Dead Stay Dumb

PART TWO

Myra swung her legs off the bed and sat up. The sun came through the open window, burning her feet. The cheap clock on the mantleboard indicated 8.10. She sat there, sniffing the crisp air, her firm white body naked. She fished about with her feet, hunting for her shoes. Finally, with a little gasp of annoyance, she went on hands and knees and dug them out from under the bed.

She knelt there staring at the shoes. “By heck,” she said, “I'm getting a regular bum.” The shoes were just about handing in their checks. Two large cracks gaped like little mouths at her from the top, and the soles were as good as a sieve.

She sat back on her heels, scratching her thigh, thinking. It wasn't from choice she was naked in bed. She just hadn't anything to wear.

Three long weary weeks had crawled by since Butch had been knocked off. The cabin, hidden in the hills, was just held together by its paint. Dillon had been glad to move into it, and now he was in he just stuck.

The last owner had been an Okie, who had taken his family with him on the futile search for work in the Californian invasion. He had left the cabin pretty well as it stood. Even the bedding had been left. That Okie had certainly been in a hurry to get away.

Taking the car to the nearest small town, Dillon had got in enough stores to last for some time, and the three of them had dug themselves in. The cabin was lonely, off the beaten track, and they didn't see anyone from dawn to dusk.

Dillon spent most of his time lying in bed, brooding. He got up around midday, had some food, and sat on the step of the cabin in the sun. He got on the other two's nerves. The work was shoved on to Myra. Gurney cut the wood and got the water, but he didn't do much else. He hung around the house, treading on Myra's heels, keeping his hands off her with an effort, and generally eating his head off with boredom.

Myra was getting sick of it. She wasn't taking any chances in getting laid up, so she kept Gurney out of her room. This made Gurney sore as hell, but Myra's waspish temper stood between them like a wall.

She got to her feet and put on the shoes, wriggling her toes inside them, feeling the rough boards through the soles. She splashed water into a tin bowl and began to wash. Slapping the water on her body, she rubbed herself briskly. All the time she was doing this her mind was busy. It was time to, shake these bums up a bit, she thought. Dillon would have to be handled carefully. Up to now he had ignored her. That irritated her. He just didn't know she was there. She thought he was a cold-blooded fish. She walked over to the stool where she had dropped her clothes. She turned them over, her nose wrinkling with disgust. Every damn garment was in holes. Even her dress was patched heavily under the arms.

Pulling the dress over her head, she smoothed the creases with her hands. Then she walked into the living-room.

Gurney was standing in the open doorway, fixing his belt. He nodded to her sourly. He thought he was having a swell break bringing her along, and then to have her lock herself in every night. His chin was covered with a stubbly beard, and his eyes, still puffy with sleep, peered at her hungrily.

Across the way was another little room, where Dillon slept. The door was shut. They didn't expect to see him for some time.

Myra said, “Suppose you get the fire goin'.” She spoke shortly.

Gurney said, “Sure.” He wandered outside and came back with a handful of wood. He sat down in front of the small stove and began to poke at the ashes.

Myra filled the kettle and began to lay the table. When the wood in the stove was crackling Gurney got up and put the kettle on. He walked round the room, scratching himself under the arms, yawning. His eyes were on Myra. She didn't take any notice of him, but she could feel his lust for her.

He came up behind her, slipping his arms round her, his hands over her breasts. He hugged her to him.

Myra stood quite still. “Get away, will you?” she snapped. “There's work to do.”

Gurney forced her round. “I'm sick of this,” he said savagely. “I ain't goin' to stand it.”

He lifted her off her feet and ran her into her room. Myra made no effort to resist him. In the room, he set her down, arid stood holding her, his chest heaving.

She said, “You're gettin' wrong ideas, Nick.”

“Yeah?” He shook her a little. “That's what you think. You're enough to drive a guy nuts.... What's the idea? You're hot enough when Butch might've killed you... but now...”

She kept her face cold. “The kettle's boiling,” she said. “Suppose you come down to earth.”

Gurney took his hands off her. “By God!” he said angrily. “You can't treat me like this.”

