1

They were all there — Capone, Dillinger, Nelson, Karpis and Charlie Lucky. The table at which they sat was littered with poker chips, playing cards, whisky bottles and glasses. A green shaded lamp hung low over the table; its harsh light fell on their faces, while the rest of the room remained dark and shadowy.

Several men, almost invisible in the gloom and haze o f tobacco smoke, lounged behind the group at the table. They were small men, with eyes like wet stones, swarthy complexions and granite faces.

The group at the table and the men in the shadows suddenly stiffened when George Fraser walked into the room. He stood a few feet from the table, his hands in his coat pockets, his jaw thrust forward and his eyes threatening and cold.

No one spoke; no one moved.

“If any of you guys wants to start something,” George Fraser said, after along pause, “I’ll take care of his widow.”

Very slowly, very cautiously, Capone laid his cards down on the table. “Hello, George,” he said in a husky whisper.

George Fraser eyed him coldly. There were few men who would have had the nerve to walk alone into that back room and face five of the biggest and most dangerous bosses in the booze racket, but George Fraser was without nerves.

“It’s time we had a little talk,” he said, biting off each word. “You guys have been running this show too long. You’re through— the lot of you. From now on, I’m taking over this territory, and I’m running it my way.”

There followed another long pause, then Dillinger, his eyes glowing and his face white with rage, snarled, “Who said?”

George Fraser smiled. “I said,” he returned, in his clipped, cold voice.

Dillinger made a growling noise deep in his throat and his hand flashed to his hip pocket.

Capone, sitting next to him, grabbed frantically at his wrist. His fat face was blue-white with fear. “Do you want to commit suicide?” he yelled. “You don’t stand a chance with Fraser!”

Dillinger, swearing under his breath, tried to break Capone’s grip, and the table rocked as the two men wrestled. A bottle of whisky toppled and smashed to pieces on the floor.

“Let him alone, Al,” George Fraser called. “If he wants to play it that way, you’d better give him some air.”

Capone shot a terrified look at George Fraser. The pale, set face and the eyes that were now like chips o f ice completely unnerved him. He nearly fell over himself to get away from Dillinger.

“Look out!” he cried. “He’s going to shoot!”

The other three at the table kicked their chairs away and jumped clear, while some of the men who had been standing in the shadows threw themselves on the floor.

Dillinger, alone at the table, sat motionless, glaring at George Fraser.

“Okay, Johnny,” George Fraser said mockingly, “go for your gun. What are you waiting for?”

Dillinger rose slowly to his feet. He swept his chair out of the way and crouched.

“Bet you a hundred bucks I can put five slugs in your pumper before your rod shows,” George Fraser said, letting his hands hang loosely at his sides.

Dillinger cursed him, and then his arm moved with the speed of a striking snake. A heavy, snub-nosed automatic jumped as if by magic into George Fraser’s hand. The room rocked with the sound of gunfire.

Dillinger, his eyes wide and sightless, crashed to the floor and rolled over on his back.

“Take a look at him, Charlie,” George Fraser said, his eyes on the group of men huddled against the wall.

Charlie Lucky, after a moment’s hesitation, reached forward, pulled Dillinger’s coat back and ripped open his shirt.

“Five slugs, “he said, his voice cracking; “all in the same spot.”

“Good morning, Mr George,” Ella said, putting a cup of watery tea on the bamboo table by the bed. “Did I wake you?”

“Hmm?” George Fraser asked. He looked up with blank astonishment at Ella in her frowsy blue uniform and her ridiculous cap perched on the top of her mouse-coloured hair. “Good Lord! You gave me quite a turn. I didn’t hear you come in. I must’ve been dozing…”

“It’s ever such a lovely morning,” Ella went on, crossing the drab little room, and pulling up the blind. “The sun’s shining and there ain’t a cloud in the sky.”

George Fraser closed his eyes against the bright sunlight that streamed through the grimy window pane. The image he had been creating of himself as “Machine-gun Fraser", millionaire gangster, still gripped his imagination, and Ella’s unexpected intrusion fuddled him.

“Shall I tidy up a hit?” Ella asked, her plain, shiny little face resigned as she surveyed the disordered room. “Coo, Mr George! Your socks are in the coal-scuttle.”

George Fraser sighed. It was no good. He would have to leave the back room, the smell of cordite, the terrified faces of Capone, Nelson, Karpis and Charlie Lucky until later. He could always pick up his fantasy when Ella had gone.

“Oh, all right,” he said, pushing the blankets from his shoulders and sitting up. “Only don’t make too much noise. I’ve got a bit of a head this morning.”

Ella looked at him hopefully. “Did you have any adventures last night?” she asked as she busied herself about the room.

George resisted the temptation to give her a fictitious account of his evening He did not feel quite up to it this morning, and after the story he had told her the day before, which had been his best effort to date, he did not think it wise to risk an anticlimax.

“I can’t tell you yet,” he said. “A little later perhaps; but it’s too secret right now.”

Ella’s face fell. She was thin, sharp-featured, wistful — a typical product of the East End slums. For three years she had been the general help at this boarding-house Off the Edgware Road. Most mornings, providing he hadn’t a hangover, George would keep her entranced with lurid tales of G-men, gangsters and their molls. He assured her that, when he lived in the States, he had known them all. At one time he had worked with Frank Kelly, the hank robber; at another time he had been the bodyguard of Toni Scarletti, the booze racketeer. His name was known and feared by all the big shots of the underworld, and he had experienced enough adventures to fill a dozen books.

These stories which George recounted so glibly were the figments of his extraordinary imagination. He had never been to America, let alone seen a gangster; but, being an avid reader of the lurid American pulp magazines, and having seen every gangster film ever made, he had acquired a remarkable knowledge of American crime. The gunmen as depicted by such magazines as Front-Page Detective a nd True C onfessions completely obse ssed him.

Like so many other men and women who live in a secret world of their own, George suffered from an acute inferiority complex. He had always lacked confidence in himself, and believed that whatever he planned to do was hound to end in failure.

This inferiority complex was the direct result of the treatment he had received in his early childhood from his parents. His birth had been an “accident", and his parents, music-hall artists by profession, had no place for a child in their rather selfish, extremely mobile lives. They regarded him as a calamity, and had made no attempt to conceal the fact from him. He was always the last to be considered, his babyhood was loveless, and at the earliest possible moment he was handed over to an elderly couple who had reluctantly taken on the role of foster parents in return for the much-needed addition to their meagre income. They were too old to be bothered with a small child, and it was not long before George realized that they considered him to be an unnecessary burden to them.

It says much for George’s character that this unhappy, unwanted existence did not entirely affect his nature, but it certainly made him extremely shy and unnaturally sensitive. Because of his shyness he had a wretched time at school. As he grew older he became more reserved and repressed. He made no friends, and consequently had no outlet for his thoughts and desires. It was not surprising, then, that he became an introvert: as an antidote against loneliness and as a bolster to his drooping ego, he filled his mind with stories of adventure and violence, imagining himself as the hero of whatever story he happened to be reading. When he was at school he imagined himself as Bulldog Drummond; later, he saw himself as Jack Dempsey, and now, at the age of twenty-seven, he pictured himself as the all-powerful gang leader, amassing millions of dollars, terrorizing other mobs, racing the streets in a black armoured car, and being the idol of dazzling, beautifully dressed blondes.

For some time George Fraser had been content to live, in his mind, this role of a gangster; but these mental pictures became so vivid and exciting that he could no longer keep them to himself. Cautiously he tried them out on Ella, and was gratified to find that he had an immediately enthralled audience.

Ella had previously regarded George as just another boarder who seldom got up before eleven o’clock, and who expected a cup of tea just when she was occupied in making beds. But when George casually mentioned that he had lived in Chicago and had rubbed shoulders with most of the notorious Public Enemies, Ella was instantly intrigued. She went regularly to her local cinema, and was well acquainted with the savagery of American gangsters. Now here was someone, it seemed, who had actually met these men in the flesh, who had fought with and against them, and whose experiences were much more exciting and fantastic than the most exciting and fantastic film.

Ella was profoundly impressed. Not that George Fraser was impressive to look at. He had a tall, beefy, ungainly figure. His complexion was sallow and his eyes were big, blue and rather sad. In spite of his size, he could not entirely hide his timidity and shyness. If someone spoke to him suddenly he would change colour and become flustered, looking anywhere but at the person addressing him. His landlady, Mrs Rhodes, terrified him, and whenever he ran into her he would talk complete nonsense while endeavouring to escape, leaving her staring after him, completely bewildered.

In spite of his manner, the stories he had to tell fascinated Ella.

Not for a moment did it cross her mind that George was deceiving her. When he told her that he had been forced to leave the States in a hurry and that even now, if a certain mob knew where he was, they would come after him, she spent restless nights in fear for him. She must not, he had warned her, tell anyone of his past. He was, he explained, doing important and secret work, and his life would be in danger if anyone so much as suspected what his activities were.

All this was so much nonsense. In actual fact, up to four months ago George Fraser had been a hank clerk. He had been with the bank for ten years, and he would have been quite satisfied to remain a bank clerk for the rest of his days, but it did not turn out that way. One evening he had wandered into a pub—he was always wandering into pubs—a few minutes before closing time. There he met a flashily dressed individual who had, rather obviously, been in the pub since it had opened. This individual proposed to do George a good turn. Lowering his voice, he conveyed to George the name of a horse that was certain to win the next day’s two o’clock handicap.

Now, George was no gambler, nor was he interested in horseracing, but he was flattered that his companion had mistaken him for a sportsman. He decided to have a flutter.

The horse finished a length ahead of the field, and George received twenty pounds from a disgruntled bookmaker. He immediately jumped to the conclusion that he could make his fortune by hacking horses. Before long he was in debt, and in desperation he turned to a money-lender to get him out of the mess. Then he couldn’t pay the money-lender’s charges, and the bank heard about it. George got the sack.

He was out of work for two miserable weeks, and he soon discovered that a discharged bank clerk was not a proposition an employer cared to consider. Things looked pretty black for George. He tramped the streets looking for work, and just as he was giving up hope, he obtained a job with the World-Wide Publishing

Company. It wasn’t much of a job, but, by now, George was glad to take anything.

He was, however, a little dismayed to find that the Company expected him to sell a set of children’s hooks from door to door on a “commission only” basis.

George had no confidence in his ability to sell anything. But the sales manager assured him that he need not worry about that. They would train him, and by the time they were through with him he would be able to sell coals to Newcastle. George was introduced to Edgar Robinson, head of the group of salesmen on whose territory George was to work. Robinson, an odd, aggressive creature with a shock of black hair and a blotchy complexion took George aside and earnestly congratulated him on his good fortune to be working with him. What he did not know about selling the Child’s Sel f-Educator, Robinson told him, could be written on his thumbnail. Every salesman who worked on his territory received personal tuition, and there was not a man trained by Edgar Robinson who was not earning at least ten pounds a week.

George became much more enthusiastic after he had heard this, and greatly encouraged when he realized that he was going to be shown how to obtain orders. He was, in fact, given an intensive two-day course in salesmanship along with the other applicants, and then he went out with Robinson and saw for himself how orders could be obtained.

A week later George was canvassing on his own, and by sheer hard work managed to earn three pounds ten shillings a week. He soon discovered that Robinson’s stories about salesmen earning more than this amount was so much sales talk, but, as George knew that he was not likely to get anything else, he stuck to the job, and continued to make enough to keep himself going.

The job of calling from door to door was a great blow to George’s pride. At first his shyness and timidity were a handicap. He would stand outside a house, screwing up his courage for such a time that people would become suspicious of him, and once one old lady telephoned for the police. Many people slammed the door in his face, while others were extremely rude to him. This treatment greatly increased his inferiority complex: there were moments when he suffered from moods of black depression, and he was driven more and more to rely on his fantasies of violence and adventure to sustain his bruised ego.

While Ella was tidying the room, George wrestled with his hangover. He had spent the previous evening at the King’s Arms, and had drunk one too many beers. Feeling the tea might help him recover, he reached for the cup.

“Seen Leo this morning’?” he asked, for something to say.

Ella gave the dressing-table a final flick and moved to the door.

“He’s somewhere around,” she said indifferently. She was plainly disappointed that George wasn’t in a talkative mood. “The silly thing! Wot you see in that cat I can’t imagine. Not that I don’t like cats meself, but not an old stupid like Leo. Leo indeed! I wonder who gave ’im that name. As much like a lion as I am. ’E’s frightened of ’is own shadow. I reckon it’s cool to keep ’im alive. ’E never comes near anyone but you, Mr George. But I must say ’e does seem to lave taken a proper fancy to you, doesn’t ’e?”

George’s face lit up. “Animals like me,” he said simply. “Poor old Leo! He must have had a pretty rotten time as a kitten, I should think. He’s all right once he knows you.”

Ella sniffed. “He’s ’ad enough opportunity to know me,” she returned, “but ’e bolts as soon as ’e sees me. ’E’s daft, that’s wot ’e is,” and she reluctantly took herself off to make the ten beds and clean the ten bedrooms of the other boarders who had, three hours since, gone off to their various offices.

As soon as she had gone, George slipped out of bed and opened the door. He left it ajar, went over to the dressing- table, found his cigarette case and then returned to bed. He left his door ajar every morning, for as soon as Ella was out of the way, Leo would come to see him

When George first came to the hoarding-house, Leo had been as terrified of him as of everyone else. The room George took over had been vacant for some little time, and the cat had used it as a kind of sanctuary. Several times George, coming home late, had found Leo curled up on his bed. The moment he opened the door the cat had sprung from the bed and had shot past him out of the room, a terrified streak of black fur.

George had been sorry for Leo. He saw, with a startling flash of intuition, that Leo was very much like himself. The cat was big and imposing, but its soul was as timid as George’s. He understood the cat’s fear of strangers, and he made up his mind that he would win its confidence.

For two months George wooed Leo’s affection. He bought fish, which he left under his bed, he was always careful to enter his room slowly and without noise, and he would sit motionless if the cat ever visited him It took a long time before Leo would stay with him Even then the cat would spring away if he came near. But gradually, with inexhaustible patience, George won its affection. Now Leo came regularly every morning and kept him company.

This was a major triumph for George. He was not only flattered, but his interest, filling many hours of otherwise lonely boredom, developed into an intense love for the animal. He depended on Leo for company, and their association afforded an outlet for his own repressed affection.

While he was thinking about the cat, he felt a weight on the bed and, opening his eyes, he found Leo looking at him. The cat was a big black Persian with enormous yellow eyes and long whiskers. It stood on George’s chest, padding with its paws while it sniffed delicately at George’s face.

“Can’t stay long, old boy,” George said, stroking its head with tender fingers. “I’ve got work to do this morning Cone on, settle for a moment,” and he pulled the cat down beside him.

He continued to talk to it, stroking and fondling it, feeling at peace with life, grateful to the cat for its company, lavishing on it the urgent, rather overpowering love which unconsciously he yearned for himself.

