'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.
'You'll get it too,' he said softly, and he edged a little towards her. 'Come on,' he went on to Robinson. 'Do you want any more?'
Robinson, blood on his dirty vest and neck, waved his hand in a frantic, despairing gesture to the dressing- table.
Brant picked up a wallet that was half hidden under a grimy handkerchief. He counted out twenty-two pounds and held them in hand, looking at Robinson.
'Where's the rest?'
'That's all I've got,' Robinson sobbed. 'I swear that's all I've got.'
Brant put the money in his pocket.
'You're through,' he said. 'From now on we're working this territory. Do you understand? Get out and stay out. If I see you again I'll fix you.'
Listening to his words, George experienced a strange feeling that he was witnessing a scene from one of his own fantasies. Those words were the kind of words George Fraser, millionaire gangster, would have said to Al Capone or Charlie Lucky or any of the big shots. Somehow it took the horror from the situation: he half expected the door to open and Ella to come in with a cup of tea, interrupting this vivid, but surely unreal drama.
Brant was pushing him to the door. 'Good night,' he was saying. 'You might be thinking of telling the cops about us, but I shouldn't if I were you. I don't carry this sticker around with me unless I've a job to do. They won't catch me as easily as that: but I'll come after you.'
He stood in the doorway looking at Robinson and the woman, then, jerking his head at George, he walked out of the room.
5
This is ridiculous, George thought, as he followed Brant down the stairs. He can't get away with this. Who does he think he is? He can't steal my thunder in this way and then calmly walk off as if nothing had happened.
George had enacted the kind of interview they had just had so many times in his mind that Brant's flagrant trespassing on his preserves angered and humiliated him. Of course, he hadn't been particularly bright at the interview. He had to admit that. He had been scared of Robinson and the woman, but that was only because he had felt defenceless. How was he to know that Brant would produce a razor and commit violence? If he had known, he would have brought his gun. Then it would have been quite a different story. With the Luger in his hand, he would not only have dominated Robinson and that ghastly slut of a woman, but he would have also dominated Brant. What an opportunity to have missed! All because Brant hadn't taken him into his confidence. A sullen anger began to rise in him against Brant. It was like Brant to horn in, to push him aside and take all the credit.
Out in the darkness and the rain, George grabbed hold of Brant and jerked him round.
Anger and disappointment and a feeling of shame gave him courage.
'What are you playing at?' he asked roughly. 'Why didn't you tell me what you were going to do? I could have handled it. I know how to handle a job like that—without messing or cutting people.'
Brant stared at him: his gaunt, cold face startled. 'What are you talking about?' he demanded, shaking off George's hand. 'A fat lot of good you were . . .'
'So that's what you think?' George said furiously. 'Well, it was your fault. I didn't want to go. I told you. If I had known what you were up to, it would have been different.'
'How different?' Brant asked. 'I've got the money and I've kicked him out of our territory. We're free to do what we like now. What more could you have done?'
George was a little taken aback, but he was so envious and angry that he blurted out, 'It would have been different if I'd brought my gun.'
'Gun?' Brant repeated. 'What gun?'
George had never told anyone about the Luger. It was not the kind of thing you did tell anyone about. He had no licence for it. If the police heard about it, there would be trouble. They would most likely take it from him.
