"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.”
“Get on with it, then,” George Fraser said impatiently, “and if you try to pull a fast one, I’ll blast you!”
When the terrified man had left the room, George Fraser wandered to the desk and sat on it, swinging his legs. He winked at Brant, who was gaping at him in open admiration…
George sighed. That was the way to treat swine like Eccles. He fondled the gun. Brant wouldn’t be so keen to sneer and jeer if he thought George would stick this suddenly into his ribs. George had no time for cheap tricks. Look at the way Brant had got those names and addresses. Just a cheap trick. If that was the way he was going to cover the territory, Wembley would be useless for another World-Wide salesman to work. Of course, Brant wouldn’t care. He was just a selfish, small-minded trickster. So long as he got what he wanted he didn’t think of anyone else.
George pulled the magazine from the gun and turned it over absently between his fingers. Still, there was something about Brant. He was more powerful, more domineering than George. George knew that. But George with the Luger was more than a match for anyone, including Brant.
George picked up the oily rag at the bottom of the box and wiped the gun over carefully. Then he picked up the wooden box of cartridges and slid off the lid. The cartridges were packed in rows of five, tight and shiny He had never put a cartridge into the magazine. He always made a point of keeping the cartridges away from the pistol. Having cleaned the weapon, he would return it to its cardboard box before taking out each cartridge and polishing the brass cases. He had never wished to fire the gum, and the idea of feeding these small, shiny cartridges into the magazine alarmed him He had read so much about gun accidents that he was acutely conscious how easily something tragic might happen. In spite of his violent imagination, he would have been horrified if, through his own carelessness, anyone was hurt.
Time was getting on. It still rained, but rain never bothered George. He put the cartridges back in the box, and carried it to its hiding-place among his shirts. Then he went to the cupboard over his washstand and took from it a bottle of milk and an opened tin of sardines.
“Come on, Leo,” he called, holding up the tin for the cat to see.
Leo was at his side in a bound, and began twining its great, heavy body round his legs.
George put the tin down on a sheet of newspaper and filled his soap dish with milk
“There you are, old son,” he said, his face softening with pleasure. “Now I’ll go out and get my supper.”
Out in the street, the rain was cold on his face and the wind beat against him. As he hurried along, he felt the urge to sing or shout for no reason at all except that driving rain and a boisterous wind gave him a feeling of freedom.
The saloon bar of the King’s Arms was almost deserted. It was early yet—not quite a quarter to seven—and only three of the usual habitués had braved the weather. George hung up his hat and mack, and went to his favourite corner.
“Hello,” Gladys said, smiling. “’Ere we are again.”
“That’s right,” George said, sitting on a stool and looking at the cold meats, pickles and howls of salad and beetroot with a hungry eye. “Nasty night, isn’t it?”
“Wretched,” Gladys agreed. “I’ve got some nice cold pork if you fancy it, or some beef.”
George said he thought he’d try the pork.
“That was the bloke with the scar you were talking about, wasn’t it?” he asked as she cut him a liberal helping.
“That’s ’im,” Gladys said darkly. “I was sorry to see you going off with ’in. Mark my words, ’e’s a had ’un. I know a had ’un when I see ’im.”
“He’s working for Robinson,” George said, feeling that he should excuse himself. “Can’t say I like him myself.”
“I should think not indeed,” Gladys said firmly. “You watch out. A fellow like that could get you into trouble quicker than wink “
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” George said a little crossly. Did she take him for a child? “I can look after myself all right.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Gladys returned, as if she didn’t believe him She set the plate before him, gave him a roll and butter and a pint of mild and bitter, and then hurried off to serve another customer.
George was quite content to keep in his corner, away from the main bar, and eat his supper, read the evening paper and watch Gladys cope with the bustling activity. The bar was filling up now, and the atmosphere became damp and steamy.
