1946 - More Deadly than the Male Page 7

  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 pahns 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 books’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 books.”

  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. But 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.

  six

  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 bo
ok 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 Child’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 book 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 tare, 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 bell 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 back 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, i along the passage and down the stairs. It seemed a long way down, and the bell 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 Brad 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 back 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.”

  “Good-bye,” 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 bed-time. 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.