A furious wave of rage shot through her like a flame. “And what d'you think this is?” she screamed at him. “Look at me! How d'you think I like this? There's not a rag to my back. All you think is gettin' into bed. Well, you got another think coming. That lousy punk out there's got a roll of dough, and he just sits on it. How long d'you think we're goin' to stay in this sty? Who the hell are you to get sore?”

Gurney backed away uneasily. “Pipe down,” he said surlily, “I can't help it, can I?”

“You can't help it!” She beat her hands together. “I'll show you something.”

She pushed past him and burst in on Dillon. Dillon was sitting up in bed. He was wearing a shirt and trousers, a splinter of wood between his teeth. He looked at her suspiciously. “What the hell do you want, bustin' in like this?” he snarled.

“I'll tell you what I want,” she stormed at him. “I want to get out of here. I want some dough to buy things with.... I'm sick of messing around working for a couple of ragged-arse bums like you for nothin'. Look at me... look at this dress...”

Dillon swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up. Gurney stood in the open doorway. He was scared. Dillon hunched his shoulders. “Listen,” he said. “You just get out quick or I'll toss you out. I'm the boss of this outfit, see?”

Myra sneered at him. She stood with her legs planted wide and her hands on her hips. “You couldn't be a boss of any outfit, you small-time gunman,” she said. “Get that into your thick dome Now come on, let's have some dough.”

Dillon swung his fist and hit her on the side of her head. It was a solid punch. She hurtled across the room, banging her shoulder against the rough wood, and falling in a heap.

Gurney said feebly from the door, “Hey! You can't knock her around like that.”

Dillon looked at him. His cold eyes were glittering. “Keep out of this,” he said; “she had it comin' to her. She ain't goin' to get anywhere with that line of talk.”

Myra scrambled to her feet. She held her hand to her head. The ground rose a little under her feet. She focused Dillon with difficulty. “You devil!” she said.

Dillon hitched his trousers up and walked over to her. “Get out an' put some food together. You're here to work, see? I ain't havin' any hot air from you.”

She looked over his shoulder at Gurney. “Think you're going to crawl in my bed after this, you yellow rat... you've got some chance.”

Dillon said, “You shut up!”

Gurney turned and went into the front room. He guessed Myra would give him hell for this. Dillon didn't take his eyes off Myra. He remembered the way she bounced Butch around. This dame was dangerous. Myra looked at him, her eyes hating him. “You ain't going to get away with this,” she said through her teeth. “I'll fix you, you dirty heel!”

Dillon said, “Aw, can it!” He moved away, still keeping his eyes open.

Myra hesitated, then walked into the front room. Gurney gave her a scared look, but she took no notice of him. She began to prepare the meal. She cut the ham into thick hunks, savagely sawing at the salty meat, and slapping the slices into the pan.

Gurney expected her to cry. He guessed most dames would have folded up from a smack like that. Myra's face was white and set. A livid mark, where Dillon had hit her, burnt on her temple, and her eyes were stormy.

Gurney said uneasily, “You ain't goin' to get nowhere, startin' to fight that guy.”

Myra said nothing. She served the food, banging the plates on the table. Then, pouring herself out a cup of strong coffee, she went out into the sunshine and sat away from the cabin.

Dillon came in, looked at the food and grunted. He sat down at the table and began to eat. Gurney sat down.

“You gettin' sick of things?” Dillon said. There was a tense threat in his voice.

Gurney slopped his coffee. “Me?... I ain't squealin',” he said hurriedly.

Dillon jerked his head to where Myra was sitting. “I figgered maybe you put her up to that.”

Gurney was round-eyed with innocence. “You got me wrong,” he said hurriedly. “You ain't got to worry about her. She's just mad at havin' nothin' to wear.”

Dillon cut the ham up in small squares. “You have a talk with her... she'd better watch her step. I ain't standin' any buck from her—get it?”

Gurney pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. The food stuck in his throat. “Sure,” he said, “she's just a kid... you know, she don't mean a thing.”

Dillon said evenly: “You tell her... unless you want me to give her a rub-down. You want to handle that broad... what you scared about? Why the hell don't you throw her on the bed?”

