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.