2

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.

3

George Fraser had little to say while he and Brant travelled by underground to Wembley. Talking was difficult in the swaying, roaring train, and he wanted time to think over what Brant had told him.

If what Brant had said were true, then Robinson had cheated him out of at least twenty pounds. George considered what he could have done with all that money. Twenty pounds! Why, he could have bought a second-hand car, he thought dismally. He had always wanted a car. He had no idea what he was going to say to Robinson when he saw him that night. If it hadn’t been for Brant, he probably wouldn’t have had the nerve to raise the matter at all; but now he had to make a show before this unpleasant, disturbing intruder. He would have to make a shot at persuading Robinson to fork up the twenty pounds. He hadn’t much hope, as Robinson never seemed to have any money, but it might be worth trying. Of course, Robinson might turn nasty. He might even demand the return of all George’s specimen copies of the Child’s Self-Educator and then tell George to go to blazes. Then what would he do? It’d mean he’d be out of work again, and that thought appalled George.

Well, it was no good worrying, he decided gloomily. After all, Robinson was cheating him, and he couldn’t expect to get away with it. He’d tackle him politely and firmly, and hope for the best. It wouldn’t do for Brant to think he couldn’t handle the situation. Brant seemed now to be regarding him with a little more respect since George had mentioned Frank Kelly. George pulled a face. He hoped Brant wouldn’t say anything about that to anyone. He shot a furtive look at the blank, hard face. All he could see was the disagreeable, raw-looking scar and one vacant, glittering eye. Nasty young customer, he thought uneasily. Proper dead-end kid. He wondered if Brant believed him. You couldn’t tell where you were with a fellow with such an expressionless face. Anyway Brant hadn’t asked any questions, and he seemed to have accepted Kelly after a momentary glimmer of surprise.

The train pulled into Wembley station, and with a sigh of relief George got to his feet. He was glad to have something to do. He didn’t want to think about Brant nor what he was going to say to Robinson that night. He forced this disagreeable prospect to the back of his mind and shambled along beside his companion.

“Now, our first job is to call at Radlet Road school,” he said, as they walked briskly up the High Road. “I called in there yesterday and planted our circulars. You see, unless we know where the kids live, we can’t get any orders. It isn’t like selling vacuum cleaners, for instance. With vacuum cleaners ifs a straight door-to-door canvass. But in our line we have to know which homes have children and which haven’t.” He paused while he fished a cigarette from a crumpled carton and offered it to Brant.

“I don’t smoke,” Brant said shortly. They were the first words he had uttered since leaving the train.

“Oh, all right,” George looked at him blankly, and lit up. They moved on, and George said, “Well, we’ve got to get the names and addresses of all the kids at the various Council schools. It isn’t easy, because the teachers don’t want to help us. You’d think they’d be glad for the kids to have the hooks, wouldn’t you? But not they.” George breathed heavily through his thick nose. “Of course, some of ’em do help, otherwise we’d get nowhere. But the majority are a lazy, suspicious lot. We have to persuade the teacher to pass our forms round the class and get the kids to put their names and addresses on them; then we collect the forms next day and make our calls. It sounds simple, doesn’t it, but you wait… you’ll see what I mean before long.”

All the time he was talking, Brant strode along at his side, his face expressionless and his eyes blank. For all George knew, he hadn’t heard a word George had said.

This indifferent attitude annoyed George. All right, he thought, lapsing into a sulky silence, you think it’s child’s play, but just you wait. You’ll find it’s not all beer and skittles. You wait until you try to get an order. Be as superior as you like, but with a dial like yours you don’t stand a hope. Do you think anyone will want to look at you when you try to talk to them? They’ll slam the door in your ugly mug, you see if they don’t, and it’ll serve you right. Take you down a peg or two, my lad. That’s what you want. Be superior if that’s how you feel, but you’re riding for a fall. You can’t say I haven’t tried to be friendly, but I’m damned if I’m going to put myself out if you don’t meet me half way.

He was glad when they reached the school. Now he could show Brant how successfully he had cultivated the headmaster the day before. They crossed the deserted playground and approached the red-brick school building. In spite of his outward show of confidence, George could never enter a school premises without a feeling of guilt. The LCC had forbidden canvassers to call on Secondary and Council schools, and George always had it at the back of his mind that he would run into a visiting school inspector one of these days and he ordered ignominiously from the school.

He paused at the main entrance, and with an uneasy smile pointed out the notice pinned to the door.

“See that?” he said, anxious that Brant should share his own secret uneasiness. “‘Canvassers and salesmen are not permitted on the school premises’ I told you it wasn’t easy, didn’t I? It’s only when the headmaster’s friendly that we can get anywhere.”

Brant didn’t say anything. He glanced at George with sneering contempt in his eyes.

George pushed open the door and entered the long passage, which smelt of disinfectant, floor polish and stale perspiration. They walked down the passage, past a number of classrooms. They could see through the glass partitions into the small rooms, each containing a number of children at desks. The children spotted them, and heads turned in their direction with the precision of a field of corn moving in a wind.

George shrank from their inquisitive, staring eyes. He hunched his great shoulders and hurried on towards the headmaster’s office.

The headmaster looked up from his desk and frowned at them. He was a little man, thin and old. Two or three strands of greying hair had been carefully plastered across the baldness of his head. His large, mild eyes were tired, and his shoulders, under his shabby coat, drooped as if the burden of his responsibilities were too much for him

“Good afternoon, Mr Pickthorn,” George said, with the overpowering heartiness he always assumed when working. “What a magnificent day! Too good to be in, but we’ve all got our living to make, haven’t we?” He stood over the headmaster, large, friendly, anxious to please. “We can’t all go gadding about when there’s work to be done, can we? Noses to the grindstones, eh?” He lowered his voice and winked. “Not that you and me wouldn’t like to be at Lord’s today.”

It had taken George some time to conquer his shyness when meeting strangers, but now that he was sure of what he was going to say, he was becoming quite a fluent, if automatic talker. He hoped that Brant was being impressed. That’d show him how to talk to prospects. Brant would have to shake up his ideas if he thought he was going to make a successful salesman. People liked to have someone call on them who was cheerful and bright.

Mr Pickthorn smiled vaguely and blinked up at George. “Ali,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “Yes, Lord’s.” Then he glanced at Brant, and the friendly look drained out of his eyes. He glanced hurriedly away, his thin mouth tightening  - There! George thought triumphantly. See what happens when they look at your ugly mug. Go on, be superior. I don’t care. At least, they don’t look away when I talk to them.

Feeling the changing atmosphere, he went on hurriedly, “I was passing, Mr Pickthorn, so I thought I’d pick up those forms I left yesterday. Arc they ready?”

Mr Pickthorn fiddled with his pen tray, placing the pens and coloured pencils in their racks with exaggerated care. “No,” he said, without looking at either of them. “No, I’m afraid they aren’t.”

George felt his heartiness, bolstered up by the feeling that Mr Pickthorn liked him, oozing away like air from a leaking balloon.

“Well, never mind,” he said, with a fixed smile. “You don’t have to tell me how busy you are. I know what you headmasters have to do. Work, work, work, all day long. Suppose I call hack tomorrow? Perhaps you’ll find time to get them done tomorrow.”

Mr Pickthorn continued to fiddle with his pens and pencils. He did not look up. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said abruptly. “As a matter of fact, Mr Herring, my assistant, drew my attention to it. He’s quite right, of course. I wasn’t thinking Of course, the hooks are good. No doubt about that. I’ve known the Ch ild’s Self-Educator fo r many years, but as Mr Herring pointed out, it’s encouraging canvassers, and the Council doesn’t approve.” He opened a drawer and took out the packet of printed forms that George had left with him the day before. “I’m sorry,” he went on, pushing the forms across the desk to George. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He gave George a fleeting, embarrassed smile, again glanced at Brant, and then pulled a pile of papers towards him.

“You see?” George said, when they were in the street again. “Now we’ve got no calls for tonight. The rotten little rat! Couldn’t do enough for me yesterday. I spent a whole hour listening to him talk about his blasted garden. As if I cared! He promised me faithfully to distribute those forms. Oh, well, it only goes to prove.” He fished out his carton of cigarettes and lit one. “We’ll have to do a cold canvass tonight. It means wandering up and down a street looking out for kids, asking them where they live, or spotting toys in the windows or gardens. That’s a job I hate! Everyone watches you, and sometimes if you do ask the kids who they are, they get scared and start howling.”

Brant shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at his shoes. His indifferent expression infuriated George

“Well, what do we do?” Brant asked, as if to say, this is your mess, and it’s up to you to find a way out.

Choking back his irritation, George took out his list of schools and studied it. “We’d better go over to Sherman Road school,” he said. “It’s about half a mile from here. That’s the best school in the district. If we don’t get our forms in there, we’re properly in the soup.”

Brant shrugged. “All right,” he said, falling in step beside George. “So long as we get something done today.”

George shot him an angry glance. “It’s all very well to criticize,” he snapped, “but if you think you can do better, you’d better try.”

“I’ll take over if you make another mess of it,” Brant returned in his clipped, indifferent voice.

George could scarcely believe his ears. He walked on in silence, fuming with rage. If he made a mess of it! Of all the cheek! And he was teaching this smug brat—that’s all he was—a smug brat! He’d take over, would he? All right, they’d see about that. Perhaps it’d be a good idea to let him make a fool of himself. As if anyone would listen to him, with his scar and his straw hair and his shabby clothes. Then George’s caution asserted itself. The kids at Sherman Road were of a better class than in any of the other schools. He couldn’t afford to take chances with this school. Every form that was filled up might mean an order.

In the school lobby they found the same depressing notice warning canvassers and salesmen that they were trespassing. Underneath this official notice was another notice written and signed by the headmaster.

Can you read? Then keep out! No canvassers or salesmen will be seen during school hours. Any attempt to enter school premises without an official permit will be immediately reported to the local authorities.

Chas. Eccles.

Headmaster.

George read this notice and experienced a sinking feeling it his stomach. “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he whispered, furtively looking down the passage that led to the classrooms. “Doesn’t look very hopeful, does it?”

Brant shrugged. “You can always tell him you can’t read,” he said with a sneer. “He might even believe you.”

George flushed, and without a word walked down the passage to the headmaster’s office. He wished that Robinson was with him. Robo would know what to do. He didn’t care a damn whom he tackled or how rude people were to him

George tapped on the door and waited.

“Come in,” roared a voice.

They entered a small, hare room. A big, fleshy man, with a large blond moustache on a round, flat face, frowned at them.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he shouted in a voice made harsh by constant bullying.

George gave him a nervous smile. “Good morning, Mr Eccles,” he said, his heartiness wavering. “Forgive me for intruding like this, but I was passing, and I felt that you’d be interested to hear that the new edition of the Child’s Self Educator is now ready.”

Mr Eccles leaned across his desk, his hard little eyes boring into George. “What?” he shouted. “Selling something? Where’s your permit?”

George took an involuntary step back. “Now, please don’t misunderstand me, Mr Eccles,” he said, trying to control his rising colour. “We’re not selling anything. It’s just that we thought you’d be interested to hear that the new edition of the Child’s SelfEducator is—er—ready. It’s a magnificent job. Two hundred additional coloured plates, and all the maps have been revised. There’s more than two hundred thousand additional words, bringing this wonderful work of reference right up to date.”

“Hamm,” Mr Eccles grunted. “You people are not supposed to be on the school premises, you know. I haven’t the time nor the inclination to talk to salesmen. All right, thank you for calling. Good afternoon,” and he picked up his pen and began to write.

Had George been alone, he would have slunk out of the room, but the cold, still, hateful figure of Brant made retreat impossible.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr Eccles,” George said, his face now the colour of a beetroot, “there’s just one other point I would like to raise with you. You know the CSE, of course. You’ll agree with me, I’m sure, that it is a most useful set of books and its reputation in the world of letters is second to none. Any child possessing this magnificent work of reference has an obvious advantage over the unfortunate child who is without it. The task of the teacher is considerably lightened if a child can turn to the CSE and find for itself the answer to those awkward questions that a child is always asking his teacher.”

Mr Eccles laid down his pen and pushed hack his chair. His movements were deliberate and ominous.

“If I thought you were trying to sell something on these premises,” he said with deadly calm, “I would give you in charge.”

George shuffled his feet. “I assure you, Mr Eccles,” he stammered, “I—I have no intention of selling anything, no intention at all. It’s just that I hoped for your co-operation. Unless teachers are prepared to assist us, we are unable to let parents know how invaluable the CSE—and who would deny it?—would be in the home.”

Mr Eccles rose to his feet. To George, he seemed to grow n stature, and broaden like a rubber doll that is being inflated. “You’re canvassing,” Mr Eccles said in an awful voice, “I thought as much. What is the name of your firm?”

George had visions of a complaint being lodged by the LCC. Although the World-Wide Publishing Company was fully aware of the methods used by their salesmen, officially these methods were not recognized. They were all right, so long as there were no complaints. If there were complaints, then the salesmen were sacked.

George stood staring stupidly at Mr Eccles, his face red, his mouth dry and his eyes protruding. He visualized the arrival of the police and being marched through the streets to the police station.

“Well?” Mr Eccles shouted at him, seeing his confusion and enjoying it. “Who’s your firm? I’ll get to the bottom of this! Pm going to stop you touts bothering me and my staff. Every day someone calls. If it isn’t vacuum cleaners, it’s silk stockings. If it isn’t silk stockings, it’s expensive hooks that no one can afford to buy. Pm going to put a stop to it!”

From somewhere in the rear, where he had been standing, Brant suddenly appeared in front of George. He walked straight up to Mr Eccles and fixed him with his cold, expressionless eyes.

“There is no need to shout,” he said, in his soft, clipped voice. “We’ve been received at all the other schools in this district with courtesy, Mr Eccles. Surely, we are entitled to your courtesy too.”

Mr Eccles glared at Brant, then quite suddenly moved back a step.

“We are men trying to do a job of work,” Brant went on, his eyes never moving from Eccles’ face. “Just as you are trying to do a job of work. As representatives of the World-Wide Publishing Company we are entitled to a hearing. The World-Wide Publishing Company has been dealing with the teaching profession for two hundred years. Its reputation for integrity and good work is known and commented upon by the London County Council. The Child’s Self-Educator is known a ll over the world.”

Mr Eccles sat down slowly. It was as if he had suddenly lost the strength in his legs. “World-Wide Publishing Company,” he muttered and wrote on his blotting paper. “All right, I’ll remember that.”

“I want you to remember it,” Brant said. “I’m surprised that a man of your experience does not know who published the Child’s Self-Educator. Have you a set you rself’?”

Mr Eccles looked up. “Who—me? No, I haven’t. Now, look here, young man—”

“Then you will be glad to hear that you are going to be presented with a set. That’s why we’ve come to see you.”

“Presented with a set?” Mr Eccles repeated, his little eyes opening. “You mean given a set?”

