More Deadly Than The Male

Brant was standing just inside the doorway, looking across the large room at Robinson. George peered past Brant, a sheepish, apologetic expression on his face.

Robinson stood before a dressing-table in his trousers and vest. His feet were hare, and the circle of dirt round the ankles embarrassed George, as did the dirty, tattered vest that covered his pigeon chest. He had taken out his false teeth, and his lips were sunk in, giving his mouth an odd, puckered look that reminded George of a dried pippin.

Robinson stood gaping at Brant, terror in his eyes, his blotchy complexion gradually paling as blood drained from his face.

Across the room was a large bed, the head and foot of which were ornamented by brass knobs. A woman lay huddled up in the bed. George could not guess her age. He thought perhaps she was thirty-five to forty. She was big, blowzy and coarse. Her dyed hennaed hair, black at the roots, frizzed round her head like a soiled halo. She wore a pink nightdress which was creased and dirty and through which her great, bulging figure strained to escape.

"Shut the door," Brant said, watching Robinson intently.

Not quite knowing what he was doing, George obeyed. He thrust his trembling hands into his mackintosh pockets and stared down at the worn carpet, fearful of what was going to happen.

The woman in the bed was the first to recover from the shock.

"Who in hell are you?" she demanded in a strident, furious voice. "Get out! Chuck 'em out, Eddie . . ."

Robinson, still clutching his trousers, backed away from Brant's baleful eyes.

"Have you fellows gone crazy?" he finally mumbled. He looked round with despairing eagerness, picked up his teeth and slipped them between his trembling jaws. He seemed to draw courage from them, and when he spoke again the quaver had gone from his voice. "You can't come in here like this."

Brant thrust his head forward. "We didn't know you had company," he said softly, "but now we're here, George wants to talk to you, don't you, George?"

"If you don't get out," the woman screamed at them, "I'll call the cops!" She slid out of bed, a mass of jiggling flesh, snatched up her dressing gown and wrapped it round her. "Don't stand there like a wet week," she went on to Robinson. "Get 'em out of here."

Robinson tried to pull himself together. "You'll pay for this, you two," he said, working himself into a rage. "I've a mind to sack you on the spot. You must he drunk. Get Out, and I'll see you in the morning."

George, wishing the ground would open and swallow him, groped for the door handle, but Brant's voice froze him.

"Talk to him, George. Tell him what we've come for."

Robinson turned to George. He felt that he could cope with him "So you started this, did you?" he snarled. "I'm surprised at you! You'll be sorry for this, you see if you aren't. You wait until tomorrow."

George opened and shut his mouth, but no sound came.

The woman, afraid of Brant, swung round on George. "If you don't get out, you big, hulking rat, I'll scratch your eyes out!" she shouted at him

"Tell this tart to lay off," Brant said in a soft, menacing voice to Robinson, "or you'll both he sorry."

The woman swung round on him with a squeal of rage- then she stepped hack, her furious, blood-congested face paling. Robinson also took a step hack, catching his breath with a sharp, whistling sound.

Brant was holding an odd-looking weapon in his hand. The harsh light of the unshaded overhead lamp made the blade glitter. The sight turned George's stomach.

"You'd better be careful," Brant said, addressing Robinson and the woman. "We don't want a scene, and you don't want me to get rough, do you?"

The woman sank down on the bed, fear and horror on her fat, flabby face. Robinson was so terrified that he looked as if he were going to have some kind of a fit. His face turned yellow-green, and his legs trembled so much that he had to sit on a chair

George wasn't in much better state. He expected the woman to scream at any minute and for the police to come rushing in.

Brant seemed to know by instinct that George wasn't going to be much use. He dominated the scene.

"You've been cheating Fraser," he said to Robinson. "I've found out how much you should have paid him." He took the notebook from his pocket. "It's all here. You owe him thirty quid. We've come to collect."

Robinson stared stupidly at him. He opened and shut his mouth like a dying fish, but no sound came from him.

"Hurry Up!" Brant said impatiently. "I'm wet, and I want to go to bed. You know you've been cheating, so come on and pay up!"

Robinson gulped. "I—I haven't got it," he said in a voice like the scratching of a slate pencil.

Brant suddenly leaned forward. His hand moved so quickly that George only caught a brief flash of the weapon. Then Robinson started hack with a faint squeal. A long scratch now ran down his white, blotchy cheek from which a fine line of blood began to well.

The woman opened her mouth to scream, but the sound died in her throat as Brant looked at her.