Pushing back his chair, Gurney got to his feet. He mumbled something and went over to fix the stove.

“I'm goin' to take the car out,” Dillon said, finishing his food and getting up. “I've a little job I wantta case Maybe you can do somethin' with it later.”

Gurney looked at him uneasily, but said nothing.

Myra watched the two men come out of the cabin and walk over to the shed where the car was garaged. She got up and went in, clearing the table and stacking the plates. She was still trembling with suppressed rage. She heard the car drive off, and she ran to the window. Dillon was sitting at the wheel.

Gurney came in. “He's gone downtown,” he said.

Myra sat down on the wooden bench under the window. “I want to talk to you,” she said, her words coming tense and harsh. “It's time you got wise to this guy.”

Gurney scratched the back of his head. “I don't get this,” he said.

“You ain't goin' to get anything from him. Don't you think it. He's got that scratch from Abe Goldberg... has he given you any? Not a chance! You're running around with him, an' he's tied an accessory rap on you. He's the boss, an' you jumpin' in circles. You're just a goddam sucker, scared by a bum like that.”

Gurney shifted. “That guy totes a—rod,” he said. “What can I do?”

Myra's eyes glittered. “I'm goin' to tell you what you're goin' to do. You're goin' to 'yes' that guy until you get the run of his game, then you're goin' to turn him in. You're goin' to have a gun, an' you're goin to shoot better than he shoots. You're goin' to do everything better than he does. Then he goes ”

Gurney stood looking at her. Then he nodded his head slowly. “Sure,” he said thoughtfully. “That's an idea.”

The sun was tailing behind the hills when Dillon got back.

Gurney heard the old engine faintly in the distance, and he went out, standing by the well, looking down the rough road. He wondered where the hell Myra had got to. She had slipped off after the midday meal, and he hadn't seen her since. Restless and bored with his own company, the sound of the car chugging up the hill came as a relief.

He had spent most of the afternoon wandering round the cabin, brooding. He felt that Myra had a good idea, ditching Dillon. He was scared of the guy. He couldn't bring himself to think how Dillon was to be ditched. Unconsciously, he left that for Myra to fix. Sitting on the step in the sunshine, he had gone over everything Myra had said. That dame had a head all right. She'd got Dillon pinned down. Yeah, she was right. Dillon was a mean guy. He'd run them for a while, then leave them flat. Gurney's hands ached for the feel of a gun. Just give him a gun and he'd fix Dillon okay.

Dillon drew up outside the cabin. He waved his hand to Gurney. His sullen face seemed more animated. Gurney came over.

“You been away some time,” he said You get the breaks?”

Dillon climbed out of the car and went round the back. He reached in and dragged out a bulky object covered with a blanket. “Come inside,” he said, “I got somethin' to show you.”

Gurney followed him in. Dillon dumped the bundle on the table and carefully unwrapped it.

Gurney stood quite still, his heart beating hard. “Well by God!” he said.

Lying on the table was a Thompson riot gun, a heavy 45 Smith & Wesson, and a large case of shells.

Dillon patted the Thompson, his thin lips curving a little. “A guy who's got a thing like that can get most places,” he said.

A shadow fell across the table. They looked up sharply. Myra stood in the doorway, her eyes fixed on the gun. The two men took their eyes away from her, and forgot her in the gun.

“How the hell did you get that?” Gurney asked. He picked up the .45 and caressed the cold butt. It felt good.

Dillon was in an expansive mood. He wandered over to the bench under the window and sat down. “Once you know the tricks,” he said, “it's easy.”

Myra went over to the table and stood looking. She cautiously put her hand on the cold barrel of the Thompson.

Dillon watched her. His triumphant mood included her. “Pick it up,” he said. “It ain't goin' to bite.”

She held the Thompson, the butt tucked under her arm. The long barrel pointed to the stove. She let her hand run over the smooth drum.

Gurney watched her. His mouth was dry with excitement. Maybe this guy wasn't such a bum after all, he thought. “You didn't find that growin' on a tree,” he said.

