1

They were all there — Capone, Dillinger, Nelson, Karpis and Charlie Lucky. The table at which they sat was littered with poker chips, playing cards, whisky bottles and glasses. A green shaded lamp hung low over the table; its harsh light fell on their faces, while the rest of the room remained dark and shadowy.

Several men, almost invisible in the gloom and haze o f tobacco smoke, lounged behind the group at the table. They were small men, with eyes like wet stones, swarthy complexions and granite faces.

The group at the table and the men in the shadows suddenly stiffened when George Fraser walked into the room. He stood a few feet from the table, his hands in his coat pockets, his jaw thrust forward and his eyes threatening and cold.

No one spoke; no one moved.

“If any of you guys wants to start something,” George Fraser said, after along pause, “I’ll take care of his widow.”

Very slowly, very cautiously, Capone laid his cards down on the table. “Hello, George,” he said in a husky whisper.

George Fraser eyed him coldly. There were few men who would have had the nerve to walk alone into that back room and face five of the biggest and most dangerous bosses in the booze racket, but George Fraser was without nerves.

“It’s time we had a little talk,” he said, biting off each word. “You guys have been running this show too long. You’re through— the lot of you. From now on, I’m taking over this territory, and I’m running it my way.”

There followed another long pause, then Dillinger, his eyes glowing and his face white with rage, snarled, “Who said?”

George Fraser smiled. “I said,” he returned, in his clipped, cold voice.

Dillinger made a growling noise deep in his throat and his hand flashed to his hip pocket.

Capone, sitting next to him, grabbed frantically at his wrist. His fat face was blue-white with fear. “Do you want to commit suicide?” he yelled. “You don’t stand a chance with Fraser!”

Dillinger, swearing under his breath, tried to break Capone’s grip, and the table rocked as the two men wrestled. A bottle of whisky toppled and smashed to pieces on the floor.

“Let him alone, Al,” George Fraser called. “If he wants to play it that way, you’d better give him some air.”

Capone shot a terrified look at George Fraser. The pale, set face and the eyes that were now like chips o f ice completely unnerved him. He nearly fell over himself to get away from Dillinger.

“Look out!” he cried. “He’s going to shoot!”

The other three at the table kicked their chairs away and jumped clear, while some of the men who had been standing in the shadows threw themselves on the floor.

Dillinger, alone at the table, sat motionless, glaring at George Fraser.

“Okay, Johnny,” George Fraser said mockingly, “go for your gun. What are you waiting for?”

Dillinger rose slowly to his feet. He swept his chair out of the way and crouched.

“Bet you a hundred bucks I can put five slugs in your pumper before your rod shows,” George Fraser said, letting his hands hang loosely at his sides.

Dillinger cursed him, and then his arm moved with the speed of a striking snake. A heavy, snub-nosed automatic jumped as if by magic into George Fraser’s hand. The room rocked with the sound of gunfire.

Dillinger, his eyes wide and sightless, crashed to the floor and rolled over on his back.

“Take a look at him, Charlie,” George Fraser said, his eyes on the group of men huddled against the wall.

Charlie Lucky, after a moment’s hesitation, reached forward, pulled Dillinger’s coat back and ripped open his shirt.

“Five slugs, “he said, his voice cracking; “all in the same spot.”

“Good morning, Mr George,” Ella said, putting a cup of watery tea on the bamboo table by the bed. “Did I wake you?”

“Hmm?” George Fraser asked. He looked up with blank astonishment at Ella in her frowsy blue uniform and her ridiculous cap perched on the top of her mouse-coloured hair. “Good Lord! You gave me quite a turn. I didn’t hear you come in. I must’ve been dozing…”

“It’s ever such a lovely morning,” Ella went on, crossing the drab little room, and pulling up the blind. “The sun’s shining and there ain’t a cloud in the sky.”

George Fraser closed his eyes against the bright sunlight that streamed through the grimy window pane. The image he had been creating of himself as “Machine-gun Fraser", millionaire gangster, still gripped his imagination, and Ella’s unexpected intrusion fuddled him.

“Shall I tidy up a hit?” Ella asked, her plain, shiny little face resigned as she surveyed the disordered room. “Coo, Mr George! Your socks are in the coal-scuttle.”

George Fraser sighed. It was no good. He would have to leave the back room, the smell of cordite, the terrified faces of Capone, Nelson, Karpis and Charlie Lucky until later. He could always pick up his fantasy when Ella had gone.

“Oh, all right,” he said, pushing the blankets from his shoulders and sitting up. “Only don’t make too much noise. I’ve got a bit of a head this morning.”

Ella looked at him hopefully. “Did you have any adventures last night?” she asked as she busied herself about the room.

George resisted the temptation to give her a fictitious account of his evening He did not feel quite up to it this morning, and after the story he had told her the day before, which had been his best effort to date, he did not think it wise to risk an anticlimax.

“I can’t tell you yet,” he said. “A little later perhaps; but it’s too secret right now.”

Ella’s face fell. She was thin, sharp-featured, wistful — a typical product of the East End slums. For three years she had been the general help at this boarding-house Off the Edgware Road. Most mornings, providing he hadn’t a hangover, George would keep her entranced with lurid tales of G-men, gangsters and their molls. He assured her that, when he lived in the States, he had known them all. At one time he had worked with Frank Kelly, the hank robber; at another time he had been the bodyguard of Toni Scarletti, the booze racketeer. His name was known and feared by all the big shots of the underworld, and he had experienced enough adventures to fill a dozen books.

These stories which George recounted so glibly were the figments of his extraordinary imagination. He had never been to America, let alone seen a gangster; but, being an avid reader of the lurid American pulp magazines, and having seen every gangster film ever made, he had acquired a remarkable knowledge of American crime. The gunmen as depicted by such magazines as Front-Page Detective a nd True C onfessions completely obse ssed him.

Like so many other men and women who live in a secret world of their own, George suffered from an acute inferiority complex. He had always lacked confidence in himself, and believed that whatever he planned to do was hound to end in failure.

This inferiority complex was the direct result of the treatment he had received in his early childhood from his parents. His birth had been an “accident", and his parents, music-hall artists by profession, had no place for a child in their rather selfish, extremely mobile lives. They regarded him as a calamity, and had made no attempt to conceal the fact from him. He was always the last to be considered, his babyhood was loveless, and at the earliest possible moment he was handed over to an elderly couple who had reluctantly taken on the role of foster parents in return for the much-needed addition to their meagre income. They were too old to be bothered with a small child, and it was not long before George realized that they considered him to be an unnecessary burden to them.

It says much for George’s character that this unhappy, unwanted existence did not entirely affect his nature, but it certainly made him extremely shy and unnaturally sensitive. Because of his shyness he had a wretched time at school. As he grew older he became more reserved and repressed. He made no friends, and consequently had no outlet for his thoughts and desires. It was not surprising, then, that he became an introvert: as an antidote against loneliness and as a bolster to his drooping ego, he filled his mind with stories of adventure and violence, imagining himself as the hero of whatever story he happened to be reading. When he was at school he imagined himself as Bulldog Drummond; later, he saw himself as Jack Dempsey, and now, at the age of twenty-seven, he pictured himself as the all-powerful gang leader, amassing millions of dollars, terrorizing other mobs, racing the streets in a black armoured car, and being the idol of dazzling, beautifully dressed blondes.

