“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.