More Deadly Than The Male

wall.

'Don't shoot him, George,' he gasped. 'For God's sake, be careful with that gun.'

'Take it easy, Syd,' George Fraser returned with a confident smile. 'I've stood enough from this rat.' He jabbed Eccles again with the gun. 'Come on, are you giving me the names or do I have to ventilate your hide?'

'I'll do anything,' Eccles quavered. 'Don't shoot—do anything you say.'

'Get on with it, then,' George Fraser said impatiently, 'and if you try to pull a fast one, I'll blast you!'

When the terrified man had left the room, George Fraser wandered to the desk and sat on it, swinging his legs. He winked at Brant, who was gaping at him in open admiration . . .

George sighed. That was the way to treat swine like Eccles. He fondled the gun. Brant wouldn't be so keen to sneer and jeer if he thought George would stick this suddenly into his ribs. George had no time for cheap tricks. Look at the way Brant had got those names and addresses. Just a cheap trick. If that was the way he was going to cover the territory, Wembley would be useless for another World-Wide salesman to work. Of course, Brant wouldn't care. He was just a selfish, small-minded trickster. So long as he got what he wanted he didn't think of anyone else.

George pulled the magazine from the gun and turned it over absently between his fingers. Still, there was something about Brant. He was more powerful, more domineering than George. George knew that. But George with the Luger was more than a match for anyone, including Brant.

George picked up the oily rag at the bottom of the box and wiped the gun over carefully. Then he picked up the wooden box of cartridges and slid off the lid. The cartridges were packed in rows of five, tight and shiny He had never put a cartridge into the magazine. He always made a point of keeping the cartridges away from the pistol. Having cleaned the weapon, he would return it to its cardboard box before taking out each cartridge and polishing the brass cases. He had never wished to fire the gum, and the idea of feeding these small, shiny cartridges into the magazine alarmed him He had read so much about gun accidents that he was acutely conscious how easily something tragic might happen. In spite of his violent imagination, he would have been horrified if, through his own carelessness, anyone was hurt.

Time was getting on. It still rained, but rain never bothered George. He put the cartridges back in the box, and carried it to its hiding-place among his shirts. Then he went to the cupboard over his washstand and took from it a bottle of milk and an opened tin of sardines.

'Come on, Leo,' he called, holding up the tin for the cat to see.

Leo was at his side in a bound, and began twining its great, heavy body round his legs.

George put the tin down on a sheet of newspaper and filled his soap dish with milk

'There you are, old son,' he said, his face softening with pleasure. 'Now I'll go out and get my supper.'

Out in the street, the rain was cold on his face and the wind beat against him. As he hurried along, he felt the urge to sing or shout for no reason at all except that driving rain and a boisterous wind gave him a feeling of freedom.

The saloon bar of the King's Arms was almost deserted. It was early yet—not quite a quarter to seven—and only three of the usual habitues had braved the weather. George hung up his hat and mack, and went to his favourite corner.

'Hello,' Gladys said, smiling. ' 'Ere we are again.'

'That's right,' George said, sitting on a stool and looking at the cold meats, pickles and howls of salad and beetroot with a hungry eye. 'Nasty night, isn't it?'

'Wretched,' Gladys agreed. 'I've got some nice cold pork if you fancy it, or some beef.'

George said he thought he'd try the pork.

'That was the bloke with the scar you were talking about, wasn't it?' he asked as she cut him a liberal helping.

'That's 'Im,' Gladys said darkly. 'I was sorry to see you going off with 'in. Mark my words, 'e's a had 'un. I know a had 'un when I see 'im.'

'He's working for Robinson,' George said, feeling that he should excuse himself. 'Can't say I like him myself.'

'I should think not indeed,' Gladys said firmly. 'You watch out. A fellow like that could get you into trouble quicker than wink '

'Oh, I don't know about that,' George said a little crossly. Did she take him for a child? 'I can look after myself all right.'

'I'm glad to hear it,' Gladys returned, as if she didn't believe him She set the plate before him, gave him a roll and butter and a pint of mild and bitter, and then hurried off to serve another customer.

George was quite content to keep in his corner, away from the main bar, and eat his supper, read the evening paper and watch Gladys cope with the bustling activity. The bar was filling up now, and the atmosphere became damp and steamy.

No one paid George any attention. Mr Henry came in and nodded absently to him, but immediately looked away, as if he were nervous that George would wish to join him. Other habitues came in. They also nodded to George, but it was a disinterested greeting more from habit than anything else.

His meal finished, George lit a cigarette, pushed his tankard forward so that Gladys, when she had a moment, could see that he wanted it filled, and settled down to the crossword puzzle. The warm, damp atmosphere, the buzz of conversation, the click of billiard halls in the next room, soothed him. It was, he thought, the nicest, most homely atmosphere a man could wish to be in.

At nine-thirty he called for his last pint. One for the road, he told himself. He was pleasantly sleepy, and he looked forward to stretching out in bed. Perhaps Leo would keep him company. Tomorrow still seemed a long way off, and George decided that perhaps, after all, life wasn't so had.