For some time George Fraser had been content to live, in his mind, this role of a gangster; but these mental pictures became so vivid and exciting that he could no longer keep them to himself. Cautiously he tried them out on Ella, and was gratified to find that he had an immediately enthralled audience.

Ella had previously regarded George as just another boarder who seldom got up before eleven o’clock, and who expected a cup of tea just when she was occupied in making beds. But when George casually mentioned that he had lived in Chicago and had rubbed shoulders with most of the notorious Public Enemies, Ella was instantly intrigued. She went regularly to her local cinema, and was well acquainted with the savagery of American gangsters. Now here was someone, it seemed, who had actually met these men in the flesh, who had fought with and against them, and whose experiences were much more exciting and fantastic than the most exciting and fantastic film.

Ella was profoundly impressed. Not that George Fraser was impressive to look at. He had a tall, beefy, ungainly figure. His complexion was sallow and his eyes were big, blue and rather sad. In spite of his size, he could not entirely hide his timidity and shyness. If someone spoke to him suddenly he would change colour and become flustered, looking anywhere but at the person addressing him. His landlady, Mrs Rhodes, terrified him, and whenever he ran into her he would talk complete nonsense while endeavouring to escape, leaving her staring after him, completely bewildered.

In spite of his manner, the stories he had to tell fascinated Ella.

Not for a moment did it cross her mind that George was deceiving her. When he told her that he had been forced to leave the States in a hurry and that even now, if a certain mob knew where he was, they would come after him, she spent restless nights in fear for him. She must not, he had warned her, tell anyone of his past. He was, he explained, doing important and secret work, and his life would be in danger if anyone so much as suspected what his activities were.

All this was so much nonsense. In actual fact, up to four months ago George Fraser had been a hank clerk. He had been with the bank for ten years, and he would have been quite satisfied to remain a bank clerk for the rest of his days, but it did not turn out that way. One evening he had wandered into a pub—he was always wandering into pubs—a few minutes before closing time. There he met a flashily dressed individual who had, rather obviously, been in the pub since it had opened. This individual proposed to do George a good turn. Lowering his voice, he conveyed to George the name of a horse that was certain to win the next day’s two o’clock handicap.

Now, George was no gambler, nor was he interested in horseracing, but he was flattered that his companion had mistaken him for a sportsman. He decided to have a flutter.

The horse finished a length ahead of the field, and George received twenty pounds from a disgruntled bookmaker. He immediately jumped to the conclusion that he could make his fortune by hacking horses. Before long he was in debt, and in desperation he turned to a money-lender to get him out of the mess. Then he couldn’t pay the money-lender’s charges, and the bank heard about it. George got the sack.

He was out of work for two miserable weeks, and he soon discovered that a discharged bank clerk was not a proposition an employer cared to consider. Things looked pretty black for George. He tramped the streets looking for work, and just as he was giving up hope, he obtained a job with the World-Wide Publishing

Company. It wasn’t much of a job, but, by now, George was glad to take anything.

He was, however, a little dismayed to find that the Company expected him to sell a set of children’s hooks from door to door on a “commission only” basis.

George had no confidence in his ability to sell anything. But the sales manager assured him that he need not worry about that. They would train him, and by the time they were through with him he would be able to sell coals to Newcastle. George was introduced to Edgar Robinson, head of the group of salesmen on whose territory George was to work. Robinson, an odd, aggressive creature with a shock of black hair and a blotchy complexion took George aside and earnestly congratulated him on his good fortune to be working with him. What he did not know about selling the Child’s Sel f-Educator, Robinson told him, could be written on his thumbnail. Every salesman who worked on his territory received personal tuition, and there was not a man trained by Edgar Robinson who was not earning at least ten pounds a week.

George became much more enthusiastic after he had heard this, and greatly encouraged when he realized that he was going to be shown how to obtain orders. He was, in fact, given an intensive two-day course in salesmanship along with the other applicants, and then he went out with Robinson and saw for himself how orders could be obtained.

A week later George was canvassing on his own, and by sheer hard work managed to earn three pounds ten shillings a week. He soon discovered that Robinson’s stories about salesmen earning more than this amount was so much sales talk, but, as George knew that he was not likely to get anything else, he stuck to the job, and continued to make enough to keep himself going.

The job of calling from door to door was a great blow to George’s pride. At first his shyness and timidity were a handicap. He would stand outside a house, screwing up his courage for such a time that people would become suspicious of him, and once one old lady telephoned for the police. Many people slammed the door in his face, while others were extremely rude to him. This treatment greatly increased his inferiority complex: there were moments when he suffered from moods of black depression, and he was driven more and more to rely on his fantasies of violence and adventure to sustain his bruised ego.

While Ella was tidying the room, George wrestled with his hangover. He had spent the previous evening at the King’s Arms, and had drunk one too many beers. Feeling the tea might help him recover, he reached for the cup.

“Seen Leo this morning’?” he asked, for something to say.

Ella gave the dressing-table a final flick and moved to the door.

“He’s somewhere around,” she said indifferently. She was plainly disappointed that George wasn’t in a talkative mood. “The silly thing! Wot you see in that cat I can’t imagine. Not that I don’t like cats meself, but not an old stupid like Leo. Leo indeed! I wonder who gave ’im that name. As much like a lion as I am. ’E’s frightened of ’is own shadow. I reckon it’s cool to keep ’im alive. ’E never comes near anyone but you, Mr George. But I must say ’e does seem to lave taken a proper fancy to you, doesn’t ’e?”

George’s face lit up. “Animals like me,” he said simply. “Poor old Leo! He must have had a pretty rotten time as a kitten, I should think. He’s all right once he knows you.”

Ella sniffed. “He’s ’ad enough opportunity to know me,” she returned, “but ’e bolts as soon as ’e sees me. ’E’s daft, that’s wot ’e is,” and she reluctantly took herself off to make the ten beds and clean the ten bedrooms of the other boarders who had, three hours since, gone off to their various offices.

As soon as she had gone, George slipped out of bed and opened the door. He left it ajar, went over to the dressing- table, found his cigarette case and then returned to bed. He left his door ajar every morning, for as soon as Ella was out of the way, Leo would come to see him

When George first came to the hoarding-house, Leo had been as terrified of him as of everyone else. The room George took over had been vacant for some little time, and the cat had used it as a kind of sanctuary. Several times George, coming home late, had found Leo curled up on his bed. The moment he opened the door the cat had sprung from the bed and had shot past him out of the room, a terrified streak of black fur.

George had been sorry for Leo. He saw, with a startling flash of intuition, that Leo was very much like himself. The cat was big and imposing, but its soul was as timid as George’s. He understood the cat’s fear of strangers, and he made up his mind that he would win its confidence.

For two months George wooed Leo’s affection. He bought fish, which he left under his bed, he was always careful to enter his room slowly and without noise, and he would sit motionless if the cat ever visited him It took a long time before Leo would stay with him Even then the cat would spring away if he came near. But gradually, with inexhaustible patience, George won its affection. Now Leo came regularly every morning and kept him company.

This was a major triumph for George. He was not only flattered, but his interest, filling many hours of otherwise lonely boredom, developed into an intense love for the animal. He depended on Leo for company, and their association afforded an outlet for his own repressed affection.

While he was thinking about the cat, he felt a weight on the bed and, opening his eyes, he found Leo looking at him. The cat was a big black Persian with enormous yellow eyes and long whiskers. It stood on George’s chest, padding with its paws while it sniffed delicately at George’s face.

