James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

George got some coppers off the policeman—coppers from a copper! he thought foolishly—and returned to the telephone box. He dialled the number and waited. B rr-brr!… Brr-brr! In a momen t or so he would be listening to her cold, tight, exciting voice. What a marvellous invention the telephone was! he thought. They were taking their time about answering. He shifted impatiently. Phew! It was hot in this booth. B rr-hrr!… Brr-brr! The be ll went on and on. No one answered. George stood there, obstinate, sweating, irritated. What were they playing at? he asked himself. Why didn’t they answer? Then he remembered. What a fool! Sunday! Of course, the shop would be shut! Oh hell! Now he would have to wait until tomorrow. He hung up and pressed button “B". Coming out into the sunshine, he felt suddenly deflated. Twenty-four hours… how absolutely sickening! he thought. Why did she have to have a telephone in a shop? That meant he would never be able to talk to her on a Sunday. That meant that from now on Sunday was going to be the worst day of the week, instead of being the best day. It was a day he looked forward to because he had something to do in the afternoon as well as in the evening- it was also the best day for business. Now it would be the day when he was cut off entirely from Cora.

As it happened, it turned out to be the worst day he had had for a long time. People were ruder to him, more people were out, more people wouldn’t come to the front door, although he could see them peeping at him through the curtains. When he did get inside, he found he wasn’t concentrating, and he did not succeed in getting anyone sufficiently enthusiastic to sign an order form. Those who showed a slight inclination to buy put him off by asking him to call again. “I want to think about it,” they said. “I don’t want to rush into anything.”

Of course, to make matters worse, Sydney got three orders. At the end of the evening, when they decided to go home, Sydney joined him at the corner.

“How many?” he said, looking at George with a jeering expression in his eyes.

George was tempted to lie, but he knew Sydney would demand to see the completed order forms, so he just shrugged and admitted he hadn’t had any luck.

“Well, I got three,” Sydney said in triumph. “What’s the matter with you? Got something on your mind?”

Of course he had something on his mind, but he couldn’t tell Sydney about that.

“It’s just the luck of the game,” he said, envious and disappointed. “I’ve worked through a lot of dead calls, and I’ll get a hatch of orders tomorrow.”

“You hope,” Sydney said, and laughed.

Monday wasn’t much better. He was in a fever of excitement all the morning and afternoon. When Sydney and he reached Wembley at four o’clock, and as soon as Sydney was safely out of the way in one of the little houses, George rushed to the telephone box.

“’Ullo?” said a man’s voice in George’s ear.

“Could I speak to Miss Brant?” George asked, trying to imagine what the man looked like from the sound of his voice.

“’Oo?”

“Miss Brant,” George repeated, raising his voice. “Not now, yer can’t. I got no one to send.”

“But I must speak to Miss Brant,” George said firmly. “Well. I dunno. I can’t leave the shop, now can I? It means going hup the stairs. I ain’t good at stairs, either… not at my age, I ain’t. Can’t you ring later? The missus’ll be hack then.”

“No, I can’t,” George said, thoroughly irritated. “I understood that Miss Brant could use your ’phone. I want to speak to her.”

“Orl right, orl right,” the voice said crossly. “I’ll give ’er a yell. ’Ang on, will yer?”

George waited. It was insufferably hot in the telephone box, and he pushed the door open. He could hear voices faintly over the line. Once he heard the voice that had spoken to him shout, “Two pounds of greens, six pounds of spuds and a pound of onions…” And he swore under his breath. The old devil wasn’t getting Cora at all, he thought savagely. He was serving his rotten customers! But there was nothing else to do but wait. Time was going. He really ought to be on the job. Well, he wasn’t going to hang up now he’d got so far. He would have to work a hit longer to make up for losing time like this. Oh, come on! Come on! he thought furiously. Why don’t you hurry!

He waited nearly five minutes, then he heard the voice bawl, “Emmie Emmie someone wants that Brant girl on the blower…”

“That Brant girl!” How dare a greengrocer talk like that! Well, anyway, it wouldn’t he long now. Any second he would be hearing her voice.

“You doing your selling by ’phone?” Sydney asked.

George nearly jumped out of his skin, he whirled round, his face turning crimson, to find Sydney lolling against the telephone booth, watching him with suspicious, calculating eyes.

“I shan’t be a minute,” George spluttered, not knowing which way to look. “I’ll be right out,” and he tried to pull the door to, but Sydney had wedged it hack with his foot.

“What’s all this telephoning about?” Sydney asked. “Yesterday and now today. I thought you were a keen salesman.”

“Hello?” Cora said in George’s ear.

George looked from Sydney to the telephone mouthpiece. Sweat was running down his face. He didn’t know what to do.

“Hello? Who’s there?” Cora asked, her voice snappy and impatient.

He daren’t speak to her with Sydney listening. Damn the rotted George thought desperately. Why can’t he go away!

“’Phoning your best girl?” Sydney asked, a sneering grin on his face. “I wish you could see your mug! You look like a pickpocket caught in the act. Well, I won’t embarrass you; only time’s getting on, you know.”

“Hello? Hello? Hello?” Cora was saying.

George waved Sydney away: an imploring, frantic gesture. Shrugging, Sydney slouched off, and as the booth door closed, a sharp click sounded in George’s ear. Cora had hung up!

Sydney was still hanging about a few yards away, watching George through the glass panels. It was no good! He didn’t dare risk dialling the number again. He was sick with disappointment and frustrated rage. Damn Sydney! Damn the greengrocer! Oh, damn everything!

Tuesday and Wednesday were as had. Both times when George rang he was told that Cora was out. In desperation, he risked calling her on Thursday morning before he went to the King’s Arms, and after some delay Sydney’s voice floated over the line. Hurriedly, as if he had trodden on a snake, George hung up. Five days now and he hadn’t spoken to her or seen her. And he had thought he was never going to be lonely again! It was worse now: far worse.

Before, he didn’t have this clamouring for the flesh, wasn’t tormented by thoughts of loving Cora, holding her in his arms, feeling her smooth cheek against his lips.

He had to do something! This couldn’t go on. His work was suffering. He had only earned thirty bob in five days, while Sydney had made himself seven quid. It infuriated George to hear the way Sydney sneered at seven pounds.

“Chick feed,” he said, when George handed him the money order received from Head Office. “It’s almost time I slung this job in. Seven nicker for slogging my guts out every evening. In the old days I’d do a job that’d take me an hour or so, and pick up twenty quid as easy as kiss your hand.”

“What Job?” George asked curiously.

Sydney brooded. “When things cool off a bit,” he said at last, “maybe I’ll let you in my racket. But right now I’ve got to keep out of sight,” and then, for no apparent reason, he flew into a vicious rage and went off, looking almost murderous.

The more George saw of Sydney the more uneasy he became. The fellow was unbalanced. Perhaps he really was cracked. These sudden vicious tempers, the vicious, fanatical look in his eyes, the mysterious hinting about “his racket” worried George. The thought of Sydney’s razor worried George even more.