Dillon shook his head. “These guns don't get picked up easy,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “Know how I got it?” His thin lips grinned at them. Myra watched him, her face blank, but her eyes hated him. Dillon didn't feel her. He was big-shotting himself to death.

“I went into the sheriff's office an' bought it off him,” he said.

“That's a hell of a tale,” Gurney said. The admiration in his voice pleased Dillon.

“Listen, bozo,” Dillon said. “This country's nuts. Every goddam flatfoot has to buy his own rod. They give him everything else, but not his gun. He has to lay down cash for it. Okay; there comes a time when a sheriff gives over, see? Maybe he gives over 'cause he's too old, or maybe he's sick or somethin'. Well, that guy wants to buy a business or a farm or live on his savings. What the hell does he want with a gun? What's he to do then? Some guy blows in an' makes him an offer. He gets an offer twice as good as he'd get if he turned the rod over to a gunsmith. It ain't legal sellin' Thompsons to anyone, but what the hell? He's out for good, so he should worry.”

Gurney said, “You got this from a sheriff?” His voice was incredulous.

Dillon nodded. “Sure I did.” He reached forward and picked up the .45. “I went into town today an' got talkin'. Some guy said the sheriff in the next town was closin' down, so I grabbed the car an' went out to see him. That little lot set me back a good few bucks, but that ain't goin' to worry me. A Tommy talks any time.”

Myra recognized this much. Dillon knew the ropes. Gurney wasn't in the same street with him for ideas. He knew where to-get things and how to get them. This guy could teach them something.

She said, making her voice soft, “I guess that's smart.”

Dillon looked at her hard, but Myra's eyes were wide with admiration. He grunted. “I guess I know my way around,” he said.

“Can you work this?” Gurney said, tapping the Thompson.

Dillon stood up. “Can I work it?” He picked it up and walked outside. “You watch me.”

Myra and Gurney followed him out. They did not look at each other, but Myra put her hand on Gurney's arm, gripping his muscle. Gurney nodded his head, still keeping his eyes on Dillon's back.

Dillon looked round thoughtfully, selecting a target. “You ain't got to worry about aimin' this gun, he said; “you spray it, see? You just gotta hold it steady an' bring it round slow in a sweep... like this.”

He raised the gun, levelling it at the garage door, then he pressed the trigger. The shattering roar of the gun made Myra take an involuntary step backwards. Chips of white wood flew from the door. From where they stood they could see the holes spring up in the woodwork in an even line.

Dillon stopped firing and turned to look at them. “See?” he said. “That's the way. This gun's goin' to stop anythin' on two legs.”

Myra came over to him. “I bet I could do that,” she said.

Dillon looked down at her, hesitating. Then his good-humour overcame his caution. He gave the gun to her. “You gotta hold her.”

Myra pressed the butt into her side, her finger curling round the trigger, then she squeezed. The gun jumped about in her hand as if it were alive. The dry mud puffed up and the leaves from the trees overhanging the garage fell in a shower; she winged the door twice.

Dillon said, “Take it easy... you gotta hold that gun.”

Gurney was itching to try. He looked at Dillon, trying to catch his eye. Myra held the gun, looking at it thoughtfully, then she shoved it in Gurney's hands.

Dillon scowled. “Hey,” he said, “those shells cost dough!”

Gurney was not to be put off. He raised the gun and fired off a round. The wood splinters again spurted. He could see he'd drawn a line of holes almost as well as Dillon.

Myra said, “You ain't so good as this guy.”

That pleased Dillon. Anyway, that's why she said it. He took the gun from Gurney and walked back to the cabin Gurney followed close behind him.

They both sat and watched Dillon clean the gun. Every now and then Myra would ask a question. She asked it in a way that touched Dillon's vanity. He talked all right. They learnt a lot about that gun while he was cleaning it.

Gurney helped Dillon hide the case of shells, and they put the gun under Dillon's bed. Then they came back to the sitting-room.

Dillon sat on the edge of the table and looked at Gurney. “There's a small bank down there that might be worth workin' over I'd do it if I'd someone to drive the car.”

Myra said quietly, “I'll drive the car.”