“Can’t stay long, old boy,” George said, stroking its head with tender fingers. “I’ve got work to do this morning Cone on, settle for a moment,” and he pulled the cat down beside him.

He continued to talk to it, stroking and fondling it, feeling at peace with life, grateful to the cat for its company, lavishing on it the urgent, rather overpowering love which unconsciously he yearned for himself.

2

George Fraser wandered into the saloon bar of the King’s Arms at ten minutes to one o’clock. He walked to his favourite corner at the far end of the long bar counter and propped himself up against the wall.

The bar was not particularly full, and after a moment or so, Gladys, the barmaid, a big, good-natured looking girl, detached herself from a group of men with whom she had been gossiping and came towards him, wiping the counter with a swab as she did so.

“How’s yourself?” she asked, giving George a fleeting smile as she drew a pint of mild and bitter, which she set before him.

George tipped his hat and returned her smile He liked Gladys. She had served him regularly for the past four months, and he had a vague feeling that she was interested in him. Anyway, George always felt at home with barmaids, considering them to be friendly, comfortable women, not likely to jeer at him nor to pass unkind remarks about him behind his hack.

It gave him considerable pleasure to enter the saloon bar of the King’s Arms and receive a pint of beer without actually asking for it, and for Gladys to inquire how he was. These trifling attentions made him feel that he was one of her special clients, and he regarded the King’s Arms as a kind of second home.

“I’m fine,” he said. “No need to ask how you are. You always look wonderful.” He paid for his beer. “Don’t know how you do it.”

Gladys laughed. “Hard work agrees with me,” she confessed, glancing in the mirror behind the bar. She patted her mass of dark, wavy hair and admired herself for a brief moment. “Your Mr Robinson was in last night. Oo’s his new friend—young, white-faced feller with a scar? I haven’t seen him around ’ere before.”

George shook his head. “Don’t ask me. Robo’s always picking up waifs and strays. He can’t hear his own company for more than five minutes.” He winked and went on, “Case of a bad conscience, if you ask me.”

“Well, I dunno about that,” Gladys said, polishing that part of the counter within reach of her arm. “But this Teller looked like a bad conscience if ever anyone did. ’E fair gave me the creeps.”

“Go on.” George’s rather vacant blue eyes widened. “How’s that?”

Gladys sniffed. “Something fishy about ’im. I wouldn’t like to run into ’im in the dark.”

George was mildly intrigued. “Oh, come off it,” he said, smiling. “You’re imagining things.”

An impatient tapping on the counter reminded Gladys that she was neglecting her duties.

“Shan’t be a jiffy,” she said. “There’s old Mr Henry. I mustn’t keep ’im waiting.”

George nodded understandingly. He was used to carrying on interrupted conversations with Gladys. It was understood between them that customers should not be kept waiting no matter how pressing the topic of discussion happened to be.

He glanced at Mr Henry, who was waiting impatiently for a small whisky. Mr Henry, like George, was a regular customer of the King’s Arms. He was a thin, red-faced little man, and he kept to himself. George often speculated what he did for a living. This morning, George decided that there was something rather mysterious about Mr Henry. He drank a little of his beer and relaxed against the wall.

… Gladys served Mr Henry with a whisky and soda, exchanged a few words with him, and then came towards George Fraser. Her eyes were alight with excitement, her face had paled.

“Something’s up,” George Fraser thought as he pushed his empty tankard towards her.

Gladys picked up the tankard, and while she filled it, she said in a voice scarcely above a whisper, “That’s Davie Bentillo. I recognized him in spite of his disguise.”

George Fraser stiffened. He glanced quickly at the little, redfaced man. Davie Bentillo! What a hit of luck! Every cop in the country was looking for Davie. It could he, although the disguise was superb. He was the same height as Scarletti’s ferocious gunman. Yes, it was the same nose and eyes… Gladys was right!

“Nice work, kid,” George Fraser said, and his hand crept to his hip pocket to close over the cold butt of his gun.

“Be careful, Mr Fraser,” Gladys breathed, her face waxen with fear. “He’s dangerous. “

Edgar Robinson jogged George’s elbow. “Wake up, cock,” he said, settling himself comfortably on a stool. “You look like sleeping beauty this morning. Bin on the tiles?”

George Fraser blinked at him, sighed and said, “Morning.”

Robinson took off his thick glasses and polished them with a grimy handkerchief. Without his glasses his eyes looked like small, green gooseberries. “Be a pal and ask me what I’ll have,” he said, showing his yellow teeth as he beamed at George. “I’ve bin and left me money at home.”

George eyed him without enthusiasm. “Well, what’ll it be?”

Robinson put his glasses on again and looked round the bar. “Well, I’d like a double whisky,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “but seeing as ’ow you’re paying, I’ll make it a beer.”

George signalled to Gladys.

“What’s up?” Robinson asked, eyeing George keenly. “Very strong and silent this morning, aren’t you? Gotta touch of pox or something?”

“I’m all right,” George said shortly. He disliked Edgar Robinson, while admiring his ability as a salesman.

“That’s the spirit,” Robinson returned, beaming again. “Must have my boys on the top line. The right mental attitude gets the business, you know. If you’re worrying about anything, ’ow can you hope to get orders?” He smiled his horsey smile as Gladys joined them. “Hello, my pretty,” he went on; “’pon my soul, she gets more desirable every day. Wouldn’t you like a little session with our Gladys in the park, George?”

George looked uncomfortable. Sex embarrassed him, and Robinson was always making him feel awkward by his loose talk in mixed society.

“Oh, shut up,” he growled, and without looking at Gladys he muttered, “Give him a mild and hitter, please.”

Robinson grinned. “Glad, my girl, I believe we’ve the privilege of drinking in the company of a virgin. Not being one meself, and knowing from the saucy look in your eye, my pretty, that you’d make no false claims, we knows Who we’re talking abaht, don’t we?”

Gladys giggled, drew another pint of beer and set it before Robinson. She glanced at George’s red face, winked at him and said, “Don’t you take any notice of him. It’s those who talk the most that do the least.”

Robinson dug George in the ribs. “She’s calling you a dirty old man, George,” he cackled. “Maybe you are. What’s your particular vice, old boy? ’Ere Glad, don’t go away; you might learn something.”

“I can’t waste my time talking nonsense with you,” Gladys returned. “I’ve got my work to do.”

When she had gone to the other end of the bar, Robinson stared at her broad hack for a second or so and then winked at George.

“Rather fancy her meself,” he said, his small green eyes lighting up. “Think she’s a proposition?”

George scowled at him. “Oh, dry up,” he snapped. “Can’t you get your mind off women for five minutes?”

Robinson gave him a sneering, amused smile. “Funny bloke, aren’t you, George?” he said, taking out a crumpled packet of Woodbines. ” ’Ere, have a smoke. The trouble with you, me boy, is you’re repressed. You’re scared of sex, and if you ain’t careful, it’ll fester inside you, and then anything may happen. Me—I’m as free as the air. It’s just a cuppa tea to me. When I want it, I have it, and that way it don’t do me any ’arm.”

George lit his cigarette, cleared his throat and produced a big envelope from the “poacher’s” pocket he had had made inside his coat.

“Now then,” he said. “Let’s see what I’ve got to do.” He took from the envelope a packet of printed forms and a sheet of paper containing the addresses of the local schools. “I’m planting more forms this afternoon. I’ve to collect others from Radlet Road school. Ought to get something from them, and this evening I’ll make some calls.”

