James Chase: More Deadly Than the Male

George eyed him without enthusiasm. “Well, what’ll it be?”

Robinson put his glasses on again and looked round the bar. “Well, I’d like a double whisky,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “but seeing as ’ow you’re paying, I’ll make it a beer.”

George signalled to Gladys.

“What’s up?” Robinson asked, eyeing George keenly. “Very strong and silent this morning, aren’t you? Gotta touch of pox or something?”

“I’m all right,” George said shortly. He disliked Edgar Robinson, while admiring his ability as a salesman.

“That’s the spirit,” Robinson returned, beaming again. “Must have my boys on the top line. The right mental attitude gets the business, you know. If you’re worrying about anything, ’ow can you hope to get orders?” He smiled his horsey smile as Gladys joined them. “Hello, my pretty,” he went on; “’pon my soul, she gets more desirable every day. Wouldn’t you like a little session with our Gladys in the park, George?”

George looked uncomfortable. Sex embarrassed him, and Robinson was always making him feel awkward by his loose talk in mixed society.

“Oh, shut up,” he growled, and without looking at Gladys he muttered, “Give him a mild and hitter, please.”

Robinson grinned. “Glad, my girl, I believe we’ve the privilege of drinking in the company of a virgin. Not being one meself, and knowing from the saucy look in your eye, my pretty, that you’d make no false claims, we knows Who we’re talking abaht, don’t we?”

Gladys giggled, drew another pint of beer and set it before Robinson. She glanced at George’s red face, winked at him and said, “Don’t you take any notice of him. It’s those who talk the most that do the least.”

Robinson dug George in the ribs. “She’s calling you a dirty old man, George,” he cackled. “Maybe you are. What’s your particular vice, old boy? ’Ere Glad, don’t go away; you might learn something.”

“I can’t waste my time talking nonsense with you,” Gladys returned. “I’ve got my work to do.”

When she had gone to the other end of the bar, Robinson stared at her broad hack for a second or so and then winked at George.

“Rather fancy her meself,” he said, his small green eyes lighting up. “Think she’s a proposition?”

George scowled at him. “Oh, dry up,” he snapped. “Can’t you get your mind off women for five minutes?”

Robinson gave him a sneering, amused smile. “Funny bloke, aren’t you, George?” he said, taking out a crumpled packet of Woodbines. ” ’Ere, have a smoke. The trouble with you, me boy, is you’re repressed. You’re scared of sex, and if you ain’t careful, it’ll fester inside you, and then anything may happen. Me—I’m as free as the air. It’s just a cuppa tea to me. When I want it, I have it, and that way it don’t do me any ’arm.”

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.