James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

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.”