Robinson glanced down the list of addresses and grunted. “All right,” he said. “Still working Wembley? Where are you going next?”

“Alperton, Harlesden and Sudbury,” George returned. “I’ve got it all doped out. There’s a good bunch of council houses in all those districts, and they haven’t been worked for some time now.”

“I almost forgot,” Robinson said, blowing a thin stream of smoke to the ceiling. “I’ve taken on a new salesman Thought I’d put him under your wing, George. You can show him the ropes, and he’ll be company for you.”

“You mean you want me to train him?” George asked eagerly, his big face lighting up.

Robinson nodded. “That’s the idea,” he said. “He’s new to the game, and you know all the tricks by now; so I thought you might as well give me a hand.”

“Why, certainly,” George said. He was delighted that Robinson should pay hint such a compliment. “Yes, I think I can teach him a few tricks. Who is he?”

“Chap named Sydney Brant. Rum kind of a bloke, but he might get some business.” Robinson glanced at the clock above the bar. “He ought to be here any minute now. Take him out this afternoon and show him how to plant the forms, will you? And then take him with you when you make your calls tonight. Anyway, I don’t have to tell you what to do, do I?”

“You leave it to me,” George said, straightening up and feeling important. “Have another beer, Robo,” and he signalled to Gladys.

Robinson gave him a sly, amused look. He could see that George was delighted to be given some responsibility. That suited Robinson, as he was getting tired of showing new men how to get orders. If George wanted to do it, so much the better. Robinson had long since given up serious canvassing. He relied on his salesmen to get orders, and took from each an overriding commission. Now that George was showing promise as a reliable salesman, Robinson planned to shift the training onto his shoulders, and in time he hoped he would not have to do any of the work at all.

Gladys gave them two more pints, and George, who was hungry, ordered a beef sandwich.

“Want one?” he asked Robinson.

“Not just now,” Robinson returned. “It’s a bit early for me. I’ve only just got up.”

While George ate his sandwich, the bar began to fill up, and soon the place was crowded.

Suddenly, edging through the crowd at the bar, George noticed a thick-set young fellow with an untidy shock of straw-coloured hair coming towards them.

There was something about this young man that immediately arrested George’s attention. He had a livid scar—a burn—on his right cheek. The skin was raw and unsightly. George guessed the burn had only just been freed of its dressing. Then there was a look of starved intensity in his face, and his grey-blue eyes, heartless and hitter, were the most unfriendly George had ever seen.

This young man—he could not have been more than twentyone or -two—came up to Robinson and stood at his side without saying anything. He was wearing worn grey flannel trousers and a shabby tweed coat. His dark blue shirt was crumpled and his red tie looked like a piece of coloured string.

Robinson said, “Ah! There you are. I was wondering where you’d got to. This is George Fraser, one of my best salesmen. George, this is Sydney Brant, I was telling you about.”

George flushed with pleasure to be called one of Robinson’s best salesmen, but when he met Brant’s eyes he experienced a strange uneasiness. There was something disconcerting about Brant’s blank face, the indifferent way he stood, as if he didn’t give a damn for anyone. The raw, puckered wound upset George, who had a slightly squeamish stomach in spite of his fascination for violence and bloodshed.

“How do you do?” he said, looking away. “Robo was just saying he wanted me to show you the ropes. I’ll certainly do my best.”

Brant stared at him indifferently and said nothing. “You’ll find old George knows all the tricks,” Robinson said breezily.

Why couldn’t the fellow say something? George thought. He glanced down at his tankard, swished the beer round in it and looked up abruptly at Brant.

“Robo says he wants you and me to work together,” he said. “We—we might do some work this afternoon.”

Brant nodded. His eyes shifted to Robinson and then back to George. He still appeared to find the situation called for no comment.

Robinson was not at his ease. He picked his nose and smiled absently at himself in the big mirror behind the bar.

“You couldn’t do better than work with George,” he said, addressing himself in the mirror. “You’ll be surprised when you see old George in action.” He patted George’s arm. “We’ll make a big success out of young Syd, won’t we?”

“Don’t call me Syd,” the young man said in a low, clipped voice. “My name’s Brant.”

Robinson flashed his toothy smile, but his eyes looked startled. “Must be matey,” he said, looking into the mirror again. He adjusted his frayed tie. “Can’t do business if we aren’t matey, can we, George? You call me Robo, I’ll call you Syd—right?”

“My name’s Brant,” the young man repeated and stared through Robinson with bored, cold indifference.

There was an awkward pause, then George said, “Well, have a drink. What’ll it be?”

Brant shrugged his thin shoulders. “I don’t drink,” he returned. “Still, I don’t mind a lemonade,” and his eyes went to Gladys, who came along the bar at George’s signal.

George, seeing her give a quick, alarmed look at Brant, realized that this was the fellow she had been telling him about. Well, she was right. He could understand now what she meant when she had said that he’d given her the creeps. George scratched his head uneasily. He was reluctant to admit it, but the fellow gave him the creeps too.

“A lemonade for Mr Brant,” he said, winking at Gladys.

Gladys poured out the lemonade, set it before Brant and, without a word, walked away to the far end of the bar.

Again there was an awkward pause, then Robinson finished his beer, wiped his thick lips on his coat sleeve and slid off the stool.

“Well, I’m off,” he announced. “I’ve got several little jobs to do. I’ll leave you in George’s capable hands. Don’t forget, boys, every door is a door of opportunity. The right mental attitude gets the business. If you haven’t the right MA, you can’t hope to conquer the other man’s mind. You want your prospect to buy the Child’s SelfEducator. He does n’t want to have anything to do with it because he doesn’t know anything about it. It’s your job to convince him that the CSE is the best investment he can buy. Get your prospect agreeing with you from the very start of your sales talk. Get inside the house. Never attempt to sell a prospect on his doorstep. Know when to stop talking and when to produce the order form.” He beamed at George and went on, “George knows all about it. Follow those rules and you can’t go wrong. Good luck and good hunting.” His toothy smile faltered a trifle as he felt Brant’s sneering eyes searching his face. With a wave of his hand, Robinson pushed his way through the crowd and out into the street.

George stared after him, an admiring look in his eyes. “He knows the business all right,” he said enthusiastically. “Believe me, he’s one of the best salesmen I’ve ever met.”

Brant sipped his lemonade and grimaced. “You can’t have met many,” he said, staring past George at the group of men at the end of the bar.

George started. “What do you mean? Why, Robo knows every trick in this game better than any salesman working for the Wide World.”

Brant’s expressionless eyes shifted from the group of men to George’s flushed face.

“He’s living on a bunch of suckers who’re fools enough to let him get away with it,” he said in flat, cold tones, like a judge pronouncing sentence.

George’s sense of fair play was outraged. “But its business. He trains us, so naturally we pay him a small commission. We couldn’t sell anything unless he tells us where to go and how to get our contacts. Be fair, old man.”

The white, thin face jeered at him “What do you call a small commission?”

“He told you, didn’t he?”

“I know what he told me, but what did he tell you?” Brant jerked a long lock of hair out of his eyes.

George put his tankard down on the bar. He felt it was for me this young fellow was taken down a peg or two. “We give Robo ten per cent of what we make. That’s fair, isn’t it? We get a quid for every order and we pay Robo two bob. Can’t call that profiteering, can you?” He studied Brant anxiously. “I mean Robo trains us and arranges our territory. Two bob isn’t much, is it?”