Dillon jerked his head round. “What the hell do you know about a car?” he said shortly. “A getaway is the main thing in a bank stick-up. The guy who handles the wheel's got to use his head. He's got to drive like hell an' keep on drivin' like hell.”

Myra shrugged. “I guess nobody's goin' to drive like hell in that old jaloopy,” she said.

“Who said I was going in her?” Dillon demanded. “You don't know a thing about this business. I'll knock a car off when I'm ready. A real fast job, with enough steam under the hood to shake anythin' on four wheels.”

“Get a bus like that,” Myra said, “an' I'll drive it.”

Dillon began to get angry. “Will you keep your goddam nose outta this?” he snarled. “This ain't for you, so shut up.”

Myra got up and walked to the door. “Yeah?” she said. “Then watch this.”

She ran over to the old car outside, slipped under the wheel and started the engine. She had that old bus going forty before she was out of sight. She had changed up, one—two—three—almost in so many seconds. Back she came, swinging the wheel so that the wheels on the offside lifted and slammed back, nearly jerking her out of the car. She pushed the old bus right up to the cabin, making Dillon and Gurney jump to their feet before she nailed it dead. She got out of the car and walked into the cabin again.

Dillon looked at her. There was a look of astonishment in his eyes, but he kept his face blank.

“She can handle a car all right,” Gurney said to him. “I guess she wouldn't lose her nerve.”

Dillon hesitated and then he nodded. “Sure,” he said. “I guess we'll knock that bank tomorrow.”

Behind his back the two exchanged glances.

The big Cadillac settled down to business. Myra kept the pedal on the boards, holding the car to the crown of the road. Gurney was beside her, and Dillon sat at the back. He held the Thompson by his side, covered with a blanket.

It was just after three o'clock, and the afternoon sun was hot. It reflected on the white road and shimmered across the green fields.

They'd had the breaks all right. It was not just chance. Dillon had gone over everything with a thoroughness that surprised the other two. First he made a map on a piece of white card. The bank was plotted right in the centre. He had made arrangements for getting away in three different ways. “It's like this,” he explained. “We come out with the dough. Maybe some guy puts up a squawk. Okay. The sheriff might've grabbed himself a car and come beating down here.” He traced a line on the map. “We gotta go this way. Maybe he'll come from this direction. We ain't got time to swing the bus round, so we beat it to the right. With this map we got three getaways.” He had pinned the map just above the windscreen, over Myra's head. He'd taken Myra through that map until she was sick of it.

“You gotta keep your nut,” he had told her. “I'll be right with you, but you gotta go where I say, an' go quick. You ain't gotta argue... you gotta drive.”

When Dillon was through with her, he started on Gurney. He showed Gurney how to pull the gun, and how to shoot. Dillon said to him, “You ain't to pop that heater. You leave that to me. There's only two punks in that bank, an' those guys ain't goin' to cause trouble. They got a wife, an' maybe they got kids. All you gotta do is to collect the dough and get out quick.”

Gurney had the .45 under his coat. It made him feel good. He was excited, and he wasn't scared any more.

The jaloopy had been hidden in a wood some twenty miles from the bank. Dillon hadn't any trouble knocking off the Cadillac. It just stood in the main street asking to be knocked off. Even the engine was running, while some guy did his week-end store buying. That bus certainly could move.

They began to run into the town. Dillon edged himself forward, so that his head came between the two in the front. “Take it easy,” he said. “Just run up and stop without any fuss.”

Myra said, between her teeth, “What the hell you think I'd do? Turn the goddam thing over, and push it down the street on its roof?” Her heart was banging against her ribs.

Dillon sat back. “You keep your nut,” was all he said. Taking the blanket off the Thompson, he pulled the gun across his knees, his left hand on the car door.

Gurney pulled the .45 from inside his coat. He held it in his lap. His mouth was very dry.

They pulled up outside the bank.

Myra shoved out the clutch, put the gear in bottom, and revved the engine hard. She said, “Don't take all day.”

Dillon put his Colt automatic beside her. “Maybe you better have that.”

Myra slipped the gun under her, and sat on it. The butt was just under her hand.

