herself for a brief moment. "Your Mr Robinson was in last night. Oo's his new friend—young, white-faced feller with a scar? I haven't seen him around 'ere before."
George shook his head. "Don't ask me. Robo's always picking up waifs and strays. He can't hear his own company for more than five minutes." He winked and went on, "Case of a bad conscience, if you ask me."
"Well, I dunno about that," Gladys said, polishing that part of the counter within reach of her arm. "But this Teller looked like a bad conscience if ever anyone did. 'E fair gave me the creeps."
"Go on." George's rather vacant blue eyes widened. "How's that?"
Gladys sniffed. "Something fishy about 'im. I wouldn't like to run into 'im in the dark."
George was mildly intrigued. "Oh, come off it," he said, smiling. "You're imagining things."
An impatient tapping on the counter reminded Gladys that she was neglecting her duties.
"Shan't be a jiffy," she said. "There's old Mr Henry. I mustn't keep 'im waiting."
George nodded understandingly. He was used to carrying on interrupted conversations with Gladys. It was understood between them that customers should not be kept waiting no matter how pressing the topic of discussion happened to be.
He glanced at Mr Henry, who was waiting impatiently for a small whisky. Mr Henry, like George, was a regular customer of the King's Arms. He was a thin, red-faced little man, and he kept to himself. George often speculated what he did for a living. This morning, George decided that there was something rather mysterious about Mr Henry. He drank a little of his beer and relaxed against the wall.
. . . Gladys served Mr Henry with a whisky and soda, exchanged a few words with him, and then came towards George Fraser. Her eyes were alight with excitement, her face had paled.
"Something's up," George Fraser thought as he pushed his empty tankard towards her.
Gladys picked up the tankard, and while she filled it, she said in a voice scarcely above a whisper, "That's Davie Bentillo. I recognized him in spite of his disguise."
George Fraser stiffened. He glanced quickly at the little, red faced man. Davie Bentillo! What a hit of luck! Every cop in the country was looking for Davie. It could he, although the disguise was superb. He was the same height as Scarletti's ferocious gunman. Yes, it was the same nose and eyes . . . Gladys was right!
"Nice work, kid," George Fraser said, and his hand crept to his hip pocket to close over the cold butt of his gun.
"Be careful, Mr Fraser," Gladys breathed, her face waxen with fear. "He's dangerous. "
Edgar Robinson jogged George's elbow. "Wake up, cock," he said, settling himself comfortably on a stool. "You look like sleeping beauty this morning. Bin on the tiles?"
George Fraser blinked at him, sighed and said, "Morning."
Robinson took off his thick glasses and polished them with a grimy handkerchief. Without his glasses his eyes looked like small, green gooseberries. "Be a pal and ask me what I'll have," he said, showing his yellow teeth as he beamed at George. "I've bin and left me money at home."
George eyed him without enthusiasm. "Well, what'll it be?"
Robinson put his glasses on again and looked round the bar. "Well, I'd like a double whisky," he said, after a moment's thought, "but seeing as 'ow you're paying, I'll make it a beer."
George signalled to Gladys.
"What's up?" Robinson asked, eyeing George keenly. "Very strong and silent this morning, aren't you? Gotta touch of pox or something?"
"I'm all right," George said shortly. He disliked Edgar Robinson, while admiring his ability as a salesman.
"That's the spirit," Robinson returned, beaming again. "Must have my boys on the top line. The right mental attitude gets the business, you know. If you're worrying about anything, 'ow can you hope to get orders?" He smiled his horsey smile as Gladys joined them. "Hello, my pretty," he went on; " 'pon my soul, she gets more desirable every day. Wouldn't
George shook his head. "Don't ask me. Robo's always picking up waifs and strays. He can't hear his own company for more than five minutes." He winked and went on, "Case of a bad conscience, if you ask me."
"Well, I dunno about that," Gladys said, polishing that part of the counter within reach of her arm. "But this Teller looked like a bad conscience if ever anyone did. 'E fair gave me the creeps."
"Go on." George's rather vacant blue eyes widened. "How's that?"
Gladys sniffed. "Something fishy about 'im. I wouldn't like to run into 'im in the dark."
George was mildly intrigued. "Oh, come off it," he said, smiling. "You're imagining things."
An impatient tapping on the counter reminded Gladys that she was neglecting her duties.
"Shan't be a jiffy," she said. "There's old Mr Henry. I mustn't keep 'im waiting."
George nodded understandingly. He was used to carrying on interrupted conversations with Gladys. It was understood between them that customers should not be kept waiting no matter how pressing the topic of discussion happened to be.
He glanced at Mr Henry, who was waiting impatiently for a small whisky. Mr Henry, like George, was a regular customer of the King's Arms. He was a thin, red-faced little man, and he kept to himself. George often speculated what he did for a living. This morning, George decided that there was something rather mysterious about Mr Henry. He drank a little of his beer and relaxed against the wall.
. . . Gladys served Mr Henry with a whisky and soda, exchanged a few words with him, and then came towards George Fraser. Her eyes were alight with excitement, her face had paled.
"Something's up," George Fraser thought as he pushed his empty tankard towards her.
Gladys picked up the tankard, and while she filled it, she said in a voice scarcely above a whisper, "That's Davie Bentillo. I recognized him in spite of his disguise."
George Fraser stiffened. He glanced quickly at the little, red faced man. Davie Bentillo! What a hit of luck! Every cop in the country was looking for Davie. It could he, although the disguise was superb. He was the same height as Scarletti's ferocious gunman. Yes, it was the same nose and eyes . . . Gladys was right!
"Nice work, kid," George Fraser said, and his hand crept to his hip pocket to close over the cold butt of his gun.
"Be careful, Mr Fraser," Gladys breathed, her face waxen with fear. "He's dangerous. "
Edgar Robinson jogged George's elbow. "Wake up, cock," he said, settling himself comfortably on a stool. "You look like sleeping beauty this morning. Bin on the tiles?"
George Fraser blinked at him, sighed and said, "Morning."
Robinson took off his thick glasses and polished them with a grimy handkerchief. Without his glasses his eyes looked like small, green gooseberries. "Be a pal and ask me what I'll have," he said, showing his yellow teeth as he beamed at George. "I've bin and left me money at home."
George eyed him without enthusiasm. "Well, what'll it be?"
Robinson put his glasses on again and looked round the bar. "Well, I'd like a double whisky," he said, after a moment's thought, "but seeing as 'ow you're paying, I'll make it a beer."
George signalled to Gladys.
"What's up?" Robinson asked, eyeing George keenly. "Very strong and silent this morning, aren't you? Gotta touch of pox or something?"
"I'm all right," George said shortly. He disliked Edgar Robinson, while admiring his ability as a salesman.
"That's the spirit," Robinson returned, beaming again. "Must have my boys on the top line. The right mental attitude gets the business, you know. If you're worrying about anything, 'ow can you hope to get orders?" He smiled his horsey smile as Gladys joined them. "Hello, my pretty," he went on; " 'pon my soul, she gets more desirable every day. Wouldn't
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