James Chase: More Deadly Than the Male

Mr Pickthorn smiled vaguely and blinked up at George. “Ali,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “Yes, Lord’s.” Then he glanced at Brant, and the friendly look drained out of his eyes. He glanced hurriedly away, his thin mouth tightening - There! George thought triumphantly. See what happens when they look at your ugly mug. Go on, be superior. I don’t care. At least, they don’t look away when I talk to them.

Feeling the changing atmosphere, he went on hurriedly, “I was passing, Mr Pickthorn, so I thought I’d pick up those forms I left yesterday. Arc they ready?”

Mr Pickthorn fiddled with his pen tray, placing the pens and coloured pencils in their racks with exaggerated care. “No,” he said, without looking at either of them. “No, I’m afraid they aren’t.”

George felt his heartiness, bolstered up by the feeling that Mr Pickthorn liked him, oozing away like air from a leaking balloon.

“Well, never mind,” he said, with a fixed smile. “You don’t have to tell me how busy you are. I know what you headmasters have to do. Work, work, work, all day long. Suppose I call hack tomorrow? Perhaps you’ll find time to get them done tomorrow.”

Mr Pickthorn continued to fiddle with his pens and pencils. He did not look up. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said abruptly. “As a matter of fact, Mr Herring, my assistant, drew my attention to it. He’s quite right, of course. I wasn’t thinking Of course, the hooks are good. No doubt about that. I’ve known the Ch ild’s Self-Educator fo r many years, but as Mr Herring pointed out, it’s encouraging canvassers, and the Council doesn’t approve.” He opened a drawer and took out the packet of printed forms that George had left with him the day before. “I’m sorry,” he went on, pushing the forms across the desk to George. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He gave George a fleeting, embarrassed smile, again glanced at Brant, and then pulled a pile of papers towards him.

“You see?” George said, when they were in the street again. “Now we’ve got no calls for tonight. The rotten little rat! Couldn’t do enough for me yesterday. I spent a whole hour listening to him talk about his blasted garden. As if I cared! He promised me faithfully to distribute those forms. Oh, well, it only goes to prove.” He fished out his carton of cigarettes and lit one. “We’ll have to do a cold canvass tonight. It means wandering up and down a street looking out for kids, asking them where they live, or spotting toys in the windows or gardens. That’s a job I hate! Everyone watches you, and sometimes if you do ask the kids who they are, they get scared and start howling.”

Brant shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at his shoes. His indifferent expression infuriated George

“Well, what do we do?” Brant asked, as if to say, this is your mess, and it’s up to you to find a way out.

Choking back his irritation, George took out his list of schools and studied it. “We’d better go over to Sherman Road school,” he said. “It’s about half a mile from here. That’s the best school in the district. If we don’t get our forms in there, we’re properly in the soup.”

Brant shrugged. “All right,” he said, falling in step beside George. “So long as we get something done today.”

George shot him an angry glance. “It’s all very well to criticize,” he snapped, “but if you think you can do better, you’d better try.”

“I’ll take over if you make another mess of it,” Brant returned in his clipped, indifferent voice.

George could scarcely believe his ears. He walked on in silence, fuming with rage. If he made a mess of it! Of all the cheek! And he was teaching this smug brat—that’s all he was—a smug brat! He’d take over, would he? All right, they’d see about that. Perhaps it’d be a good idea to let him make a fool of himself. As if anyone would listen to him, with his scar and his straw hair and his shabby clothes. Then George’s caution asserted itself. The kids at Sherman Road were of a better class than in any of the other schools. He couldn’t afford to take chances with this school. Every form that was filled up might mean an order.

In the school lobby they found the same depressing notice warning canvassers and salesmen that they were trespassing. Underneath this official notice was another notice written and signed by the headmaster.

Can you read? Then keep out! No canvassers or salesmen will be seen during school hours. Any attempt to enter school premises without an official permit will be immediately reported to the local authorities.

Chas. Eccles.

Headmaster.

George read this notice and experienced a sinking feeling it his stomach. “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he whispered, furtively looking down the passage that led to the classrooms. “Doesn’t look very hopeful, does it?”

Brant shrugged. “You can always tell him you can’t read,” he said with a sneer. “He might even believe you.”

George flushed, and without a word walked down the passage to the headmaster’s office. He wished that Robinson was with him. Robo would know what to do. He didn’t care a damn whom he tackled or how rude people were to him

George tapped on the door and waited.

“Come in,” roared a voice.

They entered a small, hare room. A big, fleshy man, with a large blond moustache on a round, flat face, frowned at them.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he shouted in a voice made harsh by constant bullying.

George gave him a nervous smile. “Good morning, Mr Eccles,” he said, his heartiness wavering. “Forgive me for intruding like this, but I was passing, and I felt that you’d be interested to hear that the new edition of the Child’s Self Educator is now ready.”

Mr Eccles leaned across his desk, his hard little eyes boring into George. “What?” he shouted. “Selling something? Where’s your permit?”

George took an involuntary step back. “Now, please don’t misunderstand me, Mr Eccles,” he said, trying to control his rising colour. “We’re not selling anything. It’s just that we thought you’d be interested to hear that the new edition of the Child’s SelfEducator is—er—ready. It’s a magnificent job. Two hundred additional coloured plates, and all the maps have been revised. There’s more than two hundred thousand additional words, bringing this wonderful work of reference right up to date.”

“Hamm,” Mr Eccles grunted. “You people are not supposed to be on the school premises, you know. I haven’t the time nor the inclination to talk to salesmen. All right, thank you for calling. Good afternoon,” and he picked up his pen and began to write.

Had George been alone, he would have slunk out of the room, but the cold, still, hateful figure of Brant made retreat impossible.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr Eccles,” George said, his face now the colour of a beetroot, “there’s just one other point I would like to raise with you. You know the CSE, of course. You’ll agree with me, I’m sure, that it is a most useful set of books and its reputation in the world of letters is second to none. Any child possessing this magnificent work of reference has an obvious advantage over the unfortunate child who is without it. The task of the teacher is considerably lightened if a child can turn to the CSE and find for itself the answer to those awkward questions that a child is always asking his teacher.”

Mr Eccles laid down his pen and pushed hack his chair. His movements were deliberate and ominous.

“If I thought you were trying to sell something on these premises,” he said with deadly calm, “I would give you in charge.”

George shuffled his feet. “I assure you, Mr Eccles,” he stammered, “I—I have no intention of selling anything, no intention at all. It’s just that I hoped for your co-operation. Unless teachers are prepared to assist us, we are unable to let parents know how invaluable the CSE—and who would deny it?—would be in the home.”