More Deadly Than The Male

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."

They looked at each other. George felt himself wilt under the baleful look that had jumped into Brant's eyes.

"Okay," he muttered uneasily. "You can come along if you want to."

There was a long pause and then he said, "Well, we'd better do some work. You ready?"

Brant nodded. "Yes." He pushed himself away from the counter. "Tonight'll be interesting," he added, and followed George out of the bar.

3

George Fraser had little to say while he and Brant travelled by underground to Wembley. Talking was difficult in the swaying, roaring train, and he wanted time to think over what Brant had told him.