James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

Mr Eccles rose to his feet. To George, he seemed to grow n stature, and broaden like a rubber doll that is being inflated. “You’re canvassing,” Mr Eccles said in an awful voice, “I thought as much. What is the name of your firm?”

George had visions of a complaint being lodged by the LCC. Although the World-Wide Publishing Company was fully aware of the methods used by their salesmen, officially these methods were not recognized. They were all right, so long as there were no complaints. If there were complaints, then the salesmen were sacked.

George stood staring stupidly at Mr Eccles, his face red, his mouth dry and his eyes protruding. He visualized the arrival of the police and being marched through the streets to the police station.

“Well?” Mr Eccles shouted at him, seeing his confusion and enjoying it. “Who’s your firm? I’ll get to the bottom of this! Pm going to stop you touts bothering me and my staff. Every day someone calls. If it isn’t vacuum cleaners, it’s silk stockings. If it isn’t silk stockings, it’s expensive hooks that no one can afford to buy. Pm going to put a stop to it!”

From somewhere in the rear, where he had been standing, Brant suddenly appeared in front of George. He walked straight up to Mr Eccles and fixed him with his cold, expressionless eyes.

“There is no need to shout,” he said, in his soft, clipped voice. “We’ve been received at all the other schools in this district with courtesy, Mr Eccles. Surely, we are entitled to your courtesy too.”

Mr Eccles glared at Brant, then quite suddenly moved back a step.

“We are men trying to do a job of work,” Brant went on, his eyes never moving from Eccles’ face. “Just as you are trying to do a job of work. As representatives of the World-Wide Publishing Company we are entitled to a hearing. The World-Wide Publishing Company has been dealing with the teaching profession for two hundred years. Its reputation for integrity and good work is known and commented upon by the London County Council. The Child’s Self-Educator is known a ll over the world.”

Mr Eccles sat down slowly. It was as if he had suddenly lost the strength in his legs. “World-Wide Publishing Company,” he muttered and wrote on his blotting paper. “All right, I’ll remember that.”

“I want you to remember it,” Brant said. “I’m surprised that a man of your experience does not know who published the Child’s Self-Educator. Have you a set you rself’?”

Mr Eccles looked up. “Who—me? No, I haven’t. Now, look here, young man—”

“Then you will be glad to hear that you are going to be presented with a set. That’s why we’ve come to see you.”

“Presented with a set?” Mr Eccles repeated, his little eyes opening. “You mean given a set?”

“Certainly,” Brant said, his hands on the desk. “We’re anxious that every teacher should have a set of the CSE, but, for obvious reasons, it is not possible to give so many sets away. It has been decided, however, that the headmaster of the best school of each London borough is to be presented with our deluxe, half-calf edition, free, gratis and for nothing.”

If Mr Eccles was surprised by this news, George was utterly flabbergasted.

“Well, ’pon my soul,” Mr Eccles exclaimed, a sly smile lighting up his face. “Why didn’t you say so before? Sit down, young man. I’m sorry I was so abrupt just now, but if you only knew how I’m pestered all day long, you’d appreciate I’ve got to do something to protect myself.”

Brant drew up a chair and sat down. George, standing by the door, was forgotten.

“I understand, Mr Eccles,” Brant went on, after a moment’s pause, “that your children’s handwriting is of an exceptionally high standard. Mr Pickthorn of Trinity School also boasts of a high standard. We are organizing a harmless competition between schools, and I suggest you might like to co-operate. All we need is a specimen of each of your pupils’ handwriting, which will be sent to our head office, and the pupil with the best handwriting will be given a beautifully inscribed certificate and ten shillings. Mr Pickthorn has been happy to help us in this scheme, and we would like your pupils to compete against his. Whatever you decide, of course, will not influence my Company’s decision to send you the CSE, which should reach you early next month.”

“Pickthorn?” Mr Eccles snorted. “That old muddler! None of his brats can write. He’s got no method. Why, in a competition, it’d be a walk over.” He frowned down at his blotting pad. “I’d like to do it. ’Pon my word, I would. I’d like to wipe old Pickthorn’s eye, but it’ll disorganize my day. A thing like that’d need a bit of arranging.”

Brant shifted in his chair. “It took less than ten minutes at Radlet’s,” he said quietly. “All you have to do is to get the children to write their names and addresses on a piece of paper, and we will judge their handwriting from that. It s a simple system, and we shall not need to bother you further, as we shall have the name and address of the prizewinner. Surely, that’s not going to upset your school?”

Eccles looked a little blank. “Well, if that’s all it is,” he said doubtfully. “I suppose I could arrange that. All right, I’ll do it. Will you call hack sometime tomorrow?”

Brant stared at him with bored eyes. “We have a lot of ground to cover, Mr Eccles. Could we wait? It shouldn’t take a few minutes.” He paused, and before Mr Eccles could speak, he went on, “By the way, I suppose you would like a bookcase for your set of the CSE? I think I could persuade the Company to part with one. It’s a nice piece of furniture, light oak with glass panels.”

Mr Eccles got to his feet. “Yes,” he said, beaming, “that sounds magnificent. Hmm, yes, by all means.” He rubbed his hands together. “Well now, you wait here and I’ll get these kids to work. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

As soon as he left the room, George said, “Have you gone mad? What are you playing at? The Company doesn’t give sets away, let alone bookcases. They don’t even sell bookcases.”

Brant stared at him in a bored, detached way. “He doesn’t know that,” he said, and his thin mouth sneered.

“Well, he soon will when the books don’t turn up,” George said, now thoroughly agitated. “He’ll report us. Why, he might even tell the police. There’ll be a hell of a stink about this. And what’s all this about handwriting competitions? I really think you must be out of your mind.”

Brant looked out of the window. “Can’t you see?” he said with that patient voice that people reserve for tiresome, questioning children. “We’re going to get the names and addresses of all the brats in this school. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You made a mess of it, so I’ve fixed it. I said I would, didn’t I?”

“You’ll jolly well pay the ten bob out of your own pocket. I’m not going to throw money away like that,” George snapped, flushing angrily.

The cold eyes flickered. “Don’t be wet,” Brant said. “No one’s going to pay ten bob. Let the brat whistle for it.”

“What?” George exclaimed, starting forward. “You’re not even going to give a prize after telling all those lies?”

“You dumb, or something?” Brant’s face showed a faint curiosity. “Your pal Kelly wouldn’t pay ’em a nickel, would he? What’s the matter with you—slipping?” He stared at George until George had to look away. “Anyway, why should you worry? We won’t be here next month. They don’t know our names, and if they complain to the Company, we can deny it. It’s their word against ours.”

The enormity of such a swindle paralyzed George. He sat down and stared stupidly at Brant.