“Certainly,” Brant said, his hands on the desk. “We’re anxious that every teacher should have a set of the CSE, but, for obvious reasons, it is not possible to give so many sets away. It has been decided, however, that the headmaster of the best school of each London borough is to be presented with our deluxe, half-calf edition, free, gratis and for nothing.”

If Mr Eccles was surprised by this news, George was utterly flabbergasted.

“Well, ’pon my soul,” Mr Eccles exclaimed, a sly smile lighting up his face. “Why didn’t you say so before? Sit down, young man. I’m sorry I was so abrupt just now, but if you only knew how I’m pestered all day long, you’d appreciate I’ve got to do something to protect myself.”

Brant drew up a chair and sat down. George, standing by the door, was forgotten.

“I understand, Mr Eccles,” Brant went on, after a moment’s pause, “that your children’s handwriting is of an exceptionally high standard. Mr Pickthorn of Trinity School also boasts of a high standard. We are organizing a harmless competition between schools, and I suggest you might like to co-operate. All we need is a specimen of each of your pupils’ handwriting, which will be sent to our head office, and the pupil with the best handwriting will be given a beautifully inscribed certificate and ten shillings. Mr Pickthorn has been happy to help us in this scheme, and we would like your pupils to compete against his. Whatever you decide, of course, will not influence my Company’s decision to send you the CSE, which should reach you early next month.”

“Pickthorn?” Mr Eccles snorted. “That old muddler! None of his brats can write. He’s got no method. Why, in a competition, it’d be a walk over.” He frowned down at his blotting pad. “I’d like to do it. ’Pon my word, I would. I’d like to wipe old Pickthorn’s eye, but it’ll disorganize my day. A thing like that’d need a bit of arranging.”

Brant shifted in his chair. “It took less than ten minutes at Radlet’s,” he said quietly. “All you have to do is to get the children to write their names and addresses on a piece of paper, and we will judge their handwriting from that. It s a simple system, and we shall not need to bother you further, as we shall have the name and address of the prizewinner. Surely, that’s not going to upset your school?”

Eccles looked a little blank. “Well, if that’s all it is,” he said doubtfully. “I suppose I could arrange that. All right, I’ll do it. Will you call hack sometime tomorrow?”

Brant stared at him with bored eyes. “We have a lot of ground to cover, Mr Eccles. Could we wait? It shouldn’t take a few minutes.” He paused, and before Mr Eccles could speak, he went on, “By the way, I suppose you would like a bookcase for your set of the CSE? I think I could persuade the Company to part with one. It’s a nice piece of furniture, light oak with glass panels.”

Mr Eccles got to his feet. “Yes,” he said, beaming, “that sounds magnificent. Hmm, yes, by all means.” He rubbed his hands together. “Well now, you wait here and I’ll get these kids to work. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

As soon as he left the room, George said, “Have you gone mad? What are you playing at? The Company doesn’t give sets away, let alone bookcases. They don’t even sell bookcases.”

Brant stared at him in a bored, detached way. “He doesn’t know that,” he said, and his thin mouth sneered.

“Well, he soon will when the books don’t turn up,” George said, now thoroughly agitated. “He’ll report us. Why, he might even tell the police. There’ll be a hell of a stink about this. And what’s all this about handwriting competitions? I really think you must be out of your mind.”

Brant looked out of the window. “Can’t you see?” he said with that patient voice that people reserve for tiresome, questioning children. “We’re going to get the names and addresses of all the brats in this school. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You made a mess of it, so I’ve fixed it. I said I would, didn’t I?”

“You’ll jolly well pay the ten bob out of your own pocket. I’m not going to throw money away like that,” George snapped, flushing angrily.

The cold eyes flickered. “Don’t be wet,” Brant said. “No one’s going to pay ten bob. Let the brat whistle for it.”

“What?” George exclaimed, starting forward. “You’re not even going to give a prize after telling all those lies?”

“You dumb, or something?” Brant’s face showed a faint curiosity. “Your pal Kelly wouldn’t pay ’em a nickel, would he? What’s the matter with you—slipping?” He stared at George until George had to look away. “Anyway, why should you worry? We won’t be here next month. They don’t know our names, and if they complain to the Company, we can deny it. It’s their word against ours.”

The enormity of such a swindle paralyzed George. He sat down and stared stupidly at Brant.

“It’s cheating,” he said at last. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Aw, dry up!” Brant said, a vicious snarl in his voice. “The whole business is a racket. The Company doesn’t care how you get business so long as you don’t tell ’em. They don’t pay you a salary and they don’t care if you starve. All they’re interested in is to get a mug to sell their hooks. Robinson cheats us out of ten bob on every order we get. Do you think he cares? He doesn’t give a damn so long as he gets his rake off. These teachers are only out for what they can get. It’s a racket from start to finish.” He leaned forward, two faint red spots on his thin cheeks. “It’s us or them. If you don’t like it, then get the hell out of it and leave me to handle it. I’m out for what I can get, and I’m going to get it. So, shut up!”

George flinched away from the savage anger that faced him, and for a long time the room was silent except for the distant sound of children’s voices coming from the classrooms.

4

"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.

5

This is ridiculous, George thought, as he followed Brant down the stairs. He can’t get away with this. Who does he think he is? He can’t steal my thunder in this way and then calmly walk off as if nothing had happened.

George had enacted the kind of interview they had just had so many times in his mind that Brant’s flagrant trespassing on his preserves angered and humiliated him. Of course, he hadn’t been particularly bright at the interview. He had to admit that. He had been scared of Robinson and the woman, but that was only because he had felt defenceless. How was he to know that Brant would produce a razor and commit violence? If he had known, he would have brought his gun. Then it would have been quite a different story. With the Luger in his hand, he would not only have dominated Robinson and that ghastly slut of a woman, but he would have also dominated Brant. What an opportunity to have missed! All because Brant hadn’t taken him into his confidence. A sullen anger began to rise in him against Brant. It was like Brant to horn in, to push him aside and take all the credit.

Out in the darkness and the rain, George grabbed hold of Brant and jerked him round.

Anger and disappointment and a feeling of shame gave him courage.

“What are you playing at?” he asked roughly. “Why didn’t you tell me what you were going to do? I could have handled it. I know how to handle a job like that—without messing or cutting people.”

Brant stared at him: his gaunt, cold face startled. “What are you talking about?” he demanded, shaking off George’s hand. “A fat lot of good you were…”

“So that’s what you think?” George said furiously. “Well, it was your fault. I didn’t want to go. I told you. If I had known what you were up to, it would have been different.”

“How different?” Brant asked. “I’ve got the money and I’ve kicked him out of our territory. We’re free to do what we like now. What more could you have done?”

George was a little taken aback, but he was so envious and angry that he blurted out, “It would have been different if I’d brought my gun.”

“Gun?” Brant repeated. “What gun?”

George had never told anyone about the Luger. It was not the kind of thing you did tell anyone about. He had no licence for it. If the police heard about it, there would be trouble. They would most likely take it from him.

But he told Brant. There was nothing else he could do. It was either that, or loss of face.

“What do you think” he said gruffly. “I’ve had a gun for years. Brought it back from the States; only it’s not a thing I talk about. The police don’t stand for that kind of thing.”

“A gun,” Brant said, making it sound tremendously important. “So you’ve got a gun?”

“Had it for years,” George repeated, uneasy, yet pleased with the impression he had made. “It saves a lot of talking. I’m not much of a one to talk. I don’t need to talk with a gun.”

“I didn’t know,” Brant said, and his hardness and confidence somehow didn’t seem to matter any more to George.

“I don’t mess around with razors,” George went on, his voice sounding strange even to him. “That’s small-time stuff.”

“You can’t get guns here,” Brant said mildly, almost apologetically. “But we scared the rat, didn’t we?”

“We scared him all right,” George returned, losing his ill- temper now that Brant was acknowledging his share in Robinson’s defeat. “I’ll never forget his face when you produced that sticker,” he went on, feeling a generosity that compelled him to give the lion’s share of the exploit to Brant.

“Pity you didn’t bring the gun,” Brant said, equally generous. “He’d’ve had a heart attack.”

George sniggered. Brant, he decided, wasn’t such a had sort after all. “I’ll fix him if he tries anything funny,” he went on grandly. “What with my gun and your sticker, we’ve got him where we want him.”

“You’re a pretty good shot, I Suppose?” Brant said, his head down and his yellow hair plastered flat by the rain.

“Me?” George laughed, delighted with Brant’s interest. “I was considered to be fair enough. I could split a playing- card edge on at twenty-five yards. Bit out of practice now, of course.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Brant said, hunching his shoulders. “I bet you’ve bumped off a few guys in your day.”

George opened his mouth, saw the trap just in time, and walked on without speaking. It would he stimulating to brag that he had been a killer, but not to Brant. It was safe enough to tell Ella. She wouldn’t talk, but Brant might.

“What’s it like, killing a guy?” Brant asked, after a moment’s pause.

“That’s something I don’t talk about,” George returned, shortly.

Brant glanced at him. “Kelly killed a lot of men, didn’t he?”

That was safer ground. “A good few,” George said, shrugging his big shoulders carelessly. “It was us or them in those days.”

“But you didn’t, eh?”

Again George resisted the temptation. “That’s something I keep to myself,” he said, and after a moment’s hesitation, he added gruffly, “Lay off, will you?”

“That’s all right,” Brant said quickly. “I guess that’s something no one would talk about.”

“Now you’re smart,” George returned, surprised at his own audacity.

At the street corner they paused..

“Well, you better take your money,” Brant said. There was a note of reluctance in his voice, but he held out the crumpled roll of notes willingly enough.

George hesitated; at the back of his mind, although he was loath to admit it, he knew he would not have had the nerve to have taken the money. He knew that Brant expected him to share it with him, and after a mental tussle, he took the notes, hurriedly counted ten from the roll, and offered them to Brant.

“Here,” he said, his face hot with embarrassment, “we’ll share on this. After all, you helped get them.”

“Fair enough,” Brant said, and took the notes, putting them in his pocket.

George was rather taken aback by this cool acceptance of what was rightly his.

“Well, I’ll he getting off,” Brant said, before George could recover. “I don’t think we’ll have any further trouble with Robinson. We’ll work the territory and send the orders direct to the Company. If Robinson starts trouble—well, we’ll introduce him to your gun.”

George nodded. “That’s the idea,” he said eagerly. “I’ll put the wind up him all right.”

Before Brant went, he put his hand on George’s arm and actually smiled at him. “You’re all right, George,” he said, pinching George’s massive muscles. “You’re going to go places.”

It took George some time before he could settle to sleep that night. Even the regular, soothing sound of Leo’s purring failed to lull him. He felt that Brant no longer regarded him with contempt. He felt somehow that he had impressed Brant—a difficult, almost impossible person to impress. It was risky, of course, to have told Brant about the gun, but he just could not have let him get away with his home-made sticker.

George spent a long time reconstructing the scene with Robinson, only this time it was he who played the leading part. It was he who intimidated Robinson and made him hand over the money, and it was Brant who stood speechless, his grey-blue eyes alight with admiration.

The next evening George met Brant in a pub opposite Wembley underground station. It was quite startling how Brant’s attitude towards George had changed. He now seemed to regard George as the leader, and although he still had the same cold, bored expression in his eyes, and the thin hardness about his mouth, he was diffident, almost ingratiating, in his manner To George’s relief, the gun was not mentioned.

“We’d better get to work,” George remarked, after calling for a second pint. “Have another lemonade while I explain things to you.”

Brant shook his head. “Not for me,” he said, “but don’t let that stop you.”

“We can manage without Robo all right,” George went on, after he had taken a pull from his tankard. “I had a word with Head Office. I told them we preferred to work together, and Robo was willing. They don’t care one way or the other so long as they get the orders.” He lit a cigarette, and for a moment enjoyed the feeling that he was now the head salesman, instructing a novice. “The first thing you have to do when you’re canvassing is to get into the house. It’s easy once you know how. For instance, if you knock on the door and say ‘Is Mr Jones at home?’ the old girl is hound to ask ‘Who is it?’ If he isn’t in, then you have to tell her the whole story, and the old man is tipped off when he does come home. That means he’s ready for you when next you call. Don’t forget the surprise visit gets the business.” George took another pull from his tankard, and then went on, “If, on the other hand, you knock on the door, and when the old girl comes you raise your hat and begin to move away, and at the same time you say, ‘I suppose Mr Jones is not in?’ then she’ll answer nine times out of ten, ‘No, he isn’t.’ You then say, ‘I’ll look in some other time’, and by that time you’re halfway to the gate without telling her what you want.”

Brant shifted restlessly. “I don’t know if all that’s so important,” he said.

“But it is,” George returned. “You try it and see. Robinson worked out all the angles, and they’re worth studying. Now, if the old man is at home, your question, ‘I suppose Mr Jones isn’t in?’ gets the answer, ‘Oh yes, he is’, and as like as not she starts yelling for him. When he turns up, you’ll find he’ll lean against the doorpost, blocking your entrance and ask what you want. You mustn’t tell him until you’re inside the house.”

Brant had a far-away look in his eyes. He Seemed hardly aware of George’s droning voice at his elbow.

“You must get inside before you start your sale, so you say, ‘I’ve come to talk to you about Johnny’s education.’ That usually gets you in,” George went on. “If he still won’t ask you in, you put it to him straight. ‘I wonder if I might come in? I can’t very well talk to you on the doorstep.’”

“You’ve certainly got it wrapped up haven’t you?” Brant said. “Well, let’s see it work. Come on, I’m sick of this pub.”

George consulted his packet of names and addresses. “All right,” he said. “Let’s try Mr Thomas. He’s got two kids: Tommy and Jean. It’s important to know the children’s names. The old man thinks you’re a school inspector if you mention the kids by name, and you’re inside before he finds out you’re not.”

They walked along the wide arterial road, housed on either side by box-like Council dwellings. They were an odd-looking couple, and the women standing in the doorways, the men in their gardens and the children playing in the road, stared curiously at them.

“Here we are,” George said, uneasy under the battery of inquisitive eyes. He paused outside a drab little house, pushed open the wooden gate, and together they walked up the path.

George rapped on the door. There was a rush of feet and the door jerked open. Two small children, a boy and a girl, stared up at them with intent, wondering eyes.

“Is your father in?” George asked, smiling down at them. They did not move nor speak, but continued to gape at them.

Brant said, “Get someone, can’t you? Don’t stand there gaping at me.” His voice snapped viciously, and the two children immediately turned and ran hack down the passage.

“Ma… Ma… there’re two men…”

George and Brant exchanged glances.

“It’s always the same,” George said. “Damn kids…”

A middle-aged, slatternly-looking woman came down the passage, drying her pink, soap-softened hands on a dimly towel.

“’Oo is it?” she asked, eyeing them suspiciously.

“I suppose Mr Thomas isn’t in?” George asked, raising his hat and edging slowly away from the door.