Brant again jerked the lock of hair out of his eyes, impatiently, irritably. “What makes you think the Company doesn’t pay more than a pound for an order?”

George stared at him. He felt he was on the brink of an unpleasant discovery; something that he didn’t want to hear. “What are you hinting at?” he asked uneasily.

“The Company pays thirty bob on every order sent in. That’s why your pal Robinson makes you send your orders through him He not only takes two bob off you, but ten bob as well. I took the trouble to ’phone the Company and ask them what they’d pay me if I sent in my orders direct. They said thirty bob.”

George suddenly hated this young man with his straw-coloured hair and his disgusting scar. Why couldn’t he have left him in peace? He had trusted Robinson. They had got along fine together. Robinson had been his only companion. Robinson had said that George was his best salesman, and he had given him responsibility. He had always been at hand to smear a paste of flattery on George’s bruised ego. George thought of all the past orders he had given him, and he felt a little sick.

“Oh,” he said, after a long pause, “so that’s how it is, is it?”

Brant finished his lemonade. “Should have thought you’d found that out for yourself,” he said in his soft, clipped voice.

George clenched his fists. “The dirty rat!” he exclaimed, trying to get a vicious look in his eyes. “Why, he’d ’ye been taken for a ride for that if he’d been in the States.”

Brant smiled secretly. “Is that where you come from?”

“Sure,” George said, realizing that this was a chance to reestablish himself. “But it’s some time ago. I must be slipping. Fancy letting a cheap crook like Robinson pull a fast one on me. If ever Kelly got to hear about it, he’d rib me to death.”

The thin, cold face remained expressionless. “Kelly?”

George picked up his tankard and drank. The beer tasted warm and flat. Without looking at Brant, he said, “Yeah—Frank Kelly. I used to work for him in the good old days.”

“Kelly?” Brant was still and tense. “You mean, the gangster?”

George nodded. “Sure,” he said, feeling an infuriating rush of blood mounting to his face. “Poor old Frank. He certainly had a bad break.” He set his tankard down, and in an endeavour to conceal his confusion, he lit a cigarette. “But, of course, that was some time ago.”

Brant’s thin mouth twisted. “Still, now you know, you’re not going to let Robinson get away with this, are you?”

George suddenly saw the trap he had dug for himself. If Brant was to think anything of him, he’d have to go through with it.

“You bet I’m not,” he growled, scowling fiercely into his empty tankard.

“Good,” Brant said, a veiled, jeering look in his eyes. “That’ll save me some trouble. You’d know how to talk to him, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ll fix him,” George threatened, feeling a growing dismay. “No one’s ever pulled a fast one on me without regretting it.”

“I’ll come with you,” Brant said softly. “I’d like to see how you handle him.”

George shook his head. “You’d better leave this to me,” he said feebly. “I might lose my temper with him I don’t want witnesses.”

“I’ll come with you all the same.” Brant’s thin lips tightened. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

They looked at each other. George felt himself wilt under the baleful look that had jumped into Brant’s eyes.

“Okay,” he muttered uneasily. “You can come along if you want to.”

There was a long pause and then he said, “Well, we’d better do some work. You ready?”

Brant nodded. “Yes.” He pushed himself away from the counter. “Tonight’ll be interesting,” he added, and followed George out of the bar.

3

George Fraser had little to say while he and Brant travelled by underground to Wembley. Talking was difficult in the swaying, roaring train, and he wanted time to think over what Brant had told him.

If what Brant had said were true, then Robinson had cheated him out of at least twenty pounds. George considered what he could have done with all that money. Twenty pounds! Why, he could have bought a second-hand car, he thought dismally. He had always wanted a car. He had no idea what he was going to say to Robinson when he saw him that night. If it hadn’t been for Brant, he probably wouldn’t have had the nerve to raise the matter at all; but now he had to make a show before this unpleasant, disturbing intruder. He would have to make a shot at persuading Robinson to fork up the twenty pounds. He hadn’t much hope, as Robinson never seemed to have any money, but it might be worth trying. Of course, Robinson might turn nasty. He might even demand the return of all George’s specimen copies of the Child’s Self-Educator and then tell George to go to blazes. Then what would he do? It’d mean he’d be out of work again, and that thought appalled George.

Well, it was no good worrying, he decided gloomily. After all, Robinson was cheating him, and he couldn’t expect to get away with it. He’d tackle him politely and firmly, and hope for the best. It wouldn’t do for Brant to think he couldn’t handle the situation. Brant seemed now to be regarding him with a little more respect since George had mentioned Frank Kelly. George pulled a face. He hoped Brant wouldn’t say anything about that to anyone. He shot a furtive look at the blank, hard face. All he could see was the disagreeable, raw-looking scar and one vacant, glittering eye. Nasty young customer, he thought uneasily. Proper dead-end kid. He wondered if Brant believed him. You couldn’t tell where you were with a fellow with such an expressionless face. Anyway Brant hadn’t asked any questions, and he seemed to have accepted Kelly after a momentary glimmer of surprise.

The train pulled into Wembley station, and with a sigh of relief George got to his feet. He was glad to have something to do. He didn’t want to think about Brant nor what he was going to say to Robinson that night. He forced this disagreeable prospect to the back of his mind and shambled along beside his companion.

“Now, our first job is to call at Radlet Road school,” he said, as they walked briskly up the High Road. “I called in there yesterday and planted our circulars. You see, unless we know where the kids live, we can’t get any orders. It isn’t like selling vacuum cleaners, for instance. With vacuum cleaners ifs a straight door-to-door canvass. But in our line we have to know which homes have children and which haven’t.” He paused while he fished a cigarette from a crumpled carton and offered it to Brant.

“I don’t smoke,” Brant said shortly. They were the first words he had uttered since leaving the train.

“Oh, all right,” George looked at him blankly, and lit up. They moved on, and George said, “Well, we’ve got to get the names and addresses of all the kids at the various Council schools. It isn’t easy, because the teachers don’t want to help us. You’d think they’d be glad for the kids to have the hooks, wouldn’t you? But not they.” George breathed heavily through his thick nose. “Of course, some of ’em do help, otherwise we’d get nowhere. But the majority are a lazy, suspicious lot. We have to persuade the teacher to pass our forms round the class and get the kids to put their names and addresses on them; then we collect the forms next day and make our calls. It sounds simple, doesn’t it, but you wait… you’ll see what I mean before long.”

All the time he was talking, Brant strode along at his side, his face expressionless and his eyes blank. For all George knew, he hadn’t heard a word George had said.

This indifferent attitude annoyed George. All right, he thought, lapsing into a sulky silence, you think it’s child’s play, but just you wait. You’ll find it’s not all beer and skittles. You wait until you try to get an order. Be as superior as you like, but with a dial like yours you don’t stand a hope. Do you think anyone will want to look at you when you try to talk to them? They’ll slam the door in your ugly mug, you see if they don’t, and it’ll serve you right. Take you down a peg or two, my lad. That’s what you want. Be superior if that’s how you feel, but you’re riding for a fall. You can’t say I haven’t tried to be friendly, but I’m damned if I’m going to put myself out if you don’t meet me half way.