No one paid George any attention. Mr Henry came in and nodded absently to him, but immediately looked away, as if he were nervous that George would wish to join him. Other h abitués came in. They also nodded to George, but it was a disinterested greeting more from habit than anything else.
His meal finished, George lit a cigarette, pushed his tankard forward so that Gladys, when she had a moment, could see that he wanted it filled, and settled down to the crossword puzzle. The warm, damp atmosphere, the buzz of conversation, the click of billiard halls in the next room, soothed him. It was, he thought, the nicest, most homely atmosphere a man could wish to be in.
At nine-thirty he called for his last pint. One for the road, he told himself. He was pleasantly sleepy, and he looked forward to stretching out in bed. Perhaps Leo would keep him company. Tomorrow still seemed a long way off, and George decided that perhaps, after all, life wasn’t so had.
A hand reached out and touched his arm. George started, and peered at Sydney Brant, at first in blank surprise, then in embarrassed confusion. He felt blood rising to his face, and he nearly upset his beer.
Brant wore no overcoat; his threadbare jacket and worn trousers were black with rain.
“Hello,” George said awkwardly. “You gave me quite a start. What are you doing here?”
Brant leaned up against the counter.
“I’m looking for you,” he said. “I thought you’d be here.”
“Well, you only just caught me,” George said lamely. “I—I was just going to bed.”
Brant eyed him contemptuously. Then he looked at Gladys and snapped his fingers impatiently.
“A lemonade,” he said, and then turned hack to George. “What was your racket?” he asked.
George blinked. “Racket? What racket?”
“You said you worked with Frank Kelly. What did you do?”
George’s brain crawled with alarm. This would never do, he told himself, flustered. He wasn’t going to admit anything to Brant. It was all very well to tell Ella tall stories, but Brant was quite a different kettle of fish.
“That’s my business,” he said, looking away. “I don’t talk about it.”
“Don’t be wet,” Brant said. “I’m in the game myself.”
George was startled: he turned and stared into Brant’s hard, grey-blue eyes. He flinched away from what he saw in them.
“What game?” he repeated.
Brant smiled. “I don’t talk about that either,” he said. “Do you think I’d mess about touting books unless I had to? Would you?”
George had no idea what he was driving at. He said nothing.
“As soon as it’s cooled off I’m going hack to my racket,” Brant said, and he touched the raw, livid scar, his eyes clouding and his face set in grim lines.
So Gladys was right. He was a wrong ’un, George thought, and, somehow, he felt envious. He knew he shouldn’t feel like that, but he had always longed to live dangerously.
For something to say, George blurted out, “That’s a nasty scar you’ve got there. Is it recent?”
An extraordinary change came over Brant’s face. It seemed to grow dark and thin. It twisted out of shape so that it was moulded into a mask of terrifying hatred.
He leaned forward and spat on the floor.
“Come on,” he said, speaking through stiff white lips. “We’re going to see Robinson.”
“Not tonight,” George returned hastily. “It’s raining.
Besides, it’s too late now. We’ll see him tomorrow morning.” With an obvious effort Brant controlled himself. Once more his face became blank and indifferent.
“Do you keep a record of the orders you’ve taken?” he asked.
“Why, yes,” George returned, wondering why he changed the subject so abruptly.
“Got it with you?”
George produced a tattered notebook, and Brant took it from him He examined the pages covered with George’s neat writing and then he glanced up.
“This the lot? I mean from the time you started?” George nodded blankly
“Robinson owes you thirty quid. Do you realize that?”
“As much as that?” George was doubtful. “Well, it can’t be helped. I shan’t get it from him He never has any money.”
“We’ll see about that,” Brant said, slipping the notebook into his pocket. He finished his lemonade with a grimace, put a shilling on the counter and turned to the door. “Come on,” he went on impatiently.
“It’s no good tonight,” George protested feebly. As he spoke the bar hand began to call, “Time, gents. Time if you please.”
He followed Brant out, avoiding Gladys’ eyes. It was dark in the street and rain fell heavily.
