill- temper now that Brant was acknowledging his share in Robinson's defeat. "I'll never forget his face when you produced that sticker," he went on, feeling a generosity that compelled him to give the lion's share of the exploit to Brant.

"Pity you didn't bring the gun," Brant said, equally generous. "He'd've had a heart attack."

George sniggered. Brant, he decided, wasn't such a had sort after all. "I'll fix him if he tries anything funny," he went on grandly. "What with my gun and your sticker, we've got him where we want him."

"You're a pretty good shot, I Suppose?" Brant said, his head down and his yellow hair plastered flat by the rain.

"Me?" George laughed, delighted with Brant's interest. "I was considered to be fair enough. I could split a playing- card edge on at twenty-five yards. Bit out of practice now, of course."

"That's good, isn't it?" Brant said, hunching his shoulders. "I bet you've bumped off a few guys in your day."

George opened his mouth, saw the trap just in time, and walked on without speaking. It would he stimulating to brag that he had been a killer, but not to Brant. It was safe enough to tell Ella. She wouldn't talk, but Brant might.

"What's it like, killing a guy?" Brant asked, after a moment's pause. 

"That's something I don't talk about," George returned, shortly.

That was safer ground. "A good few," George said, shrugging his big shoulders carelessly. "It was us or them in those days."

"But you didn't, eh?"

Again George resisted the temptation. "That's something I keep to myself," he said, and after a moment's hesitation, he added gruffly, "Lay off, will you?"

"That's all right," Brant said quickly. "I guess that's something no one would talk about."

"Now you're smart," George returned, surprised at his own audacity.

At the street corner they paused..

"Well, you better take your money," Brant said. There was a note of reluctance in his voice, but he held out the crumpled roll of notes willingly enough.

George hesitated; at the back of his mind, although he was loath to admit it, he knew he would not have had the nerve to have taken the money. He knew that Brant expected him to share it with him, and after a mental tussle, he took the notes, hurriedly counted ten from the roll, and offered them to Brant.

"Here," he said, his face hot with embarrassment, "we'll share on this. After all, you helped get them."

"Fair enough," Brant said, and took the notes, putting them in his pocket.

George was rather taken aback by this cool acceptance of what was rightly his.

"Well, I'll he getting off," Brant said, before George could recover. "I don't think we'll have any further trouble with Robinson. We'll work the territory and send the orders direct to the Company. If Robinson starts trouble—well, we'll introduce him to your gun."

George nodded. "That's the idea," he said eagerly. "I'll put the wind up him all right."

Before Brant went, he put his hand on George's arm and actually smiled at him. "You're all right, George," he said, pinching George's massive muscles. "You're going to go places."

It took George some time before he could settle to sleep that night. Even the regular, soothing sound of Leo's purring failed to lull him. He felt that Brant no longer regarded him with contempt. He felt somehow that he had impressed Brant—a difficult, almost impossible person to impress. It was risky, of course, to have told Brant about the gun, but he just could not have let him get away with his home-made sticker.

George spent a long time reconstructing the scene with Robinson, only this time it was he who played the leading part. It was he who intimidated Robinson and made him hand over the money, and it was Brant who stood speechless, his grey-blue eyes alight with admiration.

The next evening George met Brant in a pub opposite Wembley underground station. It was quite startling how Brant's attitude towards George had changed. He now seemed to regard George as the leader, and although he still had the same cold, bored expression in his eyes, and the thin hardness about his mouth, he was diffident, almost ingratiating, in his manner To George's relief, the gun was not mentioned. 

"We'd better get to work," George remarked, after calling for a second pint. "Have another lemonade while I explain things to you."

"We can manage without Robo all right," George went on, after he had taken a pull from his tankard. "I had a word with Head Office. I told them we preferred to work together, and Robo was willing. They don't care one way or the other so long as they get the orders." He lit a cigarette, and for a moment enjoyed the feeling that he was now the head salesman, instructing a novice. "The first thing you have to do when you're canvassing is to get into the house. It's easy once you know how. For instance, if you knock on the door and say 'Is Mr Jones at home?' the old girl is hound to ask 'Who is it?' If he isn't in, then you have to tell her the whole story, and the old man is tipped off when he does come home. That means he's ready for you when next you call. Don't forget the surprise visit gets the business." George took another pull from his tankard, and then went on, "If, on the other hand, you knock on the door, and when the old girl comes you raise your hat and begin to move away, and at the same time you say, 'I suppose Mr Jones is not in?' then she'll answer nine times out of ten, 'No, he isn't.' You then say, 'I'll look in some other time', and by that time you're halfway to the gate without telling her what you want."