He was glad when they reached the school. Now he could show Brant how successfully he had cultivated the headmaster the day before. They crossed the deserted playground and approached the red-brick school building. In spite of his outward show of confidence, George could never enter a school premises without a feeling of guilt. The LCC had forbidden canvassers to call on Secondary and Council schools, and George always had it at the back of his mind that he would run into a visiting school inspector one of these days and he ordered ignominiously from the school.

He paused at the main entrance, and with an uneasy smile pointed out the notice pinned to the door.

“See that?” he said, anxious that Brant should share his own secret uneasiness. “‘Canvassers and salesmen are not permitted on the school premises’ I told you it wasn’t easy, didn’t I? It’s only when the headmaster’s friendly that we can get anywhere.”

Brant didn’t say anything. He glanced at George with sneering contempt in his eyes.

George pushed open the door and entered the long passage, which smelt of disinfectant, floor polish and stale perspiration. They walked down the passage, past a number of classrooms. They could see through the glass partitions into the small rooms, each containing a number of children at desks. The children spotted them, and heads turned in their direction with the precision of a field of corn moving in a wind.

George shrank from their inquisitive, staring eyes. He hunched his great shoulders and hurried on towards the headmaster’s office.

The headmaster looked up from his desk and frowned at them. He was a little man, thin and old. Two or three strands of greying hair had been carefully plastered across the baldness of his head. His large, mild eyes were tired, and his shoulders, under his shabby coat, drooped as if the burden of his responsibilities were too much for him

“Good afternoon, Mr Pickthorn,” George said, with the overpowering heartiness he always assumed when working. “What a magnificent day! Too good to be in, but we’ve all got our living to make, haven’t we?” He stood over the headmaster, large, friendly, anxious to please. “We can’t all go gadding about when there’s work to be done, can we? Noses to the grindstones, eh?” He lowered his voice and winked. “Not that you and me wouldn’t like to be at Lord’s today.”

It had taken George some time to conquer his shyness when meeting strangers, but now that he was sure of what he was going to say, he was becoming quite a fluent, if automatic talker. He hoped that Brant was being impressed. That’d show him how to talk to prospects. Brant would have to shake up his ideas if he thought he was going to make a successful salesman. People liked to have someone call on them who was cheerful and bright.

Mr Pickthorn smiled vaguely and blinked up at George. “Ali,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “Yes, Lord’s.” Then he glanced at Brant, and the friendly look drained out of his eyes. He glanced hurriedly away, his thin mouth tightening  - There! George thought triumphantly. See what happens when they look at your ugly mug. Go on, be superior. I don’t care. At least, they don’t look away when I talk to them.

Feeling the changing atmosphere, he went on hurriedly, “I was passing, Mr Pickthorn, so I thought I’d pick up those forms I left yesterday. Arc they ready?”

Mr Pickthorn fiddled with his pen tray, placing the pens and coloured pencils in their racks with exaggerated care. “No,” he said, without looking at either of them. “No, I’m afraid they aren’t.”

George felt his heartiness, bolstered up by the feeling that Mr Pickthorn liked him, oozing away like air from a leaking balloon.

“Well, never mind,” he said, with a fixed smile. “You don’t have to tell me how busy you are. I know what you headmasters have to do. Work, work, work, all day long. Suppose I call hack tomorrow? Perhaps you’ll find time to get them done tomorrow.”

Mr Pickthorn continued to fiddle with his pens and pencils. He did not look up. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said abruptly. “As a matter of fact, Mr Herring, my assistant, drew my attention to it. He’s quite right, of course. I wasn’t thinking Of course, the hooks are good. No doubt about that. I’ve known the Ch ild’s Self-Educator fo r many years, but as Mr Herring pointed out, it’s encouraging canvassers, and the Council doesn’t approve.” He opened a drawer and took out the packet of printed forms that George had left with him the day before. “I’m sorry,” he went on, pushing the forms across the desk to George. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He gave George a fleeting, embarrassed smile, again glanced at Brant, and then pulled a pile of papers towards him.

“You see?” George said, when they were in the street again. “Now we’ve got no calls for tonight. The rotten little rat! Couldn’t do enough for me yesterday. I spent a whole hour listening to him talk about his blasted garden. As if I cared! He promised me faithfully to distribute those forms. Oh, well, it only goes to prove.” He fished out his carton of cigarettes and lit one. “We’ll have to do a cold canvass tonight. It means wandering up and down a street looking out for kids, asking them where they live, or spotting toys in the windows or gardens. That’s a job I hate! Everyone watches you, and sometimes if you do ask the kids who they are, they get scared and start howling.”

Brant shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at his shoes. His indifferent expression infuriated George

“Well, what do we do?” Brant asked, as if to say, this is your mess, and it’s up to you to find a way out.

Choking back his irritation, George took out his list of schools and studied it. “We’d better go over to Sherman Road school,” he said. “It’s about half a mile from here. That’s the best school in the district. If we don’t get our forms in there, we’re properly in the soup.”

Brant shrugged. “All right,” he said, falling in step beside George. “So long as we get something done today.”

George shot him an angry glance. “It’s all very well to criticize,” he snapped, “but if you think you can do better, you’d better try.”

“I’ll take over if you make another mess of it,” Brant returned in his clipped, indifferent voice.

George could scarcely believe his ears. He walked on in silence, fuming with rage. If he made a mess of it! Of all the cheek! And he was teaching this smug brat—that’s all he was—a smug brat! He’d take over, would he? All right, they’d see about that. Perhaps it’d be a good idea to let him make a fool of himself. As if anyone would listen to him, with his scar and his straw hair and his shabby clothes. Then George’s caution asserted itself. The kids at Sherman Road were of a better class than in any of the other schools. He couldn’t afford to take chances with this school. Every form that was filled up might mean an order.

In the school lobby they found the same depressing notice warning canvassers and salesmen that they were trespassing. Underneath this official notice was another notice written and signed by the headmaster.

Can you read? Then keep out! No canvassers or salesmen will be seen during school hours. Any attempt to enter school premises without an official permit will be immediately reported to the local authorities.

Chas. Eccles.

Headmaster.

George read this notice and experienced a sinking feeling it his stomach. “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he whispered, furtively looking down the passage that led to the classrooms. “Doesn’t look very hopeful, does it?”

Brant shrugged. “You can always tell him you can’t read,” he said with a sneer. “He might even believe you.”

George flushed, and without a word walked down the passage to the headmaster’s office. He wished that Robinson was with him. Robo would know what to do. He didn’t care a damn whom he tackled or how rude people were to him

George tapped on the door and waited.

“Come in,” roared a voice.

They entered a small, hare room. A big, fleshy man, with a large blond moustache on a round, flat face, frowned at them.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he shouted in a voice made harsh by constant bullying.

George gave him a nervous smile. “Good morning, Mr Eccles,” he said, his heartiness wavering. “Forgive me for intruding like this, but I was passing, and I felt that you’d be interested to hear that the new edition of the Child’s Self Educator is now ready.”

Mr Eccles leaned across his desk, his hard little eyes boring into George. “What?” he shouted. “Selling something? Where’s your permit?”

George took an involuntary step back. “Now, please don’t misunderstand me, Mr Eccles,” he said, trying to control his rising colour. “We’re not selling anything. It’s just that we thought you’d be interested to hear that the new edition of the Child’s SelfEducator is—er—ready. It’s a magnificent job. Two hundred additional coloured plates, and all the maps have been revised. There’s more than two hundred thousand additional words, bringing this wonderful work of reference right up to date.”