Swinging the door open, Dillon ran across the pavement and entered the bank. The Thompson was under his coat. Gurney came in at his heels. There was a fat woman wedged against the grille, arguing with the teller. Gurney could hear her voice putting up a squawk. His brain was stiff. He couldn't get what she was saying.

A thin, lanky man got off a stool at the far end of the bank and wandered down when he saw Dillon.

“Stand by the door,” Dillon said to Gurney.

The lanky guy said, “We're closin' down right now,” he sounded as if he were bored to hell with the bank.

“Grab some air,” Dillon yelled, pitching his voice high, “this is a stick-up.” The Thompson showed its black barrel.

The two guys behind the counter stiffened into waxworks.

The fat woman turned her head. Dillon was right behind her. She took one look at him and her big mouth opened. Gurney nearly dropped his gun. “That dame's going to yell the roof off,” he thought.

Dillon shifted the gun a little and swung his fist. He hit the woman across her mouth with his knuckles. There was a lot of steam in that punch. She was right up against the counter, so she couldn't ride the punch. It made a real mess of her face. She flopped down on her knees and then spread out. A whistling sound dribbled from her throat. Without taking his eyes from the other two, Dillon kicked at her head. He kicked her just once. The woman's head bounced away from his boot. She stopped making any noise.

The lanky guy suddenly went green, and vomited on the floor in front of him. He didn't lower his hands, but just bent his head forward.

Dillon said to Gurney, “Hey! This bastard's been eatin' ice cream.”

Gurney wasn't feeling so good himself. He scrambled over the grille The two watched him with wide eyes. They were scared to death.

Gurney went through the drawers, piling the notes on the counter. Dillon stood watchful, holding the Thompson ready. He said, “Get the safe open.” He looked hard at the teller.

Gurney grabbed the teller's arm. “Get it open!” he snarled, pushing the .45 into his ribs. “Get goin', you sonofabitch.”

The teller staggered across to the vault, his knees buckling. Gurney could see the sweat running down behind his ears into his collar. The teller pulled open the door. It wasn't even locked. He tried to say something, but he was so scared he couldn't get his tongue working.

Gurney grabbed the money, done up in neat packets. There wasn't a lot, but he took everything he could see. He left the coin. Then he ran back to the counter and shoved all the money into a small flour-sack he'd brought with him. He vaulted over the grille again.

Dillon said, “Get goin'.” He stood by the door until Gurney was out, then he began to back out. “Don't start anythin',” he snarled at the lanky guy. “This typewriter'll cut you to hell.”

He turned and ran. Myra was already rolling the car. As he sprang on the running-board the Cadillac shot forward with a jerk that nearly threw him loose.

The car lurched with screaming tyres as she pulled into the centre of the road. Dillon tossed the Tommy into the back seat and clung to the running-board, trying to get in. “Gimme a hand, you bastard!” he yelled at Gurney.

Gurney grabbed Dillon's arm, pulling him forward. Another lurch tossed Dillon head first into the car. He scrambled to his knees, swearing savagely.

Myra gritted her teeth. At the back of her mind she had hoped to lose Dillon. She had not consciously tried to ditch him, but now he was safe she knew that she had tried to shake him.

The Cadillac went down the main street with a rush. The quivering needle of the speedometer swung to seventy. Faintly above the swish of tyres and the scream of the wind they could hear people shouting.

Myra gripped the wheel, her eyes fixed on the road that seemed to jump up from the ground and rush to meet her. Another car coming from the opposite direction crowded on brakes as the Cadillac hurtled down on it. Myra touched the wheel and swept by. The open road lay in front.

Dillon glanced through the rear window. The road was deserted. He sat back on the seat and wiped off his palms. He was tossed about in the back as the car tore down the rough road.

Gurney twisted his head and grinned at him. “Just like that,” he shouted.

Dillon didn't say anything. He was looking murder. He wasn't sure if Myra had tried to ditch him. He knew it was a mighty close thing. Gurney was still clutching the sack. Dillon leant forward and took it from him. Gurney looked round, a little startled, but Dillon's cold eyes made him flinch. “Take it easy,” Dillon shouted to Myra, “we ain't goin' to turn this can over.”