“’E’s in the garden.” She raised her voice and shouted “Bert… ’ere… come ’ere…”

“That’s all right,” George said hastily. “We’ll go round", and before the woman could protest, he left her and walked round to the hack garden.

Mr Thomas was resting after a bout of digging. He stood in the middle of a patch of newly turned ground, his cap at the back of his head, the spade thrust into the soil and the glow of sweat and health on his large, simple face.

He blinked when he saw George and Brant, and paused as he was about to light his pipe, uncertain, uneasy.

“Good evening, Mr Thomas,” George said, approaching with a cheerful smile and a wave of his hand. “Getting ready for planting, eh? That soil looks good. By Jove! I envy you this garden.”

“’Evening,” Mr Thomas grunted, and took off his cap to scratch his head.

“I wonder if you can spare us a moment?” George went on. “We’ve come to have a little chat about Jean and Tommy I hear they’re doing very well at school.”

Mr Thomas brightened; embarrassed suspicion left his face. “From the school, are yer?” he said. He looked round the small garden a little helplessly, and then, raising his voice, he bawled, “’Ere, Emmie! Come ’ere, can’t yer?”

Mrs Thomas and the two children joined them.

“These two gents are from the school,” Mr Thomas said, wiping his hands on the seat of his trousers. He glared at the children. “Wot ’ave you two bin up to?”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” George put in hastily as the two children looked sheepish. “Your kiddies are a credit to you both. They’re doing so well at school I thought you might consider helping them to do even better.”

Mr Thomas looked blankly at his wife. “I dunno about that…” he began, and, getting no support from his wife, he lapsed into silence.

“Perhaps we could go inside for a moment?” George asked, moving towards the house. “I won’t keep you long, but it’s easier to talk inside than in the garden, isn’t it?”

Rather reluctantly, Mr Thomas led the way into the squalid little house. They all crowded into the small front parlour. Mr Thomas dusted two chairs with his cap and pushed them forward, warned his children that if they didn’t sit quiet he’d knock their blocks off, and sat down himself. Mrs Thomas stood by the window.

George glanced round the room and cleared his throat. He was not nervous. He knew what he was going to do, he had an interested audience, and the result of what he had to say was his bread and butter. More important still, he wished to impress Brant with his salesmanship.

“Before I come to the point,” he began, taking up his position behind the chair and grasping the back of it firmly in both hands, “let me put to you both a very important question. You will both agree with me that education today is the most vital factor in the life of any child?”

Mr Thomas and his wife emphatically agreed that this was so, and Mr Thomas began a rambling account of the lack of education in his time.

George hurriedly interrupted. “Fortunately, Mr Thomas, times have changed. Now, education is so important you can’t leave all the work to the school teachers. Many a time your kiddies have asked you questions which you’re unable to answer. There’re thousands of such questions, and they are very difficult to answer. I’ve had a lot to do with children, and I know how worrying it is not to be able to satisfy their craving for knowledge.”

“That’s right,” Mr Thomas returned, nodding his head. “Fair terrors these imps are. Always asking questions…”

“And what questions!” George went on, beaming at the children. “I don’t have to remind you of all the conundrums, do I? You know only too well. All the same, these questions should be answered.”

Mr Thomas nodded again. He had no idea what all this was about, but he felt that George did appreciate their difficulties and was trying to be helpful.

“Very well, then,” George said, getting into his stride. “Children are thirsting for knowledge. Teachers haven’t the time to explain everything children want to know. Parents haven’t the knowledge. So what happens?” He leaned forward, suddenly looking stern. “Your children, Mr Thomas, are being mentally starved. Make no mistake about that! You would be ashamed to starve their bodies. Yet you are openly starving their minds. Knowledge is to the mind what food is to the body.”

Mr Thomas began to have doubts about George’s good intentions. He scratched his head and glanced at his wife for support.

George paused until there was a long, awkward silence, and then he flashed on his old heartiness again. “Now, don’t let that disturb you,” he went on, beaming round on them. “I’m here to put all that right. I have a wonderful work that’ll be the silent teacher in your home.”

From his hidden poacher’s pocket, he produced the specimen of the Ch ild’s Self-Educator.

“Let me show you.”

He laid the book on the table. Mr and Mrs Thomas and the two children crowded round him. He began to turn the pages slowly, making a comment for every page.

“Look at these magnificent pictures. Here, children can slip over to Africa and roam about the jungle in perfect safety. They can see the wild animals, study their habits and learn how they live. The King of Beasts. Isn’t that a wonderful picture? Look, Tommy, look at the tiny cubs. They’re like ordinary kittens, aren’t they? But they’d scratch if you met them in the jungle.” He glanced at Mr Thomas. “See how interested the boy is? Every page has been planned to attract children to look further. It’s scientific teaching of the highest possible standard.” He turned another page. “Now, what have we here? The story of wireless, and, more interesting still, how to construct many various kinds of sets. I’m sure you, Mr Thomas, would be interested in this section. Have you ever thought of making your own wireless? These instructions are simple, and you don’t have to have any previous knowledge.” He made sure that Mr Thomas was looking at the coloured plates a little wistfully before turning on to another section. “Here’s something that’s useful to everyone in the home: the Medical section. Your kiddie might scald himself—so many kiddies do—turn to page 155 and you learn how to deal with such an emergency. Your own doctor in your own home! Isn’t that something worth having? No waiting, no bills, easy reference— possibly a life saved!” He noted the slow-rising interest, but decided that neither Mr nor Mrs Thomas was as yet quite convinced, so he turned on, delighted with the sound of his own voice, pleased with the set, worn phrases which now automatically came to his lips without the need of thought. “Tommy perhaps has to write an essay on ships: here it is, all ready for him Tommy will soon be at the top of his class. Jean has a problem in arithmetic: she fords her answer here. You, Mr Thomas, want to know what will best grow in your garden: here is the whole thing ready for you in the Gardening section. A few nights’ reading and Mr Thomas’ garden is the envy of all his neighbours. Mrs Thomas, although you’re no doubt an excellent cook, you can get new ideas from the Cookery section.” He stepped hack and thumped his large fist on the back of the chair. “It’s a great work! A work for every one of you. You will agree with me, I am sure, that it’d be useful to have a set of these magnificent books in your home? Can’t you see how they’d help your kiddies get on and assure a sound future for them?”

Mrs Thomas stared at her husband, her eyes bright. “Ain’t that a wonderful turn out, Bert?” she said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. What say, shall we ’ave ’em?”

“Yes, dad,” the children chimed in, “let’s ’ave ’em. Coo, dad, look at all them pictures…”

“You shut up,” Mr Thomas growled. He scratched his head and fingered the specimen thoughtfully. “I’m not saying they ain’t all right, but this sort of thing costs money…”

“Now let me explain about that,” George said, with an expansive smile. “The Child’s Self-Educator is in four handsome volumes. Although we’re making every effort to put this work in all homes at cost price, it still needs a little effort on your part to secure it. Good things don’t just fall from Heaven. I wish they did, but they don’t. You have to make a small sacrifice for them.” He shook his head solemnly Then, lowering his voice, he said impressively, “It’s going to cost you tuppence a day.”

“Tuppence a day?” Mr Thomas repeated blankly. “Wot yer mean?”

“Just that,” George replied, knowing that he had reached the crucial part of the sale and moving with caution. “Consider what tuppence a day means. A shilling odd a week for your children’s future success. Surely that isn’t asking too much? We don’t collect the money daily or weekly, of course, but monthly: five shillings a month.

“The whole work costs seven pounds, ten shillings. We’re not asking you for that amount, we’re asking for five shillings a month. The way to look at it is that you’re going to pay tuppence a day to help your children and yourselves.”

“Seven palms ten!” Mr Thomas gasped. “Not bloody likely! Not for me, chum. No, I can’t afford that.” He picked up the specimen and handed it to George. “Thank yer for calling, mister, but it ain’t no good.”

The two children immediately began an uproar, and Mrs Thomas had to drive them from the room. The small house echoed with their disappointed yells, and George became slightly flustered.

“Now, one moment, Mr Thomas,” he began hurriedly, realizing that he had struck the worst kind of prospect—the man who can’t afford it. “You’ve agreed the books are good and…

“The hooks’re orl right, but the price ain’t,” Mr Thomas said, a stubborn light in his eyes. “It’s no use arguing. I can’t afford it, so that’s that.”

George stared at him helplessly, aware that Brant was watching him with a sneering grin.

“Of course you can afford it,” George said warmly. “You mean you can’t afford to be without it. Tuppence a day! Why, anyone can afford that.”

“Well, I can’t, and I don’t want a lot of talk,” Mr Thomas said irritably. “I’ve got to get back to my garden.”

“Just a moment,” Brant said quietly. “I can prove you can afford to pay tuppence a day for these hooks.”

Both Mr Thomas and George turned and stared at him He was eyeing them with a hard, calculating expression in his eyes. Before they could speak he went on, “You’re a sporting man, Mr Thomas. I bet you half a dollar you can afford to pay tuppence a day. If I prove to your satisfaction that you wouldn’t miss this small sum, will you buy the books?”

“You can’t prove it,” Mr Thomas said, beginning to grin.

“In that case, you’ll get the half dollar,” Brant said, putting a half a crown on the table. “Fair enough, isn’t it?”

Mr Thomas hesitated, then nodded his head. “Okay, cocky, prove it.”

Brant produced a soiled ten-shilling note. “I’ll have another bet with you,” he said, his lips curling into a smile, but his eyes like granite. “I bet you don’t know how much money you have in your trousers’ pocket.”

Mr Thomas blinked at him “Wot’s that got ter do with it?”

“If you can tell me to the exact penny how much you have in your pocket, I’ll give you this ten bob.”

“I can do that orl right,” Mr Thomas returned, automatically moving his hands to his pockets.

“No… don’t do that. Tell me, without looking, exactly how much you have.”

Mr Thomas scratched his head, suddenly embarrassed.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I reckon I’ve got four bob.”

Brant leaned forward. “To the exact penny, Mr Thomas. What is it? Four and three or three and ten? Tell me the exact amount and the ten bob’s yours.”

Mr Thomas scowled. “I dunno,” he admitted. “Not to the exact penny. Rut wot’s all this got to do with it?”

“All right,” Brant said briskly, putting his ten-shilling note away. “You don’t know how much you have in your pocket, do you? So if I put tuppence into your pocket without you knowing it, you wouldn’t know you were tuppence to the good? In the same way, if I took tuppence out of your pocket, you wouldn’t miss it. It therefore follows that you can afford to pay tuppence a day for these very valuable books.”

Mr Thomas gaped for a moment, and then a wide grin spread over his face. “That’s smart,” he said, admiringly. “I never thought of it that way. Orl right, give us the order form. I’ll sign it.”

George watched the signing of the order form with mixed feelings. He was angry that Brant had interfered with his sale. He was humiliated that Brant should have come to his rescue so successfully when he should have been the one to have shown Brant the dodges. Again it crept into his mind that Brant’s success had been a cheap trick. Of course it was a cheap trick. A confidence trick!

But Brant seemed oblivious to George. He took the order form from Mr Thomas, examined it carefully, smiled and folded it. Without looking at George, he put the form casually into his pocket.

There was an awkward pause. George felt blood rising to his face, but this was no time to protest. They both shook hands with Mr Thomas, had a word to say to Mrs Thomas and then walked down the path in silence.

Once out in the road, away from the house, George said, “Look here, old boy, that’s my order, you know. I did all the selling, and besides, it was one of my addresses.”

Brant smiled. “Don’t be a fool,” he said, bored and cold, his hard eyes on George’s face. “You’d never’ve landed it: not in a hundred years. What do you think I am—a sucker?” He glanced up and down the road. “Well, I can manage now. I see how it’s done. If you ask me, it’s a mug’s game. All that talking for thirty bob.” He shrugged indifferently. “I’m not going to waste my time on this job for long.”

George shifted his feet; a tiny spark of anger flared up and then went out. “I think we might split it, old boy,” he said a little feebly.

“I thought you didn’t go in for small-time stuff,” Brant returned, jeering at him. “I got you twenty-two quid last night, and now you’re haggling over fifteen bob.” He began to move away. “I’ll be seeing you. While we’re on the ground, we may as well do some work. So long, George.”

“But wait a minute…” George began.

Brant shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “So long,” he repeated, and slouched away, his head down, the long straw-colour lock of hair falling forward, hiding his scar.

6

It was Saturday afternoon, and George was alone in his room, alone also in the big, dingy house. The other boarders had gone away for the weekend. George had watched them go from his window. They looked, he thought, a little odd and somehow theatrical out of their drab city clothes: the plus fours, the flannel suits, the summer frocks gave them a festive air, not in keeping with George’s depressed mood. Ella also had gone off immediately after lunch. It was her half day, and George, peering round the curtain, had watched her hurry to the bus stop. A half an hour or so later Mr and Mrs Rhodes had strolled towards the local cinema. He was now alone in the house, which seemed still and oppressive to him

Saturday afternoon depressed George: he had nothing to do, nowhere to go, and he usually sat in his armchair by the window with a book and Leo for company.

George found himself this afternoon more restless than usual. His book did not interest him, and he felt the loneliness of the big house weighing down on him. He had Brant on his mind, too. Brant, in two days, had become a star salesman. He had obtained six orders for the Ch ild’s Self-Educator: nine pounds in his first week! George had only managed to scrape up two orders that week, and he was vaguely resentful of Brant’s success. He was sure that Brant was using a series of cheap tricks to obtain his orders.

George tried to convince himself that he would rather not get an order unless the sale was a fair one, but he could not help envying Brant’s success—tricks or no tricks.

George found the King’s Arms lonely without Robinson for company. Brant seldom came to the pub. Although he was still friendly—if you could call his odd, cold manner friendly—he kept to himself, and George saw him to talk to only when they journeyed out to Wembley together. Even then Brant scarcely said a word.

George put his hook down. He stared across at Leo, who blinked, stretched lazily and ducked his head at him.

It was strange how an animal could take the edge off loneliness, George thought. Without Leo, he would have gone out and wandered aimlessly about the streets.

He got up and crossed to the bed. For some minutes he stroked the cat’s fur and talked to it, pleased with its ecstatic response. He rolled it gently onto its back, and the cat, its eyes half closed, encircled his hand with its front paws, its claws carefully sheathed. While he fondled Leo, George brooded about their relations. Leo was important to him: how empty his life would be without the cat! It came as a revelation that he was entirely alone, that no one bothered with him, and he had no friend he could trust. A wave of lonely emotion swept through him, and his eyes watered. He didn’t care, he told himself, picking Leo up and holding the cat in his arms, its face against his face, its whiskers tickling his nose. He could get on all right alone so long as he kept his health and had Leo for company. All the same, it was a pretty dreary outlook. As he was beginning to pity himself, he heard the telephone ringing downstairs. The bell startled him. Somehow, it sounded creepy, coming up from the deserted basement. He put Leo down and went to the door. It wasn’t much use going all the way downstairs. By the time he was down the hell would have stopped ringing. He opened his door and glanced along the dimly lit passage. The bell was ringing insistently—a muffled, nagging note that disturbed him. He shrugged his shoulders uneasily. Let it ring, he decided. It was certainly not for him. No one had ever bothered to ask for his telephone number. It was probably for one of the boarders, or for Mr Rhodes. But he could not bring himself to shut the door. He had a guilty feeling that he ought to answer the telephone and see who was calling. Then, as he had almost made up his mind to go down, the bell ceased to ring. He closed the door and went hack to his armchair, but a moment later he was on his feet once more as the bell began to ring again.

