More Deadly Than The Male

George tipped his hat and returned her smile He liked Gladys. She had served him regularly for the past four months, and he had a vague feeling that she was interested in him. Anyway, George always felt at home with barmaids, considering them to be friendly, comfortable women, not likely to jeer at him nor to pass unkind remarks about him behind his hack.

It gave him considerable pleasure to enter the saloon bar of the King's Arms and receive a pint of beer without actually asking for it, and for Gladys to inquire how he was. These trifling attentions made him feel that he was one of her special clients, and he regarded the King's Arms as a kind of second home.

 'I'm fine,' he said. 'No need to ask how you are. You always look wonderful.' He paid for his beer. 'Don't know how you do it.'

Gladys laughed. 'Hard work agrees with me,' she confessed, glancing in the mirror behind the bar. She patted her mass of dark, wavy hair and admired herself for a brief moment. 'Your Mr Robinson was in last night. Oo's his new friend—young, white-faced feller with a scar? I haven't seen him around 'ere before.'

George shook his head. 'Don't ask me. Robo's always picking up waifs and strays. He can't hear his own company for more than five minutes.' He winked and went on, 'Case of a bad conscience, if you ask me.'

'Well, I dunno about that,' Gladys said, polishing that part of the counter within reach of her arm. 'But this Teller looked like a bad conscience if ever anyone did. 'E fair gave me the creeps.'

'Go on.' George's rather vacant blue eyes widened. 'How's that?'

Gladys sniffed. 'Something fishy about 'im. I wouldn't like to run into 'im in the dark.'

George was mildly intrigued. 'Oh, come off it,' he said, smiling. 'You're imagining things.'

An impatient tapping on the counter reminded Gladys that she was neglecting her duties.

'Shan't be a jiffy,' she said. 'There's old Mr Henry. I mustn't keep 'im waiting.'

George nodded understandingly. He was used to carrying on interrupted conversations with Gladys. It was understood between them that customers should not be kept waiting no matter how pressing the topic of discussion happened to be.

He glanced at Mr Henry, who was waiting impatiently for a small whisky. Mr Henry, like George, was a regular customer of the King's Arms. He was a thin, red-faced little man, and he kept to himself. George often speculated what he did for a living. This morning, George decided that there was something rather mysterious about Mr Henry. He drank a little of his beer and relaxed against the wall.

. . . Gladys served Mr Henry with a whisky and soda, exchanged a few words with him, and then came towards George Fraser. Her eyes were alight with excitement, her face had paled.

'Something's up,' George Fraser thought as he pushed his empty tankard towards her.

Gladys picked up the tankard, and while she filled it, she said in a voice scarcely above a whisper, 'That's Davie Bentillo. I recognized him in spite of his disguise.'

George Fraser stiffened. He glanced quickly at the little, redfaced man. Davie Bentillo! What a hit of luck! Every cop in the country was looking for Davie. It could he, although the disguise was superb. He was the same height as Scarletti's ferocious gunman. Yes, it was the same nose and eyes . . . Gladys was right!

'Nice work, kid,' George Fraser said, and his hand crept to his hip pocket to close over the cold butt of his gun.

'Be careful, Mr Fraser,' Gladys breathed, her face waxen with fear. 'He's dangerous. '

Edgar Robinson jogged George's elbow. 'Wake up, cock,' he said, settling himself comfortably on a stool. 'You look like sleeping beauty this morning. Bin on the tiles?'

George Fraser blinked at him, sighed and said, 'Morning.'

Robinson took off his thick glasses and polished them with a grimy handkerchief. Without his glasses his eyes looked like small, green gooseberries. 'Be a pal and ask me what I'll have,' he said, showing his yellow teeth as he beamed at George. 'I've bin and left me money at home.'

George eyed him without enthusiasm. 'Well, what'll it be?'

Robinson put his glasses on again and looked round the bar. 'Well, I'd like a double whisky,' he said, after a moment's thought, 'but seeing as 'ow you're paying, I'll make it a beer.'

George signalled to Gladys.

'What's up?' Robinson asked, eyeing George keenly. 'Very strong and silent this morning, aren't you? Gotta touch of pox or something?'

'I'm all right,' George said shortly. He disliked Edgar Robinson, while admiring his ability as a salesman.

'That's the spirit,' Robinson returned, beaming again. 'Must have my boys on the top line. The right mental attitude gets the business, you know. If you're worrying about anything, 'ow can you hope to get orders?' He smiled his horsey smile as Gladys joined them. 'Hello, my pretty,' he went on; ' 'pon my soul, she gets more desirable every day. Wouldn't you like a little session with our Gladys in the park, George?'

George looked uncomfortable. Sex embarrassed him, and Robinson was always making him feel awkward by his loose talk in mixed society.

'Oh, shut up,' he growled, and without looking at Gladys he muttered, 'Give him a mild and hitter, please.'

Robinson grinned. 'Glad, my girl, I believe we've the privilege of drinking in the company of a virgin. Not being one meself, and knowing from the saucy look in your eye, my pretty, that you'd make no false claims, we knows Who we're talking abaht, don't we?'

Gladys giggled, drew another pint of beer and set it before Robinson. She glanced at George's red face, winked at him and said, 'Don't you take any notice of him. It's those who talk the most that do the least.'