“Hamm,” Mr Eccles grunted. “You people are not supposed to be on the school premises, you know. I haven’t the time nor the inclination to talk to salesmen. All right, thank you for calling. Good afternoon,” and he picked up his pen and began to write.

Had George been alone, he would have slunk out of the room, but the cold, still, hateful figure of Brant made retreat impossible.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr Eccles,” George said, his face now the colour of a beetroot, “there’s just one other point I would like to raise with you. You know the CSE, of course. You’ll agree with me, I’m sure, that it is a most useful set of books and its reputation in the world of letters is second to none. Any child possessing this magnificent work of reference has an obvious advantage over the unfortunate child who is without it. The task of the teacher is considerably lightened if a child can turn to the CSE and find for itself the answer to those awkward questions that a child is always asking his teacher.”

Mr Eccles laid down his pen and pushed hack his chair. His movements were deliberate and ominous.

“If I thought you were trying to sell something on these premises,” he said with deadly calm, “I would give you in charge.”

George shuffled his feet. “I assure you, Mr Eccles,” he stammered, “I—I have no intention of selling anything, no intention at all. It’s just that I hoped for your co-operation. Unless teachers are prepared to assist us, we are unable to let parents know how invaluable the CSE—and who would deny it?—would be in the home.”

Mr Eccles rose to his feet. To George, he seemed to grow n stature, and broaden like a rubber doll that is being inflated. “You’re canvassing,” Mr Eccles said in an awful voice, “I thought as much. What is the name of your firm?”

George had visions of a complaint being lodged by the LCC. Although the World-Wide Publishing Company was fully aware of the methods used by their salesmen, officially these methods were not recognized. They were all right, so long as there were no complaints. If there were complaints, then the salesmen were sacked.

George stood staring stupidly at Mr Eccles, his face red, his mouth dry and his eyes protruding. He visualized the arrival of the police and being marched through the streets to the police station.

“Well?” Mr Eccles shouted at him, seeing his confusion and enjoying it. “Who’s your firm? I’ll get to the bottom of this! Pm going to stop you touts bothering me and my staff. Every day someone calls. If it isn’t vacuum cleaners, it’s silk stockings. If it isn’t silk stockings, it’s expensive hooks that no one can afford to buy. Pm going to put a stop to it!”

From somewhere in the rear, where he had been standing, Brant suddenly appeared in front of George. He walked straight up to Mr Eccles and fixed him with his cold, expressionless eyes.

“There is no need to shout,” he said, in his soft, clipped voice. “We’ve been received at all the other schools in this district with courtesy, Mr Eccles. Surely, we are entitled to your courtesy too.”

Mr Eccles glared at Brant, then quite suddenly moved back a step.

“We are men trying to do a job of work,” Brant went on, his eyes never moving from Eccles’ face. “Just as you are trying to do a job of work. As representatives of the World-Wide Publishing Company we are entitled to a hearing. The World-Wide Publishing Company has been dealing with the teaching profession for two hundred years. Its reputation for integrity and good work is known and commented upon by the London County Council. The Child’s Self-Educator is known a ll over the world.”

Mr Eccles sat down slowly. It was as if he had suddenly lost the strength in his legs. “World-Wide Publishing Company,” he muttered and wrote on his blotting paper. “All right, I’ll remember that.”

“I want you to remember it,” Brant said. “I’m surprised that a man of your experience does not know who published the Child’s Self-Educator. Have you a set you rself’?”

Mr Eccles looked up. “Who—me? No, I haven’t. Now, look here, young man—”

“Then you will be glad to hear that you are going to be presented with a set. That’s why we’ve come to see you.”

“Presented with a set?” Mr Eccles repeated, his little eyes opening. “You mean given a set?”

“Certainly,” Brant said, his hands on the desk. “We’re anxious that every teacher should have a set of the CSE, but, for obvious reasons, it is not possible to give so many sets away. It has been decided, however, that the headmaster of the best school of each London borough is to be presented with our deluxe, half-calf edition, free, gratis and for nothing.”

If Mr Eccles was surprised by this news, George was utterly flabbergasted.

“Well, ’pon my soul,” Mr Eccles exclaimed, a sly smile lighting up his face. “Why didn’t you say so before? Sit down, young man. I’m sorry I was so abrupt just now, but if you only knew how I’m pestered all day long, you’d appreciate I’ve got to do something to protect myself.”

Brant drew up a chair and sat down. George, standing by the door, was forgotten.

“I understand, Mr Eccles,” Brant went on, after a moment’s pause, “that your children’s handwriting is of an exceptionally high standard. Mr Pickthorn of Trinity School also boasts of a high standard. We are organizing a harmless competition between schools, and I suggest you might like to co-operate. All we need is a specimen of each of your pupils’ handwriting, which will be sent to our head office, and the pupil with the best handwriting will be given a beautifully inscribed certificate and ten shillings. Mr Pickthorn has been happy to help us in this scheme, and we would like your pupils to compete against his. Whatever you decide, of course, will not influence my Company’s decision to send you the CSE, which should reach you early next month.”

“Pickthorn?” Mr Eccles snorted. “That old muddler! None of his brats can write. He’s got no method. Why, in a competition, it’d be a walk over.” He frowned down at his blotting pad. “I’d like to do it. ’Pon my word, I would. I’d like to wipe old Pickthorn’s eye, but it’ll disorganize my day. A thing like that’d need a bit of arranging.”

Brant shifted in his chair. “It took less than ten minutes at Radlet’s,” he said quietly. “All you have to do is to get the children to write their names and addresses on a piece of paper, and we will judge their handwriting from that. It s a simple system, and we shall not need to bother you further, as we shall have the name and address of the prizewinner. Surely, that’s not going to upset your school?”

Eccles looked a little blank. “Well, if that’s all it is,” he said doubtfully. “I suppose I could arrange that. All right, I’ll do it. Will you call hack sometime tomorrow?”

Brant stared at him with bored eyes. “We have a lot of ground to cover, Mr Eccles. Could we wait? It shouldn’t take a few minutes.” He paused, and before Mr Eccles could speak, he went on, “By the way, I suppose you would like a bookcase for your set of the CSE? I think I could persuade the Company to part with one. It’s a nice piece of furniture, light oak with glass panels.”

Mr Eccles got to his feet. “Yes,” he said, beaming, “that sounds magnificent. Hmm, yes, by all means.” He rubbed his hands together. “Well now, you wait here and I’ll get these kids to work. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

As soon as he left the room, George said, “Have you gone mad? What are you playing at? The Company doesn’t give sets away, let alone bookcases. They don’t even sell bookcases.”

Brant stared at him in a bored, detached way. “He doesn’t know that,” he said, and his thin mouth sneered.

“Well, he soon will when the books don’t turn up,” George said, now thoroughly agitated. “He’ll report us. Why, he might even tell the police. There’ll be a hell of a stink about this. And what’s all this about handwriting competitions? I really think you must be out of your mind.”

Brant looked out of the window. “Can’t you see?” he said with that patient voice that people reserve for tiresome, questioning children. “We’re going to get the names and addresses of all the brats in this school. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You made a mess of it, so I’ve fixed it. I said I would, didn’t I?”

“You’ll jolly well pay the ten bob out of your own pocket. I’m not going to throw money away like that,” George snapped, flushing angrily.