This time he did not hesitate; he lumbered out of the room, along the passage and down the stairs. It seemed a long way down, and the hell nagged him. He descended the basement stairs with a rush, snatched up the receiver and said “Hello?” in a breathless voice.

“You’ve taken your time, haven’t you?” a flat, metallic voice said in his ear.

“Who’s that? Who do you want?”

“It’s Brant,” the voice said impatiently, as if he ought to have known. “I thought you’d be in. Look, George, I want you to do me a favour.”

“Brant? Why, hello… I didn’t expect you…”

“Never mind that. Have you anything to do this afternoon?”

“Me?” Of course George had nothing to do. He never had on Saturday afternoons; but how did Brant know? Anyway, he wasn’t going to admit it: at the same time, he didn’t intend to miss anything. He spoke with caution. “Well, I don’t know. I was reading…”

“You can read any time, can’t you?” Brant’s voice jeered at him. “I wouldn’t ask you, only it’s important. I want someone to go to Joe’s and leave a message.”

“Joe’s?”

“It’s a club in Mortimer Street, not far from you. They’re not on the blower, otherwise I’d’ve rung ’em.”

“Mortimer Street—that’s near Paddington Station, isn’t it?”

Brant grunted. “I’ve taken the key of my flat by mistake, and I’ll be back late. It’s my sister. She doesn’t know, and she won’t be able to get in. Will you leave a message for her at Joe’s?”

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Brant said, “Well, I have. We share a flat, see? I should’ve left the key under the mat. She’ll have to amuse herself as best she can until I get back. But I want her to know, otherwise she’ll kick the door down. Will you do it, George? Just tell the barman I’ve taken the key and won’t be back until after two. He’ll tell Cora.”

George thought for a moment. He felt a rising excitement. “Why, if you like… I’ll tell her myself. I mean I’ll wait for her and tell her.”

“You don’t have to do that. I don’t know when she’ll go to Joe’s. All I know is she’ll be there some time tonight.”

George had no idea why he should feel so excited and elated. Brant’s sister! Not five minutes ago he didn’t know that Brant had a sister, and now he was getting het-up about her, as if she were someone exciting, someone who’d be interested in him. It was extraordinary.

“Of course, I’ll do it,” he said. “You leave it to me, old boy. I’ll tell ’em. You don’t think I ought to wait and explain it to her myself? They might forget to tell her…”

“They’ll tell her,” Brant said, his voice a ghostly murmur in George’s ear. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“All right,” George said happily. “You leave it to me. You won’t be hack until after two, is that it?”

“Something like that. Well, thanks. If you do see her… she’s dark, doesn’t wear a hat and has a red bone bangle. You can’t mistake her. The bangle’s about three inches wide.”

“Well, maybe I will see her…”

A faint, sneering laugh came over the wire.

“What was that?” George asked, not believing that Brant had laughed.

“Nothing. I’ve got to get off. So long, George.”

“Goodbye,” George said, and the line went dead.

George ran up the three flights of stairs to his bedroom. His violent entrance startled Leo, who sat up with pricked ears and wide eyes. George didn’t even notice the cat. He stood before the long mirror, and saw, not without satisfaction, that his face was flushed and his eyes bright. This was going to be exciting, he told himself. Organized properly, he would be able to extend the excitement until bedtime. He glanced at his watch. It was still early: a few minutes to three. He must make himself smart. Perhaps a shave. He ran his fingers over his chin Yes, he could do with a shave. Then a clean shirt, his best suit.

He took a towel and shaving outfit to the bathroom. The geyser lit with a little plop, and while he waited for the water to heat up he stood looking out of the window, across the grey roofs and, beyond, at the blue sky and the sunshine.

Cora! An exciting name. She wouldn’t be like Brant. He was sure of that. She was dark, didn’t wear a hat and had a red bone bangle: an exciting description! George took off his collar and tie, and filled the basin with hot water. He would spot her all right, he assured himself. Even if he didn’t speak to her, it would be interesting to look at her. But, of course, he was going to speak to her. Alone in the steamy little bathroom, George felt very confident. He forgot that he was shy with women. Somehow, Brant’s sister would be different. He was quite sure of that. It was odd how stupid he had been about women in the past. He stared at himself in the mirror. There was no sense in working himself into a fright because of what had happened years ago. He had been fifteen then, and big for his age. That always seemed to be the trouble. He was always too big for his age. School masters expected too much from him. During the war, when he was fourteen, people expected him to be in the army. Even at fifteen he had been backward and, of course, innocent. He had been in the park by himself when the woman began talking to him. She was an impressive-looking woman, rich, well dressed, refined. She said she was lonely, and George had felt sorry for her. He was lonely himself. They stood talking beside the duck pond; at least, she did the talking, while George listened politely. He was really more interested in watching the herons; but she was lonely, so he listened. She talked about people being nice to each other, about being lonely and what a fine, strong fellow he was. It was talk that George could understand. So when she suggested he might come to her house because it was chilly standing by the pond, he was flattered, and he did not see anything wrong in going with her.

He thought it odd that she should take him straight up to her bedroom. He had never seen such a beautiful room. But before he could appreciate it, the refined lady seemed to take leave of her senses. George never quite knew how he got out of the house. It was like a nightmare, and he dreamed for many years about running down long passages and opening and shutting many doors with someone screaming names after him as he ran.

That experience kept cropping up at the back of his mind when he had anything to do with women. He never quite got over it. It made him shy and suspicious of women. Of course, sometimes he needed a woman, but his need was not as strong as his nervousness, so he never did anything about it. Once or twice, when he had been a little tight, he had ventured as far as Maddox Street. But the waiting women he found there seemed so unlike any other women he had seen that he had abruptly turned back and caught a bus home.

Now, in the solitude of the bathroom, he only felt the excitement and not the fright that women raised in him.

It was after four o’clock before he left the house. In high spirits he walked briskly down the street. It was a grand afternoon, and he found a secret pleasure in mingling with the crowds moving along the Edgware Road. He was now one of the crowd; he had somewhere to go, someone to meet. It gave him a feeling of security and confidence. He must do this more often, he told himself. It was absurd to bury himself away in his bedroom as he had been doing.

Mortimer Street consisted of a row of small shops, three or four hawkers’ barrows and a public house. George had to walk the length of the street before he discovered Joe’s Club. It was over a second-hand bookshop. The open door revealed a flight of uncarpeted stairs that rose steeply into darkness, and through the doorway cane the smell of stale scent, spirits and tobacco smoke.

He hesitated for several minutes before climbing the stairs. Finally he went up, his hand on the rickety banister, his feet treading cautiously, the stairs creaking under his weight.

There was a dimly lit passage at the top of the stairs, and at the end of the passage there was a door on which was a dirty card with “Joe’s Club” printed in uneven, illiterate letters.

George turned the door knob and pushed open the door. He found himself in a long, narrow room, which, he guessed, must stretch the width of the two shops below. At the far end of the room was a bar. Rows of bottles stood on shelves within reach of the bartender’s hands. All round the room stood tables on which chairs were stacked, their legs pointing to the dirty, grey-white ceiling. Opposite the bar, at the other end of the room, was a dais containing a piano, three battered music stands and a drummer’s outfit. The walls of the room were covered with large reproductions of nudes from La Vie Parisie nne a nd Es quire. A public telephone box stood just inside the door.

“The joint’s closed,” a man’s voice said at his elbow.

George jumped. He looked round, took a step back and stared at the little man who had come silently into the room. His flat, broad face was unpleasant; his complexion was shiny white, the texture of a slug’s body. Reddish hair like steel wool grew far back on his head and gave him a great deal of domed white forehead. His small, hitter, green eyes probed at George inquisitively.

“Besides, you’re not a member,” the little man went on. His voice seemed to come from the back of his throat, like that of a ventriloquist. His bloodless lips hung open, but did not move as he spoke.

“Yes,” George said. “I know.” He fingered his tie uneasily. “I really came to leave a message…”

“Why should I bother with messages?” the little man asked curtly. “Do you think I’ve got nothing better to do?”

That settled it, George thought, delighted. He would have to wait for Brant’s sister. You couldn’t rely on this nasty little specimen to pass on any message.

“All right,” he said, shrugging. “Perhaps you can tell me when Miss Brant will be here? I’ll tell her myself.”

“Who?” asked the little man “Miss Brant? Never ’eard of ’er.”

“Never mind,” George said firmly. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll come back later.”

The green eyes probed his face.

“Do you mean Cora?”

George was startled. “Yes,” he said. “Miss Cora Brant.”

A sly, sneering smile came into the green eyes.

“Gawd Almighty! We’re putting on side, ain’t we?” the little man said. “Okay, palsy, leave your message. I’ll take care of it.”

George’s growing dislike for the little man suddenly turned to suspicion. He looked a real had lot: a shady character: a gangster. He could have been anything—a racing tout with a razor, a pimp with a knife

Abruptly he turned to the door. “I’ll see her,” he said shortly. “Don’t you bother.”

He went downstairs. The little man watched him all the way down. As he reached the street door, the little man called after him, “Now wait. Don’t be so ’asty,” but George did not stop. He walked rapidly away, his face hot and red.

At the end of the street he paused and tried to make up his mind what he was to do. Obviously the club wouldn’t open until the evening. But what time in the evening? He’d have to find that out. He crossed the road and entered a shabby little tobacconist’s. He bought a packet of Player’s, and as he was waiting for his change he asked, “When does Joe’s Club open?”

The old woman who had served him shook her head. “You want to keep away from that place,” she said. “No good’s ever come out of it.”

George opened the packet of cigarettes and lit one. “Oh?” he said, feeling a stab of excitement. “What do you know about it?”

“Enough,” the old woman answered shortly, and put the odd coppers on the counter.

George lowered his voice, “I’m interested,” he said. “Perhaps you can help me.”

“A den of thieves,” the old woman said, her thin, yellow face creasing in disgust. “The police ought to lave closed it down long ago. I wish I was the mother of some of those little sluts ’oo go there: I’d warm their backsides for ’em!”

“I’m supposed to meet someone there,” George said, looking at her a little helplessly. “I don’t want to get mixed up in anything. Who’s the little bloke with the red hair?”

“You’ll get mixed up all right,” the old woman said contemptuously. “You keep away from that ’ole.”

“Thanks for the tip,” George returned, smiling at her. “But who is the little bloke with the red hair?”

“That’s Little Ernie; everyone knows ’im and his women.”

“What time does the Club open?” George asked again.

“Seven, and take my advice, keep clear of the place. They might take you for a copper, like I nearly did.” The old woman smiled secretly. “It ain’t healthy being taken for a copper in Joe’s Club.”

George raised his hat and went out into the sunshine. Dark with a red hone bangle; a den of thieves; Little Ernie and his women. What a wonderful Saturday afternoon!

He caught a bus at the corner of the street and travelled to Hyde Park. There he lost himself in the crowds, listening to the speakers, walking along the Serpentine, sitting on the grass. He didn’t mind waiting, because the evening was so full of promise. This was the world that fascinated him: the world he had read about and dreamed about.

At half past six he walked back to Mortimer Street. It had a forlorn, deserted appearance now that the hawkers’ barrows had gone and the shops were shut. He went into the public house which was opposite Joe’s Club and ordered a pint of bitter. He took his glass to the window, where he could see the club entrance. From the window he had an uninterrupted view of the street. He lit a cigarette and waited.

It was a long wait, but he did not mind. The street was full of interest. After seven o’clock a couple of stout, flashily dressed Jews came along, paused outside the Club, talked for a minute or so and then entered. Almost immediately a blonde woman wearing fox furs came down the street with a coarse, elderly man who was talking excitedly, gesticulating with his hands, an ugly look of rage on his badly shaven face. The woman walked along indifferently. She swayed her hips, and George recognized her for what she was. They, too, disappeared up the stairs to Joe’s Club. A little later three young girls—the eldest could not have been more than seventeen— all blonde, all wearing cheap, tight little frocks, all talking in highpitched, nasal voices, disappeared, giggling and yapping, through the shabby doorway.

George ordered another pint and continued to watch. From what he had seen, Joe’s Club seemed to attract the most odd type of man and woman from the shadowy night life of London. They were out of place in the sunlit street, like slugs you reveal when you turn over a log that has been lying in thick grass for a long time Sunshine was not for them. Dark streets, dimly-lit pavements, tobacco-laden air, the clink of glasses, the sound of liquor running from a bottle—that was their background. They were the “wide” boys and girls of London—the prostitutes, the thieves, the pimps, the touts, the pickpockets, the cat burglars, the hangers-on, the playboys and the good-time girls all moving in a steady stream, like a river of rottenness, into Joe’s Club.

As George watched them, summed them up, recognized them, he began to think about Brant’s sister. Would she turn out to be a brassy, hard little piece like these other girls who had gone up the stairs to Joe’s Club? He hated that type of girl. He had no personality to cope with them. He knew what kind of man they liked. He had listened to them in the park often enough. They and their boyfriends: young men with spotty complexions, padded shoulders, snappy felt hats and cigarettes dangling from their loose mouths. Wise cracking: every remark had a double meaning. The girls would scream with shrill laughter, vying with each other in appreciation. You were not wanted if you couldn’t make them laugh; if you didn’t know all the off-coloured jokes. Would Cora he like that?

George didn’t think so. He felt certain that she would mean something to him when they met. He didn’t know what their relations would he, but he was sure that meeting her was the most important thing in his life. The longer he waited the more excited he became.

Then as he was about to call for another pint, as the hands of the clock above the bar shifted to eight o’clock, he saw her. She was around twenty and dark. She had on a pale blue sweater and dark slacks and she didn’t wear a hat. There was a three-inch-wide red bangle on her wrist. But even without these clues he was quite sure he would have known her. It was as if the finger of destiny had pointed her out to him.

He crossed the bar in two strides, jerked open the door and stepped into the street. He crossed the street, removing his hat, as Cora reached the club door. She stopped when she saw him and stared at him. Her eyes were slate-grey, and had almost no expression when they looked at him

“Are you Miss Brant?” he asked, colour flooding his face. He tried, unsuccessfully, not to look at her breasts. She was flaunting her figure; with every move of her slim body, her breasts jiggled under the soft wool covering. She ought to wear something, he thought.

