More Deadly Than The Male

It was Saturday afternoon, and George was alone in his room, alone also in the big, dingy house. The other boarders had gone away for the weekend. George had watched them go from his window. They looked, he thought, a little odd and somehow theatrical out of their drab city clothes: the plus fours, the flannel suits, the summer frocks gave them a festive air, not in keeping with George's depressed mood. Ella also had gone off immediately after lunch. It was her half day, and George, peering round the curtain, had watched her hurry to the bus stop. A half an hour or so later Mr and Mrs Rhodes had strolled towards the local cinema. He was now alone in the house, which seemed still and oppressive to him

Saturday afternoon depressed George: he had nothing to do, nowhere to go, and he usually sat in his armchair by the window with a book and Leo for company.

George found himself this afternoon more restless than usual. His book did not interest him, and he felt the loneliness of the big house weighing down on him. He had Brant on his mind, too. Brant, in two days, had become a star salesman. He had obtained six orders for the Child's Self-Educator: nine pounds in his first week! George had only managed to scrape up two orders that week, and he was vaguely resentful of Brant's success. He was sure that Brant was using a series of cheap tricks to obtain his orders.

George tried to convince himself that he would rather not get an order unless the sale was a fair one, but he could not help envying Brant's success—tricks or no tricks.

George found the King's Arms lonely without Robinson for company. Brant seldom came to the pub. Although he was still friendly—if you could call his odd, cold manner friendly—he kept to himself, and George saw him to talk to only when they journeyed out to Wembley together. Even then Brant scarcely said a word.

George put his hook down. He stared across at Leo, who blinked, stretched lazily and ducked his head at him.

It was strange how an animal could take the edge off loneliness, George thought. Without Leo, he would have gone out and wandered aimlessly about the streets.

He got up and crossed to the bed. For some minutes he stroked the cat's fur and talked to it, pleased with its ecstatic response. He rolled it gently onto its back, and the cat, its eyes half closed, encircled his hand with its front paws, its claws carefully sheathed. While he fondled Leo, George brooded about their relations. Leo was important to him: how empty his life would be without the cat! It came as a revelation that he was entirely alone, that no one bothered with him, and he had no friend he could trust. A wave of lonely emotion swept through him, and his eyes watered. He didn't care, he told himself, picking Leo up and holding the cat in his arms, its face against his face, its whiskers tickling his nose. He could get on all right alone so long as he kept his health and had Leo for company. All the same, it was a pretty dreary outlook. As he was beginning to pity himself, he heard the telephone ringing downstairs. The bell startled him. Somehow, it sounded creepy, coming up from the deserted basement. He put Leo down and went to the door. It wasn't much use going all the way downstairs. By the time he was down the hell would have stopped ringing. He opened his door and glanced along the dimly lit passage. The bell was ringing insistently—a muffled, nagging note that disturbed him. He shrugged his shoulders uneasily. Let it ring, he decided. It was certainly not for him. No one had ever bothered to ask for his telephone number. It was probably for one of the boarders, or for Mr Rhodes. But he could not bring himself to shut the door. He had a guilty feeling that he ought to answer the telephone and see who was calling. Then, as he had almost made up his mind to go down, the bell ceased to ring. He closed the door and went hack to his armchair, but a moment later he was on his feet once more as the bell began to ring again.

This time he did not hesitate; he lumbered out of the room, along the passage and down the stairs. It seemed a long way down, and the hell nagged him. He descended the basement stairs with a rush, snatched up the receiver and said 'Hello?' in a breathless voice.

'You've taken your time, haven't you?' a flat, metallic voice said in his ear.

'Who's that? Who do you want?'

'It's Brant,' the voice said impatiently, as if he ought to have known. 'I thought you'd be in. Look, George, I want you to do me a favour.'

'Brant? Why, hello . . . I didn't expect you . . .'

'Never mind that. Have you anything to do this afternoon?'

'Me?' Of course George had nothing to do. He never had on Saturday afternoons; but how did Brant know? Anyway, he wasn't going to admit it: at the same time, he didn't intend to miss anything. He spoke with caution. 'Well, I don't know. I was reading . . .'

'You can read any time, can't you?' Brant's voice jeered at him. 'I wouldn't ask you, only it's important. I want someone to go to Joe's and leave a message.'

'Joe's?'

'It's a club in Mortimer Street, not far from you. They're not on the blower, otherwise I'd've rung 'em.'

'Mortimer Street—that's near Paddington Station, isn't it?'

Brant grunted. 'I've taken the key of my flat by mistake, and I'll be back late. It's my sister. She doesn't know, and she won't be able to get in. Will you leave a message for her at Joe's?'

'I didn't know you had a sister.'

There was a moment's silence, then Brant said, 'Well, I have. We share a flat, see? I should've left the key under the mat. She'll have to amuse herself as best she can until I get back. But I want her to know, otherwise she'll kick the door down. Will you do it, George? Just tell the barman I've taken the key and won't be back until after two. He'll tell Cora.'

George thought for a moment. He felt a rising excitement. 'Why, if you like . . . I'll tell her myself. I mean I'll wait for her and tell her.'

'You don't have to do that. I don't know when she'll go to Joe's. All I know is she'll be there some time tonight.'

George had no idea why he should feel so excited and elated. Brant's sister! Not five minutes ago he didn't know that Brant had a sister, and now he was getting het-up about her, as if she were someone exciting, someone who'd be interested in him. It was extraordinary.

'Of course, I'll do it,' he said. 'You leave it to me, old boy. I'll tell 'em. You don't think I ought to wait and explain it to her myself? They might forget to tell her . . .'