“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.