More Deadly Than The Male (3 page)

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Authors: James Hadley Chase

BOOK: More Deadly Than The Male
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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 Self
Educator. 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.

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