“Yes,” she said.

“I’m George Fraser,” he went on, aware that his heart was thumping wildly. “I don’t know if Syd ever mentioned me. He asked me to tell you that he’d he late. He’s taken the key…”

Her eyes travelled over him. He had never experienced such intense scrutiny. He felt that she was even peering into his pockets.

“Of course,” she said, “I know all about you. But come into the club. We don’t have to stand out here, do we?”

Without waiting for his reply, she turned abruptly and walked out of the sunshine and the clean-smelling air into the darkness of the building.

Following her, a helpless victim to the raven hair and slim, jaunty hips that preceded him up the stairs, George went towards his doom.

7

George knew the exact moment when he fell in love with Cora Brant. It happened suddenly, and, to him, as dramatically as a blow in the face. He found it was extraordinary that he could fall in love with Cora in this way. It wasn’t George’s idea of love at all. He had always imagined that two people fell in love only after they had probed each other’s minds, learned each other’s habits and outlook and come to know each other so well that the obvious thing for them to do was to live together. That was George’s idea of falling in love. He often thought about marriage, and how he would behave when the right girl came along. He had assured himself over and over again that he wouldn’t do anything hasty. He had always imagined a leisurely, satisfying courtship that would give him an opportunity of offering his affection slowly, but with increasing warmth, until the girl he had chosen gladly accepted him.

But when it happened with this unexpected, extraordinary suddenness he was dismayed to find that he had no control over the situation nor over his feelings. At one moment Cora was just someone—admittedly exciting and unusual—to talk to and to look at and with whom he hoped to alleviate an hour of lonely boredom; at the next she was someone he was physically and mentally aware of in a most overpowering way. For some unexplained reason he was tremendously moved, wanting to cry: an absurd emotion, which, again, he had never experienced before, and which made him feel tremendously happy and light-headed.

He had only a hazy recollection of what had happened in the club. The room had been thick with tobacco smoke, noisy with jive and strident voices. But he had eyes only for Cora Brant. The people around him and the noise were incidental: a background out of focus. He had been so excited that he still was unable to remember what she had said to him He had only been aware of her presence and his own triumph, and he nursed this triumph with secret and delighted pleasure.

He had bought drinks, and he had been startled that she tackled a pint of beer. The large glass seemed grotesque in her thin, white hand: a claw. He had absently noticed that her nails were scarlet, and her knuckles were a little grubby. And when he looked more closely at her, he realized she was not immaculate in the accepted sense of the word. She was slatternly: her black hair was lustreless, her pale blue sweater was no longer fresh, and there was face powder on her slacks.

But George was not critical. Any woman was a novelty to him, and a girl like Cora Brant was far more than a novelty—she was an exciting experience. Because of the noise of the music and the voices around them, they hadn’t said much to each other. George had been content to admire her. He had, of course, explained about Sydney. To make himself heard, he had to lean across the table and shout at her. He found that embarrassing: it was like carrying on an intimate conversation in a crowded tube train. Cora had listened, her eyes on his face, her perfume in his nostrils. She had nodded and shrugged her shoulders, waving to the band as if to say it was no use talking at present.

"We’ll go somewhere quieter in a little while,” she had said, and had turned to watch the band.

After that it would not have mattered to George if she had not spoken again during the whole evening. She had actually said that they were going to be together, and he relaxed, rather astonished, but so grateful that he could have wept.

Then later, when the band had left the dais for a short interval, she looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

“Shall we go?” she said, pushing back her chair.

Obediently George followed her down the stairs to the street. The sudden decision to leave, the complete indifference to his own plans, and her take-it-for-granted attitude that he wanted to go with her reminded him of Sydney Brant. That was how he behaved. Both of them knew what they wanted. They led: others followed.

Neither of them spoke as they walked along the pavement together. Cora’s small head, level with George’s shoulder, moved along smoothly before him, as if she were being drawn along on wheels. She left behind her the faintest smell of sandalwood.

The evening light was beginning to fade. Storm clouds crept across the sky. The air in the streets had become stale, like the breath of a sick man, and sudden gusts of hot wind sent dust and scraps of paper swirling around the feet of the crowd moving sullenly along the hot pavements.

At the corner of Orchard and Oxford Streets, Cora paused. She glanced along the street towards Marble Arch: a street thronged with people all making a leisurely way to the Park.

“I’m hungry,” she said. “Let’s get something to eat.”

“That’s an idea,” George said eagerly, conscious of Robinson’s eleven pounds in his wallet. “Where would you like to go? The Dorchester?” He was quite willing to spend his last penny on her if it would help to create a good impression. He had never been to the Dorchester, but he had heard about it. It was the smartest place he could think of that was close at hand.

“The what?” she asked, staring at him blankly. “Do you mean the Dorchester Hotel?”

He felt himself flushing. “Yes,” he said. “Why not?”

“What, in those clothes?” she asked, eyeing him up and down. “My dear man! They wouldn’t let you past the door.”

He looked at his worn shoes, his face burning. If she had struck him with a whip she couldn’t have succeeded in hurting him more.

“And what about me?” she went on, apparently unaware that she had so completely crushed him. “The Dorchester in these rags?”

“I—I’m sorry,” George said, not looking at her. “I just wanted to give you a good time. I—I didn’t think it mattered what you wore.”

“Well, it does,” she said coldly.

There was a long, awkward pause. George was too flustered to suggest anywhere else. She’ll go in a moment, he thought feverishly. I’m sure she’ll go. Why am I standing like this, doing nothing? I can’t expect her to suggest anything—it’s my place to make the arrangements.

But the more he tried to think where he could take her, the more panic-stricken he became.

She was eyeing him curiously now. He could feel her eyes on his face.

“Perhaps you have something else to do…” she said suddenly.

“Me? Of course not,” George said, over eager and almost shouting. “I—I’ve got nowhere to go. I just don’t go anywhere, that’s all. I—I don’t know where you’d like to go. Perhaps you’ll suggest something.”

“Where do you live?”

Astonished, George told her.

“Let’s go to your place,” she said. “I’m tired of the heat and the crowds.”

George could scarcely believe his ears.

“My place?” he repeated blankly. “Oh, you wouldn’t like that. I mean it’s only a room. It—it isn’t much. It’s not very comfortable.”

“It’s somewhere to sit, isn’t it?” she said, staring a little impatiently at him. “Or can’t you take women there?”

He hadn’t the faintest idea. It was something he had never contemplated doing. He had visions of Mrs Rhodes’ disapproving face, and he flinched away from the thought. Then he remembered once seeing one of the other boarders bring a lady visitor to his room. Of course, the visitor hadn’t been like Cora; but if one boarder could do it, wily couldn’t he? Besides, if they went at once, Mrs Rhodes would be in the basement having supper. She wouldn’t even see him.

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said eagerly. “Nothing like that. We can go if you would like to. It’s only the room isn’t much…”

She was beginning to move towards Edgware Road. Now that that was settled, she seemed to have lost interest in him. She walked on as if he wasn’t with her.

George tagged along behind. Of course he was excited. To have a girl like Cora in his room! He thought at least she would want to dance, or go to the pictures, or do something extravagant.

She suddenly stopped outside a snack bar.

"Let’s take something in with us,” she said, looking at the appetizing show in the window. Without waiting for him to agree, she entered the shop.

“Two chicken sandwiches, two cheese sandwiches and two apples,” she said to the white-coated attendant behind the counter.

George planked down a ten-shilling note while the attendant packed the sandwiches and apples in a cardboard container.

“How much?” Cora asked, ignoring George’s money. “That’ll be two and six, miss,” the attendant said, looking first at her and then at George.

“Here you are,” George said, pushing the note towards the attendant

Cora put down one shilling and threepence. “That’s my share,” she said shortly, and picked up the cardboard container.

“I say!” George protested. “This is my show.” And he tried to give her back her money.

“Keep it,” she said, turning towards the door. “I always pay for myself.”

“You can’t do that…” George said feebly, but she was already moving away, and by now had left the shop.

“The sort of girl I’d like to go out with,” the attendant said wistfully. “Most of ’em take the linings from your pockets.”

George, his face burning, snatched up his change and ran after Cora.

When he caught up with her, he said, “You really must let me pay…”

“Now shut up!” Cora said. “I never accept anything from any man. I’m independent, and if I’m going to see you again, the sooner you understand that the better.”

If she was going to see him again! George stared at her hopefully. Did that mean…? He blinked. It must mean that. People just didn’t say things like that if they didn’t intend seeing you again.

“Well, if you really want to…” he said, not quite sure how he should react to such an ultimatum.

“I do!” she returned emphatically. “Now come on, don’t stand there blocking the way.”

“We’ll want some beer,” George said, falling in step beside her. “I suppose you want to pay for your bottle, too?” He said it half jokingly, and then looked at her quickly to see if he had caused offence.

She glanced at him. "I’m certainly going to pay for my own beer,” she said. “Does that amuse you?”

And as he looked down at her, arrogant, small but durable, it happened. He found himself suddenly, utterly and completely in love with her. It was an overpowering feeling that stupefied him, made him water at the eyes, made him weak in the legs.

They looked at each other. Whether she saw the change in him, he wasn’t sure. He felt she must be able to read his thoughts. She couldn’t fail to see how completely crazy he was about her. If she did, she made no sign, but went on, her head a little higher, her chest arched.

They bought two bottles of beer at the off-licence at the corner of George’s street. Then they went on to the boardinghouse.

“I’m afraid it isn’t much,” George muttered apologetically as he opened the front door. “But if you think you’ll like it…” His voice died away as he glanced uneasily round the hall.

There was no one about. The sound of dishes clattering in the basement reassured him.

Cora went straight upstairs. She wasn’t a fool, George thought. She knows I’m nervous about her being here. She’s going straight up. There’s no nonsense about her.

He eyed her slim hips as she went on ahead of him. She was beautiful. There was absolutely no doubt about it. Most women looked awful in trousers. They stuck out and they wobbled, but not Cora. She was hard, slim, neat.

So he was in love with her. And he was lucky, too. Not many men would be as fortunate as he. She wasn’t going to run him into any expense. He knew what girls were like. Spend—spend—spend, all the time. They didn’t think you loved them unless you continually spent money on them. But Cora wasn’t like that. She was independent. “If I’m going to see you again…” It was the most wonderful evening of his life!

“Just one more flight,” he said, as she glanced back over her shoulder. “And you turn to the right when you get to the top.”

She stopped on the landing.

“In here,” he said, passing her and opening the door. He stood aside to let her in.

“It’s not much,” he said again, seeing the room suddenly in a new light. It did somehow seem small and sordid. The wallpaper seemed more faded and the furniture shabbier. He wished that he had a bright, well-furnished room to offer her.

He saw Leo curled up on the bed.

“That’s my cat…” he began.

Then Leo opened its eyes, took one scared look at Cora and was gone, streaking through the open doorway, sending a mat flying. They heard it rushing madly down the stairs.

George sighed. That hadn’t happened for months.

“He’s awfully scared of strangers,” he said, apologetically, and closed the door. “I had quite a time with him at first, but we’re great friends now. Do you like cats?”

“Cats?” She seemed far away. “They’re all right, I suppose.” She put the cardboard container on his dressing-table and moved further into the room.

George took off his hat and hung it in the cupboard. Now that he was alone with her in this little room he felt shy, uneasy. The bed seemed horribly conspicuous. In fact, the bed embarrassed him: the room seemed all bed.

“Do sit down,” he said, fussing around her. “I’ll get some glasses. I’ve got one here, and there’s another in the bathroom. I’m afraid they’re only tooth glasses, but it doesn’t matter does it?”

Without waiting for her to reply, he left the room and hurried to the bathroom on the next floor. He was glad to be away from her for a moment. In fact, he would have been pleased if she had suddenly changed her mind about spending the evening with him He was finding her a little overpowering. The experience of falling in love with her like this was a bit shattering. He needed quiet to think about it.

He was nervous of her too. There was something cynical and cold and cross about her. He felt that if he said the wrong thing she would he unkind to him. He wanted to avoid that at all costs. So far, apart from the faux pas about the Dorchester -that had been a dumb, brainless suggestion—he had managed fairly well up to now. But he was losing his nerve. It was like walking a tight-rope. He had had one narrow escape, and now, out on the rope with a sheer drop below, he was rapidly getting into a panic. What was he to talk about? How could he hope to amuse her for the next hour or so? If only she had asked to be taken to a movie!

How simple that would have been! All he would have had to do was to buy the tickets—and anyway, she would probably have insisted on paying for herself—and the film would have taken care of the rest of the evening.

He mustn’t keep her waiting, he thought, as he took the glass from the metal holder. He hurried back, hesitated outside the door and then went in.

She was sitting on the bed, her hands on her knees, her legs crossed.

“There we are,” George said, with false heartiness. “Let’s have a drink. I’m hungry, too, aren’t you?”

“A bit,” she said, looking at him as she might look at some strange animal at the Zoo.

“Have the armchair,” George went on, busying himself with the drinks “It’s jolly comfortable, although it looks a bit of a mess.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “I like beds.”

He felt his face burn. He was angry with himself for being selfconscious about the bed, also conscious of the double meaning. He was sure she didn’t mean it in that way. It was just his mind.

“Well, so long as you’re comfortable,” he said, handing her a glass of beer. “I’ll unpack the sandwiches.”

He kept his back turned to her so that she should not see the furious blush on his face. It took him a minute or so to recover, and when he turned, she was lying on her side, propped up by her arm, one trousered leg hanging over the side of the bed, the other stretched out.

“Take my shoes off,” she said. “Or I’ll make the cover dirty.”

He did so, with clumsy, trembling fingers. But he enjoyed doing it, and he put the shoes on the floor under the bed, feeling an absurd tenderness towards them.

Although the window was wide open, it was hot in the little room. The storm clouds had now blotted out the sun, and it was dark.

“Shall I put the light on?” he asked. “I think we’re going to have some rain.”

“All right. I wish you’d sit down. You’re too big for this room, anyway.”

He put the sandwiches on a piece of paper within reach of her hand, turned on the light, and sat down by the window. He was secretly delighted to hear her refer to his size. George was proud of his height and strength.

“Why don’t you do something better than selling those silly hooks?” she asked abruptly.

“It suits me for the moment,” George returned, startled by this unexpected reproach; and feeling he ought to offer a better explanation, added, “It gives me a lot of free time to make plans.”

“There’s no money in it, is there?” Cora went on.

“Well, your brother made nine pounds this week,” George said, munching with enjoyment.

“As much as that?” There was a sharp note in her voice.

George studied her. The blue smudges under her eyes, her whitish-grey complexion, her thin, scarlet mouth fascinated him

“Oh yes. It isn’t bad, is it?”

She sipped her beer.

“He never tells me anything,” she said in a cold, tight voice. “We haven’t had any money for ages. I don’t know how we live. Nine pounds! And he’s gone off for the evening.” Her hand closed into a small, cruel fist.

