James Chase: More Deadly Than the Male

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 SelfEducator. 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.”