The cold eyes flickered. “Don’t be wet,” Brant said. “No one’s going to pay ten bob. Let the brat whistle for it.”

“What?” George exclaimed, starting forward. “You’re not even going to give a prize after telling all those lies?”

“You dumb, or something?” Brant’s face showed a faint curiosity. “Your pal Kelly wouldn’t pay ’em a nickel, would he? What’s the matter with you—slipping?” He stared at George until George had to look away. “Anyway, why should you worry? We won’t be here next month. They don’t know our names, and if they complain to the Company, we can deny it. It’s their word against ours.”

The enormity of such a swindle paralyzed George. He sat down and stared stupidly at Brant.

“It’s cheating,” he said at last. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Aw, dry up!” Brant said, a vicious snarl in his voice. “The whole business is a racket. The Company doesn’t care how you get business so long as you don’t tell ’em. They don’t pay you a salary and they don’t care if you starve. All they’re interested in is to get a mug to sell their hooks. Robinson cheats us out of ten bob on every order we get. Do you think he cares? He doesn’t give a damn so long as he gets his rake off. These teachers are only out for what they can get. It’s a racket from start to finish.” He leaned forward, two faint red spots on his thin cheeks. “It’s us or them. If you don’t like it, then get the hell out of it and leave me to handle it. I’m out for what I can get, and I’m going to get it. So, shut up!”

George flinched away from the savage anger that faced him, and for a long time the room was silent except for the distant sound of children’s voices coming from the classrooms.

4

"If it rains,” George had said to Brant, looking at the mass of black cloud slowly creeping across the sky, “we shan’t be able to work tonight. It’s no good calling on people if you’re dripping wet. They don’t ask you in, and just try selling anything standing on a doorstep with rain running down the back of your neck.”

Well, it was raining all right. From his bedroom window George looked down at the deserted street, the pavements black and shiny with rain, and water running in the gutters.

It was a few minutes past six. The little, dingy room was dark and chilly. George had moved the armchair to the window so that he had at least something to look at. It was extraordinary how lonely this room could be. No one seemed to be moving in the house. George supposed that Ella and Mrs Rhodes were in the basement preparing supper. The other boarders seldom came in before seven o’clock: that was the time when George went out. He had the house, as far as he knew, to himself.

He decided that the results of the afternoon’s work had been satisfactory. On the mantelpiece was a packet of names and addresses neatly mounted on card and sorted into “walking order". All good calls.

George was rather pleased that it was raining. It would be nice to have an evening off. He had done well the previous evening, and he was three pounds in hand. If he did no further work that week, he would still be all right. At half past six, he decided, he would go over to the King’s Arms and spend the evening in his favourite corner. He liked the atmosphere of the pub. He was quite content to remain there until closing time, watching the lively activity, listening to the snatches of conversation and seeing Gladys cope, astonishingly efficient, with the constant demand for drinks Perhaps he would be lucky tonight and find someone who would talk to him He would have his supper there, and when closing time came he would have an early night.

After staring out of the window for several minutes, he became bored with the rain-swept, deserted street, and, leaving his armchair, he crossed the room to his dressing- table. Pulling open the bottom drawer, he fumbled beneath his spare shirts and underwear until his hand closed over a cardboard box. He took the box hack to the window and sat down, placing the box carefully on his knee.

As he was about to lift the lid of the box, he heard a distinct noise, as if someone were pushing at his door.

An extraordinary expression of guilt and fright crossed his heavy features. Springing quickly to his feet, he thrust the box out of sight under the chair cushion. He stood listening, his head on one side and his eyes half closed. Again the door creaked. Cautiously, noiselessly, he walked to the door and jerked it open. Leo came languidly into the room, glanced up at him with enormous yellow eyes and then leapt up onto the bed.

“Hello, old son,” George said, closing the door. “You gave me quite a fright.”

He stroked the cat for several minutes. His thick, gentle fingers probed the cat’s body, moving caressingly over its head, into the hollow of its shoulder blades, under its chin.

The cat remained still, its eyes closed and its sleek body vibrating as it purred.

The room seemed to George to be suddenly cosy now that he was no longer alone. The rain against the window no longer looked depressing. He was grateful to Leo for coming all the way from the basement to see him, and, bending down, he rubbed his face against the cat’s long fur.

Leo rolled on its side, stretched, touched his face lightly with its paw, its claws carefully sheathed. When at last it had settled itself on the bed in a big, furry ball, George returned to his chair He recovered the cardboard box from under the cushion and sat down again. A glance round the room, a glance out into the darkening street and a moment to listen, assured him that he would not be disturbed. Then he opened the box and took from it a heavy Luger pistol. As his hand closed over the long wooden and metal butt, his face lit up. He laid the box on the floor at his side and examined the pistol as if he had never seen it before. The cat watched him with sleepy, bored eyes.

George’s foster father had brought this Luger pistol back from France as a souvenir of the Battle of the Somme It was in perfect working order, and with it was a box of twenty-five cartridges.

For years George had coveted this pistol. Twice he had been soundly thrashed when caught handling it. But nothing could discourage his desire to own it. As he grew up, the desire increased. As his imagination became more vivid and the roles he selected for himself to play in his mind-fantasies became more violent, so the desire to possess this exciting weapon became more unbearable.

When he heard that his foster father had been knocked down and killed by a speeding car, George had no feeling of shock, nor of loss. He received the news in silence, thinking that now, at last, the pistol would be his.

He vividly remembered the scene. The fat, red-faced police sergeant who was doing his best to break the news as gently as his clumsy tongue could manage, his foster mother’s white, frightened face and his own feeling of pending calamity.

“Dead,” the police sergeant had said. “Very painful business, Ma’am. Perhaps you’d come to the ’ospital…”

George was fourteen at the time He knew what death meant. He knew that the man who had acted as his father would never again come into the little dark hall, hang up his hat and coat and call, as he always called, “Anyone in?” He would never again say, looking round the door, a frown on his fat, heavy face, “Put that damn pistol down. How many more times do I have to tell you not to touch it?” It meant that the pistol was now without an owner. His foster mother had never taken any interest in it. She probably would never think of it, never ask for it. So, while the police sergeant was still muttering and mumbling, George had slipped from the room and gone directly to the place where the pistol was concealed. He would never forget the ecstatic surge of emotion that had flowed through him as he carried the cardboard box from his foster father’s room to his own. For thirteen years the pistol had remained George’s most cherished possession.

Every day he found time to take the pistol from its box. He cleaned it, polished its black metal and removed and replaced its magazine. It gave George an immense feeling of superiority to hold this heavy weapon in his hand. He would imagine with satisfaction how those who had been rude to him during his evening’s work would react if they were suddenly confronted with this pistol. He pictured Mr Eccles’ reaction if he had produced the Luger, and the horror and fear that would have come to the big, flat face with its ridiculous blond moustache.

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

…“Get a fistful o f cloud,” George Fraser snarled, ramming his rod into Eccles’ back. “We want those names and we’re going to have ’em.”

Sydney Brant, white-faced, his eyes wide with alarm, crouched against the wall.

“Don’t shoot him, George,” he gasped. “For God’s sake, be careful with that gun.”

“Take it easy, Syd,” George Fraser returned with a confident smile. “I’ve stood enough from this rat.” He jabbed Eccles again with the gun. “Come on, are you giving me the names or do I have to ventilate your hide?”

“I’ll do anything,” Eccles quavered. “Don’t shoot—do anything you say.”