the back page of the cover, with the announcement of a competition. He read with interest, and into a distant corner of his mind there sank a single fact: that the only condition of entry was that you should have your hair dressed by a member of the Hair Stylists’ Association. That sounded fair enough.
The girl had spoken to at least three people on the telephone, keeping her voice low so that Rollison could not hear her words, and Rollison made no attempt to get nearer. Then he saw her smile, put the receiver down, and lean forward; a pretty thing indeed.
“Mr. Sampson will see you in a very few minutes, Mr. Rollison.”
“Thank you,” said Rollison, very politely.
Donny was as good as his word. He appeared through one of the duck egg blue and gold painted doors, and although he was not really a stranger to Rollison he made a considerable impression. He was dressed in a white smock with a high collar, and the close fitting garment would have served a Spanish dancer, so small was Donny’s waist and so elegant his carriage. Yet it was his face and head which impressed one most. He was less handsome than distinguished, his complexion was perfect, and the years had mellowed his features, so that he no longer looked austere. He had beautiful silvery hair which waved a little as it swept back from his forehead; such a man would have held Michelangelo enthralled.
He smiled, courteously.
“Mr. Rollison, this really is a pleasure. It is over a year since I saw you last.” He held out his right hand.
Rollison took it.
“We mustn’t let that happen again,” he murmured. “I’d like to make a fortune, too.”
“Sufficient for the day,” said Donny, and his amber eyes turned towards Rollison so intently that it was hard to see evil here, or even associate with evil. Those eyes suggested too, that his hair had once been golden coloured; and it was still a lion’s mane. “I find it hard to believe you have come simply for a haircut.”
“I’d like a little chat, and know I need a trim,” said Rollison. “Can you and will you?”
“For you, of course,” said Donny. “This way, please.” He turned and glanced out of the front door, and Rollison did also; and what Rollison saw did nothing to reassure him. He might not have been followed, but plenty of people knew where he was. Across the road were several of the youths whom he had already seen once that day. They just lounged about, obviously interested only in Donny’s.
“Friends of yours?” inquired Rollison.
“Not friends, simply customers,” said Donny with a deprecatory shrug and a wave of his pale hands. “It isn’t always possible to pick and choose one’s customers, and you will admit that the young men’s hair looks well cared for.”
“By Donny’s?”
“I imagine so,” said Donny.
He led the way past a line of six barbers, each busy on a man’s hair, to a small room with only one chair. Here were all the appurtenances of a beauty parlour, and it was reserved for men. Here were the pomades and the lotions, the sprays and the powders, the special waves in the hair of unbeautiful would-be beaus. Round the walls were photographs of masculine heads of hair, all magnificently groomed.
“Please sit down,” said Donny, and when Rollison obeyed, went through the customary ritual. Rollison looked at his own reflection, which was rather like a member of the Klu Klux Klan without a witch’s hat. “I see that you have an excellent barber, and that your hair is naturally so good that you hardly need aids,” Donny observed.
“No aids to waves,” agreed Rollison, and saw the scissors glint and then snap in the man’s white fingers; a surgeon’s fingers. There was Donny’s reflection, too. “Donny.”
“Sir.”
“I didn’t know you were a bad man.”
“Perhaps we don’t mean the same thing by that expression,” the hairdresser said. “I didn’t know that I was, either.”
“And it’s unnecessary for a brilliantly successful man like you.”
Donny snipped and shrugged.
“I have done well, yes, but I am not yet a millionaire, Mr. Rollison. The secret of success lies in hard work.”
“And no competition.”
“One buys out competition.”
“Or drives it out.”
“Ah,” said Donny, and paused to look hard at Rollison’s reflection in the mirror; it was a strange way to meet a man’s eyes. a begin to understand what has brought you.”
“I don’t like to think of you hiring men like Tiny Wallis and Mick Clay,” said Rollison chidingly. “No one deserved roughing up like that because he wanted to buy a barber’s shop in your district.”
Snip.
“It was,” said Donny and paused and snipped; “unfortunate.”
“Do you know what happened to the man?”
“I am sorry,” Donny said, and kept snipping. “I was able to help him and his wife a little, and I do not think he will suffer very much.”
“Why employ Wallis at all?” asked Rollison, still mildly.
“Perhaps it was a mistake,” said Donny. Tut he had no instructions to use violence, only persuasion.”
