“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.