“Of course, he mayn’t be so lucky next week,” George went on hurriedly, alarmed that he might have said something wrong. “You can never tell. There’s a lot of luck in the game, you know.”

“I could kill him!” she said viciously. “Look at me! I’ve been in this stinking outfit for months. That’s all I’ve got!”

“You look marvellous,” George said, and meant it. “It suits you.”

“You’re all alike,” she returned. “Do you really think a girl ought to live in a get-up like this?” Her lips twisted. “I haven’t another rag to my name “

Pity stirred in him. “I say—I’m awfully sorry…”

She finished her sandwich, her eyes brooding and bitter.

“So long as Sydney gets what he wants,” she said after a pause, “he doesn’t care a damn about me. He doesn’t care what I’ll do tonight.” She suddenly shrugged. “Well, never mind. It’s early to worry about that now.” She pushed a wave of hair back from her cheek and then rubbed her temple with one finger. “Tell me about Frank Kelly.”

“Who?” George flinched away from her.

She hit her knuckle and looked at him over her hand.

“Sydney told me. You and Frank Kelly. At first I didn’t believe it, but now I’ve seen you…”

George emptied his glass and got up to refill it. There was a glint in her slate-grey eyes that could have meant anything: curiosity, admiration, desire…

“Seen me? I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me. I’m sick of men without spine. At least, you’re a man.”

George slopped a little of the beer on the carpet. A surge of emotion crawled up his hack.

“What do you mean?” he asked, putting the glass on the mantelpiece. He tried to control the huskiness in his voice without success.

“You’ve lived dangerously. You’ve killed men, haven’t you? That means something to me.”

George faced her. There was nothing in her eyes now. They were like drawn curtains. He stared at her, suddenly afraid.

“Who told you?”

“I don’t have to be told. I’m not a fool. I know men. When Sydney told me about you, I thought you were one of those ghastly little miscarriages who boast about what they have done: who he, cheat, and brag because they haven’t the guts to live like men. But Sydney told me I was wrong. Even then I wouldn’t believe him He told me you had a gun, and I said you were lying.”

George found perspiration was running down his face. He took out his handkerchief and mopped himself. He realized that if he wanted her admiration—and he wanted that more than anything else in the world—he could not admit that he had been lying to Brant. He was caught in his own trap; but, oddly enough, he didn’t care. What possible harm could it do if he did pretend that he was a big-shot gangster? She wouldn’t tell the police about him. And just suppose she did? He could always say that he had been pulling her leg, and he could prove that he had never been out of the country. All right, if she thought he had lived dangerously, if she thought he had killed men, and if, knowing that, she admired him, he would give her the opportunity to admire him even more.

“I don’t talk about that side of my life,” he said, picking up his glass. “It only sounds like bragging; but if you really want to know… well, I Suppose I’ve had as exciting a life as most men.”

“Men are such liars,” she said calmly, leaning down to put her glass on the floor. “I still think you could be lying…”

George bit his lip. What was she up to now?

“Show me your gun,” she said. “I’ll believe you if you really have a gun.”

He hesitated. Some instinct warned him not to show her the gun. He had never shown it to anyone. It was his secret. He had never intended sharing it with anyone.

She was watching him now, her eyes cold and cynical.

“Bluffing?” she asked, in a contemptuous, amused tone.

He went to his drawer and took out the cardboard box.

“You mustn’t tell anyone,” he said, putting the box on the bed.

She pushed his hand away and took off the lid. She had the gun now. It was odd, but it looked right in her hands. It looked as right in her hands as a scalpel looks right in the hands of a surgeon. She sat up and examined the gun. Her face was expressionless, but there was an intent concentration in her eyes that worried him.

“Is it loaded?” she asked, at last.

“Oh no,” George said. “Now let me put it away. I don’t know why you should be interested in it.”

“Show me how to load it,” she urged. “Where are the cartridges?”

Without waiting for him to show her, she slid off the bed, went to the drawer and found the little wooden box.

“No,” he said, surprised at his own firmness. “You leave those alone. Put them back.”

She was looking at the shiny brass cylinders.

“Why?”

“I don’t want any accidents. Please put them back.”

She shrugged impatiently; but she put the box back and sat on the bed again. She picked up the Luger and pressed the trigger.

“Why doesn’t it work?” she asked, frowning.

“It’s stiff,” George said. “You have to pull very hard.”

She tried again, but she still couldn’t pull hack the trigger. “Here, I’ll show you,” George said, taking the gun from her. “Like this.”

He exerted his great strength, and the hammer snapped down.

“It wants adjusting really, only I haven’t bothered. I’ll never use it here. At one time it had a hair-trigger, it would fire at the slightest touch; but it’s a little out of order now.”

“How do you adjust it?” she asked, taking the gun from him and curling her slim finger round the trigger. By holding the gun in both hands and pressing very hard, she managed to raise the hammer an inch or so. “Phew; it is stiff! How do you adjust it?”

George sat on the bed by her side and explained the trigger mechanism to her.

“It’s simple; only I prefer to keep the trigger stiff, just in case of accidents.”

“You’re scared of accidents, aren’t you?” There was a mocking note in her voice. “Even when the gun isn’t loaded, you’re scared.”

“It’s better to be safe than sorry,” he returned, and took the Luger from her. His hand touched hers, and for one brief moment he felt a flame shoot through him: a burning desire to take her in his arms.

He got up at once and put the gun away.

“Now perhaps you believe me,” he said, with an embarrassed laugh.

“I believe you,” she returned, stretching out on the bed. “Give me an apple, will you?”

He gave her an apple, and took the other himself. He went back to the window, feeling that it was too disturbing to be so close to her.

“I say!” he said, looking into the street. “It’s beginning to rain.”

“Oh, hell!” She raised her head. “Hard?”

“I’m afraid so.” He leaned out of the window, feeling the rain on his face. “It looks as if it’s set in for the night. I can lend you my mack, of course, but I’m afraid you’ll get wet.”

As she didn’t say anything, he glanced over his shoulder. She was lying flat on her hack, staring up at the ceiling.

“This bed’s comfortable,” she said, as if speaking to herself. “I think I’ll spend the night here. It doesn’t seem much sense going out in the rain, especially as Sydney won’t he back until late. Besides, I’m tired.”

George realized that his breath was whistling through his nostrils. He felt his blood moving through his veins: it was a most odd sensation.

“You’ll sleep here—?”

She seemed to become aware of him.

“Would you mind?”

“You mean—sleep in my bed?”

“Where else do you suggest… on the floor?”

“Well, no. I didn’t mean that. I don’t know what they’d say…” He floundered; excited, frightened and acutely conscious of wanting her in an overpowering way.

“Oh, I’d go early,” she said indifferently. “They needn’t know unless you tell them.”

“No… I suppose not.”

This was fantastic, he thought. She’s offering to sleep with me, and I’m behaving like an idiot. He was suddenly stricken by tremendous shyness. This wasn’t the way he had imagined it at all. In his imagination he had slept with many lovely women, but it was only after a long and arduous courtship. That really was the most exciting thing about love. Now that she was being so cold-blooded about it, he felt frightened, although his desire was at fever heat.

“Then you don’t mind?” she said impatiently. “Make up your mind. Can I stay?”

He moved slowly towards the bed.

“Of course,” he said, standing over her. “I—I’d love you to, Cora.”

This was the first time he had used her name. It gave him great pleasure. Cora! It was a lovely name

She looked up at him and yawned.

“And you don’t mind sleeping in the chair?”

He stood very still.

“The chair?”

“Perhaps you’ve got another bed somewhere,” she said, and then, seeing the expression on his face, she sat up abruptly. “Oh, God!” she went on. “Did you think you were going to sleep with me?”

George could only stare at her, dumb, embarrassed misery in his eyes.

She swung her legs off the bed.

“I’m going,” she said. “I was forgetting you don’t know me very well.”

George shook his head.

“No, don’t. It was my fault. Please stay. The chair’s all right.”

He crossed to the window and stood looking out, trying to recover from the shock and disappointment.

Of course she was right. He was glad in a way that she hadn’t meant it. Only it was such an odd way of putting it. He couldn’t be blamed for misunderstanding. She was really quite fantastic. What confidence she had in herself!

And how like Sydney! Taking his bed, making him sleep in a chair, no thought for his comfort. Had she managed to guess that he was easily scared, that he was timid and uneasy with women? Was that the reason why she was pushing him out of his bed—because she knew very well he wouldn’t have the nerve to force his attention on her? He didn’t think so. How could any girl be sure of that?

She was standing at his side.

“I’ll go if you want me to,” she said. “You mustn’t let me impose on you. I’m selfish. If you don’t want to sleep in the chair, turn me out.”

As if he would.

“Of course not,” he said eagerly. “I’m awfully pleased to have you here. I mean that. I’m sorry I was so stupid. I’m really ashamed of myself…”

She looked at him Was that odd expression contempt? He looked again, but her eyes had become expressionless.

“All my friends know about me,” she said. “I’d forgotten that you don’t. Still, you don’t want me, do you? You must have dozens of women.”

“But I haven’t…”

“I don’t sleep with men,” she went on, ignoring his interruption. “It’s part of my independence. I’m very independent. I never take and I never give.”

He didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

“You’ll probably think I’m lying, but I’m not. My bed life is very exclusive. I hate being mauled. It’s inconvenient sometimes. I suppose I shouldn’t be so damned poor if I wasn’t so damned fussy.”

George flinched. There didn’t seem to be anything further to say about the subject. They stood side by side looking out of the window at the street lights, the rain and the wet pavements. They remained like that for a long time.

8

George was asleep when Ella brought him his morning tea. He raised his head as she drew the curtains, and blinked round the room.

”’Ave you been using scent, Mr George?” she asked, her shiny little face tilted up as she sniffed the air. “It’s ever so nice.”

Scent? What did she mean? George gaped at her.

“No,” he said, yawning “Of course not.” Then he remembered Cora, and a guilty flush rose to his face. Ella was watching him.

“Well, I am surprised at you, Mr George,” she said, her eyes wide. “’Oo was she?”

It was no use lying to Ella. She could see his embarrassment too clearly.

“Oh, a friend,” George returned, sinking back on the pillow. “She only looked in for a moment last night. I must say her perfume was pretty strong.”

Ella wasn’t so easily fooled.

“Well, I never!” she ejaculated. “Fancy you bringing a young lady…”

“Now, look, Ella,” George said a little shortly. “I want to rest. I didn’t sleep very well. Be a good girl and run away.”

“All right, Mr George,” Ella returned. “But I’m surprised at you all the same.”

George closed his eyes, and after a moment’s hesitation Ella went away. George knew that he hadn’t heard the last of it, but at the moment he didn’t care.

As soon as she had gone he slipped out of bed and opened the door for Leo. He still felt stiff, and his neck ached after the night in the armchair, but he didn’t mind. It had been a wonderful evening and a wonderful night.

He got hack into bed and drank his tea.

It really seemed like a dream. Looking round the small, sordid room, he could scarcely believe that Cora had been there. He could smell her perfume on the pillow. Her hair had rested there. It had been all very exciting and marvellous, and he was mad about her.

Just then Leo stalked into the room.

“Come on, old boy,” George called, snapping his fingers.

But the cat was suspicious, sniffing the air and looking at George with big, uneasy eyes. Obviously it didn’t like the smell of Cora’s perfume.

“Puss! Puss!” George called. “Come on. Up you come.”

Silently Leo turned and slid out of the room. George called, but the cat had gone.

A little distressed, he settled down once more. Well, if Leo wanted to be stupid, then he would have to go his own way, George thought. There were other things to think about besides Leo. He had been longing for the time when he could think hack on last night and savour all its excitements, brood over what Cora had said, and dwell on Cora herself.

It had been a wonderful night, in spite of the bad beginning. George hadn’t talked so much in his life. It was extraordinary how easy it was to talk to Cora. She led him on. Not that she said much herself, but she knew how to listen. And he had thought that he wouldn’t have been able to amuse her! Even now he found it difficult to believe that he had been such a success.

She had wanted to know about his life in the States. That was after she had got into bed. Her getting into bed was exciting. She hadn’t been a scrap self-conscious. It was he who had been embarrassed.

“What can I sleep in?” she had asked, “Or do I have to sleep in my skin?”

He had given her a pair of his pyjamas. Of course, they had been ridiculously big, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“And now I want to spend a penny,” she had said, and he couldn’t help going as red as a beetroot. He had to show her where the bathroom was, and he had to hang about outside in case someone spotted her coming out. Although he was shy about it, he secretly enjoyed the intimacy between them.

Then he stayed outside the door until she was in bed. He thought she looked absolutely smashing in bed. She had rolled up the sleeves of the pyjamas, and somehow they seemed to fit her quite well. There she lay, her hair like spilt ink on the pillow, the sheet adjusted above her breasts, and her red nailed hands folded on her tummy.

George had sat by the window with his overcoat over his legs and his feet up on a chair They finished the beer and had talked. She had asked him to tell her about his adventures in the States. George was too happy to be cautious. So he began to talk. Everything he had read about the gang wars of America was marshalled and trotted out as his own adventures. Never had he been so inspired. He had described how he had been one of the first to arrive at the little cabin in the hills where Ma Barker and her son had made their last stand.

“I’ll never forget that day,” he said, looking out of the window as he tried to remember what he had read of Ma Barker’s death. “We arrived early one morning. There was a ground mist, and we got right up to the cabin without being seen. I was with a bunch of G-men, and they were jittery. I didn’t blame them, because hell was likely to break loose any minute.

“I’d had some experience working on both sides of the fence, and I had been in some pretty tough spots. If Fred Barker hadn’t played me a dirty trick, I wouldn’t have been hunting him with the Feds. At that time I was out for excitement, and I didn’t care which side I was on, so long as I got into a scrap.

“The Feds didn’t want a battle, but they hadn’t the nerve to call on Ma to give up. So I offered to do it. I wanted to show them I had more guts than they.

“I walked to the door of the cabin. I don’t mind telling you my knees were knocking.

“I hammered on the door. Ma Barker, a Tommy-gun half hidden behind her back, appeared at the window. I could see her wrinkles, her narrowed eyes and the wattles on her sagging neck.

‘’Come on, Ma,’ I said. ‘You know me. You’re caught, and you might just as well come quietly.’

‘To hell with you!’ she yelled and ducked out of sight.

“Then Fred opened up with a machine-gun. I thought I was a goner. Slugs nipped at my clothes and splattered my shoes with dust. It was a pretty tough moment. One of the Feds started grinding his machine-gun, and that put Fred off. I got under cover with slugs still chasing me.

“We fought it out for over an hour, but they didn’t stand a chance A burst of automatic rifle fire caught Ma as she was peering through the window. When we found Fred, he had fourteen slugs in his carcass.”

So he had gone on. He paraded them all before her—BabyFace Nelson, Frank Nash, Roger Touhy, Jake Fleagle; violence, shooting, racing cars, police sirens. He had never done better.

