Read Online More Deadly Than The Male by James Hadley Chase - Free Book Online
Authors: James Hadley Chase
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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.
But he told Brant. There was nothing else he could do. It was either that, or loss of face.
"What do you think" he said gruffly. "I've had a gun for years. Brought it back from the States; only it's not a thing I talk about. The police don't stand for that kind of thing."
"A gun," Brant said, making it sound tremendously important. "So you've got a gun?"
"Had it for years," George repeated, uneasy, yet pleased with the impression he had made. "It saves a lot of talking. I'm not much of a one to talk. I don't need to talk with a gun."
"I didn't know," Brant said, and his hardness and confidence somehow didn't seem to matter any more to George.
"I don't mess around with razors," George went on, his voice sounding strange even to him. "That's small-time stuff."
"You can't get guns here," Brant said mildly, almost apologetically. "But we scared the rat, didn't we?"
"We scared him all right," George returned, losing his ill- temper now
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.
But he told Brant. There was nothing else he could do. It was either that, or loss of face.
"What do you think" he said gruffly. "I've had a gun for years. Brought it back from the States; only it's not a thing I talk about. The police don't stand for that kind of thing."
"A gun," Brant said, making it sound tremendously important. "So you've got a gun?"
"Had it for years," George repeated, uneasy, yet pleased with the impression he had made. "It saves a lot of talking. I'm not much of a one to talk. I don't need to talk with a gun."
"I didn't know," Brant said, and his hardness and confidence somehow didn't seem to matter any more to George.
"I don't mess around with razors," George went on, his voice sounding strange even to him. "That's small-time stuff."
"You can't get guns here," Brant said mildly, almost apologetically. "But we scared the rat, didn't we?"
"We scared him all right," George returned, losing his ill- temper now
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