1946 - More Deadly than the Male Read online

  Mr. Eccles laid down his pen and pushed back 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 valuable the C.S.E.—and who would deny it?— would be in the home.”

  Mr. Eccles rose to his feet. To George, he seemed to grow in 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 L.C.C. Although the World-Wide Publishing Company was fully aware of the methods used by their salesmen, officially these methods were not recognised. 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! I’m going to stop you touts bothering me and my staff. Everyday someone calls. If it isn’t vacuum cleaners, it’s silk stockings. If it isn’t silk stockings, it’s expensive books that no one can afford to buy. I’m 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 all 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 yourself?”

  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 C.S.E., 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 C.S.E., 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 disorganise 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 is a simple ; system, and we shall not need to bother you further, as we shall have the name and address of the prize-winner. 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 back 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 C.S.E.? 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.”
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  The enormity of such a swindle paralysed 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 books. 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.

  four

  “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 back 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 of 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—I’ll 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 gun, 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 i hurt.