“And they took me for a ride,” he went on, scowling at the ceiling. “Me! They took me in a wood, and they said I was washed up. There were three of them. There was a guy called Wineinger. I can see him now. A pot-bellied little runt, with a scar where someone had bashed him with a bottle. There was Clyde Barrow, thin and mean, with ears like a bat. And Gustave Banghart. They were a dangerous, tough mob, and it didn’t look so good. I hadn’t anything to lose, so I jumped Wineinger and got his rod. It was the fastest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I came out of that wood on my feet, and I came out alone.”

Oh yes, he had never been better, and she had listened without moving, absorbed, excited. Her intent interest had been a spur to his imagination.

“I’m glad you told me,” she had said, when he finally stopped talking. “It was what I expected of you.”

Then he had edged the conversation round to Sydney. He wanted to know more about Sydney—what he did, where he lived, how Cora and he got on together.

But she didn’t tell him much. She suddenly became guarded. She said she didn’t know much about Sydney herself. He didn’t tell her things. Look at that nine pounds! He hadn’t told her about that. Didn’t that show how secretive he was? They never had any money—at least, that was what Sydney always told her. He was supposed to be the breadwinner. She didn’t do anything except keep the flat. Yes, they had a flat off Russell Square. George must see it one day. Sydney didn’t welcome visitors. He wasn’t sociable, but when he was away, George must come.

George had a vague feeling that Cora was frightened of Sydney. “He’s very domineering,” she said, “and we fight.”

But when he pressed her for details, she rather pointedly changed the subject.

“I think I’ll go to sleep now,” she said, settling further down in the bed. “I was late last night.”

George eased himself in his chair. It wasn’t a bit comfortable now he was trying to make a bed of it.

“I hope you sleep well,” he said. “What time do you want to be called in the morning?”

“Oh, I’ll wake up. I always do,” she returned.

“I say…” George said, after a moment’s silence, “won’t Sydney worry where you are?”

“He doesn’t worry about me. He doesn’t worry about anyone,” Cora said. “He’s a bit touched, if you must know.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” George protested.

“Well, I would.”

“How did he get that scar?” George asked, at last screwing up courage to ask something that had been worrying him for days. “He’s very sensitive about it, isn’t he?”

“He had an accident,” Cora said shortly.

“I thought it was something like that,” George said, still curious. “It was pretty recent, wasn’t it?”

Cora didn’t say anything.

After a moment’s hesitation, George went on, “How did it happen?”

“He’s got enemies,” Cora said.

George looked up, startled. “Enemies?” he repeated blankly.

“Look here, I want to go to sleep,” Cora said sharply. “I wish you’d turn out the light.”

George got up from his chair and crossed the room to the light switch. He paused as he passed her bed. “Comfortable?” he asked, thinking how lovely she looked.

“Yes. Now please put out the light.”

George sighed. How much nicer it would have been if she wasn’t quite so matter of fact. It was as if she was used to sleeping in strange men’s rooms. George didn’t want to go to sleep. It was all too exciting. He wanted to sit on her bed and watch her, even if she didn’t wish to talk.

But he put out the light and groped his way back to his chair.

“I don’t suppose this means anything to you,” he blurted out after a long silence.

“Oh, God!” she said impatiently. “Can’t you sleep? What means nothing to me?”

“Being here…” George was glad it was dark. He felt the irritating flush mounting to his face. “I’ve never had a girl in my room before.”

“You’re a simple soul, aren’t you?” she said. “Are you getting a kick out of this?”

George warmed to her immediately. So she could be kind in a rather patronizing way!

“Of course I am,” he said, and encouraged by the darkness, he went on, a little haltingly. “This has been a marvellous evening for me. I don’t suppose you realize what it means to me.”

“Why not?”

“Well, perhaps you do; but you’re not lonely like I am. I spend most of my time on my own. I don’t know why, but I just don’t seem to make friends. I haven’t met anyone I wanted to make my friend— until now.” He coughed nervously, alarmed at his own rashness. Well, he had said it now. He almost cringed while waiting for her to reply. Was she going to be kind?

She didn’t say anything.

George waited anxiously, and then realized, with a sense of frustration, that she wasn’t going to reply.

“I expect you think I’m a hit of a fool,” he said, a little bitterly. “I suppose I am really. I suppose most people would think I’m a bit soft being so fond of Leo—he’s my cat. It’s funny about Leo. I used to think people were a bit soft myself, being fond of animals; but somehow Leo’s different.” He stared into the darkness, trying to see her. “It’s when you’re lonely, you know. Animals seem to understand. They don’t demand anything from you. If you don’t feel like talking, they just sit with you. If you want to go out, they don’t mind. Leo’s jolly good company, but of course it isn’t the same as having someone you can really talk to. Is it?”

She still didn’t reply.

He waited a moment and repeated a little louder, “Is it?”

“Is what?” she asked sleepily.

“Oh, nothing; you’re nearly asleep, aren’t you? I’m sorry. But it’s not often I get anyone to talk to.”

“That’s pretty obvious,” she said tartly, turning on her side. “You’d talk a donkey’s hind leg off.”

But he couldn’t let her go to sleep just yet. It was only eleven o’clock, and it seemed such a wicked waste of a marvellous opportunity, just to sleep.

“I say, Cora,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

“Hmmm?”

“Shall I see you again after this?”

He could just make out her head lifting off the pillow. “If you’re going to smoke I may as well have one, too,” she said. “Then I am going to sleep, and if you disturb me again I’ll throw you out of the room.”

He hurried across the room and gave her a cigarette. The flickering flame of the match lit up her face. She looked up at him, her eyes dark and tired, expressionless.

“You don’t mind me calling you Cora, do you?” George went on, bending over her.

“Call me what you like,” she said, lying back on the pillow. The tip of the cigarette glowed red, and he could just see her straight, small Roman nose.

He sat on the edge of the bed. “Shall I see you again after this?” he repeated, because it was something important, something that was preying on his mind. He couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing her again.

“I suppose so,” she returned indifferently; “only Sydney doesn’t like people hanging around.”

“Doesn’t he?” George was startled. “Why not?”

“You’d better ask him.”

“But that needn’t mean we won’t see each other again, will it?”

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked. “Surely a fellow like you has got dozens of girls.”

“I haven’t,” George said, too anxious to keep in character. “I don’t like women as a rule. But you’re different.”

“Am I?” There was a slight note of interest in her voice. “What do you mean?”

George hesitated. What exactly did he mean? He wasn’t sure himself. She was beautiful, of course. But was that all that mattered so much to him? He didn’t think so. There was something else. There was something strong about her, independent; she was someone he could rely on.

“I think you’re wonderful,” he said slowly. “You’re the most astonishing person I have ever met.”

“Don’t be a fool,” she said, almost gently. “Of course I’m not.”

Encouraged by her tone, George said, “But you are. You’re lovely. You’re so independent and headstrong. You know your own mind. You—you’re interesting.”

She lay silent for a long time. George wondered uneasily if he had offended her. Then she said, “You’re not falling in love with me, are you?”

George clenched his fists. In love with her? He was mad about her!

“Oh yes,” he said. “I’m in love with you. The moment I saw you…”

“Men are fools, aren’t they?” she said in a confidential tone, as if she was speaking to another woman “The men who have said that to me! Hundreds of them!”

“I’m sure of that,” George said, sighing. “But it needn’t matter to you, need it? I mean a girl like you wouldn’t be bothered with anyone like me.”

“You’re a bit spineless, aren’t you?” Cora said, flicking ash on the floor. There was contempt in her voice.

“I suppose I am,” George said, crushed. “You see, I’m not used to women. I don’t understand them.”

“Well, at the rate you’re going on, you never will,” she returned. “What makes you think I wouldn’t be bothered with you?”

George shrugged. “Well, you won’t, will you?”

“What does that mean? You won’t, will you?”

“What’s the good of talking about it? You asked me if I loved you, and I said I did. You don’t love me, do you?”

“Of course I don’t,” she returned, “but that doesn’t mean that I couldn’t love you, does it?”

George stared at her. “What was that?”

“Don’t he so dumb!” There was an impatient note in her voice. “I said that doesn’t mean I couldn’t love you, does it?”

“Could you?”

“Not if you behave like a stuffed hull. A girl likes a little action now and then.”

George could scarcely believe his ears. “Action?” he repeated blankly.

“My God!” she exclaimed, and suddenly laughed. “I don’t believe it’s possible! You’re nothing but a schoolboy! Why don’t you grow up?”

He began to tremble. God! He was making a mess of this, he thought desperately. What a stupid fool he was! She was inviting him to make love to her, and all he could do was to sit and tremble!

“What’s the matter?” she asked sharply. “Aren’t you well?”

“I’m all right,” he said, and suddenly reached out for her hand. It felt cool and slim in his burning great paw. “Cora! I say, Cora…” and he pulled her upright and kissed her clumsily.

She made no move, leaning back against his arm, her face a white blur in the darkness. Her perfume intoxicated him, the touch of her smooth cheek against his lips sent blood pounding in his ears.

“I do love you so,” he said, and kissed her throat, holding her against him tightly.

They remained like that for a minute or two, then she pushed him away.

“All right, George,” she said, “now back to your chair. That’ll do for one night. It seems you can grow up when you want to.”

He didn’t want to go, and took hold of her hand.

“Be nice to me, Cora,” he pleaded. “Let me kiss you again.”

“I said that’s enough,” she said sharply. “Here, put this somewhere,” and she gave him her cigarette butt. He took it and crossed the room to the fireplace. His legs felt weak, and he was in a kind of stupor. When he had got rid of the cigarette butt he stood at the foot of the bed, looking into the darkness where she was.

“We will meet again, won’t we?” he said, terrified now that this experience was going to slip through his fingers, like all the dreams he had ever had.

“We’ll meet,” she returned, yawning, “and now I’m going to sleep.”

“But what about Sydney? What shall we do about him?”

“He needn’t know.”

This excited him almost as much as when she had said that she might cone to love him. Having a secret between them—a secret from Sydney—seemed to seal the bond of their relationship.

“Are you on the ’phone?”

“Yes I am.”

“Can I ring you sometimes? We might go out one night.”

“All right.”

“I’d better make a note of the number,” George felt feverishly in his pocket for a pencil.

“It’s in the book, Harris & Son, greengrocer. We’ve got a place above the shop.”

“That’s wonderful. Harris & Son. That’s easy to remember, isn’t it?”

“Now for God’s sake go to sleep,” Cora said. “If you dare say another word I’ll really be angry with you!”

“All right,” George said, satisfied. “Good night.”

“Good night,” she returned shortly, and he heard her turn over in the bed.

He groped his way to the chair and settled down. He glanced out of the window. It had stopped raining, and a misty moon floated in the sky. The pavements looked black and shiny in the street lights. In the distance a clock struck the half hour after eleven.

George shut his eyes. He was too excited to sleep. The whole of his cramped, lonely world had suddenly opened up like a gay sunshade. What an evening it had been! His life was going to be very different now. With Cora, he need never be lonely again. Whenever he wanted someone to talk to, he could ring her up. If he hadn’t enough money to take her out, he could always have a few words with her on the ’phone. There was a telephone box at the corner of his street. There would be no need to stand in the passage in the basement, for everyone to hear what he had to say to her. Marvellous things, telephone boxes, he thought. Little houses of glass where you could talk to the one you loved, see the people passing, and knowing they could not overhear what you had to say. You need never be lonely if there was a telephone box handy and a girl like Cora at the other end of the line.

He had been a hit of a fool with her. But he had been lucky. Or rather she had been pretty decent about it. “A girl likes a little action now and then.” Fancy her saying that! Well, he wouldn’t wait for such an invitation again. Not he! He’d take her in his arms and kiss her right off next time they met. What was it she called him a stuffed hull? Well, she wouldn’t have to call him that again. She was marvellous! Simply smashing! And Sydney wasn’t to know about it. Queer about Sydney. What did she mean about “enemies"? What enemies? “He’s got enemies,” she had said when he had asked how Sydney had got the scar. What an odd thing to say! He looked furtively across the room at the bed. He wanted to ask her to explain. Better not, he thought. She’s got a temper all right, and it wouldn’t do to provoke her again. No, that was something he would ask her the next time they met. He’d ring her tomorrow, just to show that he hadn’t forgotten her… as if he ever could! Yes, he’d ring her tomorrow.

Eventually he went to sleep, and when he woke at six o’clock the next morning, feeling stiff and cold, she had gone.

9

The next four or five days were, to George, exciting, confusing, exasperating and worrying. He had imagined that he would have been able to talk to Cora on the telephone at least once a day, and to see her within forty- eight hours of their first meeting. But it didn’t work out like that at all. Cora, it seemed, was as illusive as a will-o’-the-wisp. Take Sunday, for instance. Now, Sunday was a good day for George’s work. He usually began his calls immediately after lunch and worked through until dark. He was always sure of finding his prospects at home. He had arranged with Sydney to work this Sunday, and before getting up, he made elaborate plans for talking to Cora.

It was obvious that since the telephone was in the greengrocer’s shop, he would have to make certain that Sydney wasn’t in the flat when he telephoned. If the greengrocer had to call Cora to the ’phone, Sydney would want to know who was calling. So Sydney had to be out of the way. George found this added complication rather pleasing. It was much more exciting to have to plot and plan to talk to Cora than just to go to the telephone box and ring her in the usual way. The thing to do, he decided, was to ’phone from Wembley when he knew for certain that Sydney was actually working on the job. He knew Wembley pretty well now, and he remembered there was a public call- box at a junction of four streets which they had still to canvass. He would make a canvass or two, and then, when he was sure that Sydney was safely inside a house, he would slip over to the call-box and have a word with Cora.

He liked the idea immensely. Cora would be amused, too. He would give her a running commentary on Sydney’s movements. “He’s coming out of the house now. By the frown on his face, it doesn’t look as if he got an order that time. He’s looking up and down the road. I expect he’s wondering where I’ve got to. He can’t see me from where he’s standing. There he goes now. He’s opening another gate. There’re three kids in the front garden; they’re following him up the path. He’s knocked on the door. He’s waiting. I wish you could see how he looks at those kids. He’d like to hang their heads together. Hello, that’s a hit of luck for him. The old man himself has come to the door. They’re talking now. The old boy doesn’t look too pleased. I expect his afternoon nap’s been disturbed. But trust old Sydney. He keeps plugging away. Yes, I thought so; he’s got into the house. The front door’s shut now. Well, it looks like another CSE is on its way from the factory…”

Oh yes, Cora would be tickled to death. And then he would tell her how much he loved her and make plans to take her out the following evening.

George was finishing his lunch at the King’s Arms when Sydney appeared. The moment he caught sight of the hard, white face with its disfiguring scar, he felt a qualm of uneasiness. Sydney nodded to him and ordered his inevitable lemonade.

“Hello,” George said; the beef and pickles he was chewing suddenly tasted of sawdust.