“I’m going home,” he said, water dripping off his long nose. “We’ll see Robo tomorrow.”
“Come on,” Brant said, jerking his words out as if they burned his mouth. “We’re going to see him tonight.”
“But I don’t know where he lives,” George returned.
“Let’s be sensible. We’re both getting soaked.”
Brant said an ugly word and walked on.
George went with him. He felt there was nothing else to do. Brant seemed to know where to go. He turned down a side street, lined with small, two-storey houses, and after a few minutes he stopped.
“That’s it,” he said, looking up at one of the houses. “He’s got a room there.” He pointed to a window on the top floor. Although the blind was drawn, they could see a light was still burning. “Come on,” Brant went on, walking up the worn steps. He put his thumb on the bell and kept it there.
George stood at his side, feeling the rain against his face and his heart pounding uneasily.
There was a shuffling sound beyond the door, and a moment later a fat old woman peered inquisitively at them. “’Ood’yer want?” she demanded, holding a dirty dressing-gown across her ample bosom. “Ringing the hell like that. You’d think the ’ole blooming ’ouse was afire.”
Brant advanced a step, his head thrust forward. “We’re friends of Robinson,” he said, steadily forcing the old woman back into the dark little hall. “He’s waiting for us.”
“’Ere, ’alf a mo,” the old woman said, trying to block Brant’s progress. “I didn’t tell yer to come in, did I? You come back termorrer.”
Brant kept moving forward, staring down at the old woman, flustering her. “It’s all right,” he said. “He’s expecting us. Don’t worry. We’ll go up.”
George had followed Brant into the hall, and was aware that rain from his hat and coat was making puddles on the coconut matting that covered the floor.
Brant suddenly side-stepped the old woman and began to mount the stairs. She stood watching him, uneasy, unsure of herself. She stared at George, who hunched his great shoulders, unconsciously making himself look sinister and frightening. He went up the stairs behind Brant.
“The old cow,” Brant said, under his breath. “Who does she think she is?”
He walked along the short passage to a door under which they could see a light burning. He paused outside the door and put his ear against the panel. He stood there listening, intent, menacing, and George, standing a few feet behind him, suddenly saw him in an unexpected and frightening light. It was as if he could see evil and danger emanating from him like a thought-form. He was aware, too, that the old woman had come halfway up the stairs and was watching Brant with fear and curiosity.
Brant glanced over his shoulder at George, made a grimace, and jerked his head towards the door. George had no idea what he intended to convey. He had no time to ask, for Brant, turning the handle of the door, pushed it open and walked into the room.
Not wanting to be left in the dimly lit passage under the disconcerting gaze of the old woman, George took a few hesitating steps forward, which brought him to the door.
Brant was standing just inside the doorway, looking across the large room at Robinson. George peered past Brant, a sheepish, apologetic expression on his face.
Robinson stood before a dressing-table in his trousers and vest. His feet were hare, and the circle of dirt round the ankles embarrassed George, as did the dirty, tattered vest that covered his pigeon chest. He had taken out his false teeth, and his lips were sunk in, giving his mouth an odd, puckered look that reminded George of a dried pippin.
Robinson stood gaping at Brant, terror in his eyes, his blotchy complexion gradually paling as blood drained from his face.
Across the room was a large bed, the head and foot of which were ornamented by brass knobs. A woman lay huddled up in the bed. George could not guess her age. He thought perhaps she was thirty-five to forty. She was big, blowzy and coarse. Her dyed hennaed hair, black at the roots, frizzed round her head like a soiled halo. She wore a pink nightdress which was creased and dirty and through which her great, bulging figure strained to escape.
“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
“Tell this tart to lay off,” Brant said in a soft, menacing voice to Robinson, “or you’ll both he sorry.”
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!”
Robinson gulped. “I—I haven’t got it,” he said in a voice like the scratching of a slate pencil.
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.