Myra eased the pressure on the pedal and the Cadillac dropped down to fifty.

Gurney said, “It was a cinch.”

Dillon sneered. “Sure, but it could've been tough.”

They drove in silence for the next few miles. Gurney was feeling uneasy. He knew that if he'd let Dillon alone he'd have been shaken off the running-board. He knew Dillon knew it. What the hell was Myra playing at? This guy Dillon was too tricky to double-cross.

Myra ran the Cadillac off the road when they came to the wood where the jaloopy was hidden. They all got out, leaving the Cadillac hidden from the road.

Dillon took two quick steps away from the other two. His face was hard and threatening. He slightly raised the Tommy. “Put your rod on the ground,” he said to Gurney. “You keep away from the car,” he went on to Myra.

The two stood very still. Myra found her voice. “What's the big idea?” she said, her voice suppressed.

“I want those rods... maybe you didn't try to hang it on me in the car, but I ain't takin' any chances with you. Snap into it. Drop that gun, Gurney.”

Gurney let the gun fall on the grass. He stepped away from it. His face was a little white. He was scared.

Dillon picked the gun up and shoved it down the waistband of his trousers. He walked over to the Cadillac and took the gun lying on the seat. “Okay,” he said, “I guess that's all. We'll run back to the cabin now in the jalopy.”

The two didn't say anything. Gurney got under the wheel and Myra got in beside him. Dillon climbed in at the back. They drove away, leaving the Cadillac.

When they reached the cabin Dillon went straight to his room and shut himself in. They heard the bar fall in its socket, bolting him in.

Myra stood very still, looking at Gurney. “We ain't gettin' anywhere with this guy,” she said, keeping her voice low. “He's gotta lot comin' to him.”

Gurney slouched over to the bench and sat down. He rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully, looking hard at his feet. Myra stared at him for a moment, then she began getting a meal together.

They didn't see Dillon until supper was on the table. He came out of his room, a cold, triumphant look on his face. He was conscious of the hard glances from the other two. Sitting down at the table, he began to shovel the food into his mouth. The other two just sat and watched him. After a moment he looked up irritably. “What the hell's the matter with you?” he demanded fiercely. “Ain't you hungry?”

Myra said, “Did we get much outta that bank?”

Dillon sneered at her. “You ain't gotta worry about that,” he said. “You're here to work, see?” He took some notes out of his pocket and tossed them across the table to Gurney. “That's your split,” he said evenly, and went on eating.

Gurney looked at the notes as if he couldn't believe his eyes. He poked at them with his finger.

Myra said, her voice very brittle, “Count 'em.”

Gurney couldn't count them. He just sat and stared at them.

Myra leant forward and snatched up the notes. She counted them out on the table, slapping them down and counting aloud. She made it a hundred dollars.

Dillon went on eating, his eyes on his plate. There was a little circle of white round his mouth. He was getting mad all right.

Myra said with a little hiss of breath, “What's this?”

Dillon looked up at Gurney. “You let this bitch talk too much,” he said. He tossed the knife and fork on to his plate with a clatter and sat back. His hands lay on the table, his ringers tapping.

Gurney said with a little rush, “A hundred bucks ain't much.”

“Don't you stand for this,” Myra shrilled, pushing the notes away from her. “He's double-crossing you.”

Dillon stood up, kicking over his chair. His eyes glittered. “I've told you,” he snarled at Gurney, “I ain't standin' any more of it. That bitch gets outta here, see? You're crazy to have her here... well, this finishes it... she's out!”

Gurney looked up at him, his face drawn and glistening, but he knew he was up against Myra. “Say, listen,” he said, “somethin' is wrong. You don't mean this's all I get out of the stick-up?”

Dillon eyed him. “You gone nuts?” he demanded savagely. “What the hell d'you think you're goin' to get out of it?”

“A hundred bucks is peanut money.”

Dillon sneered. “Sure it's peanut money. What of it? You didn't case the job, did you? You didn't fix the plans, did you? You didn't know where to find the bank, did you? Like hell you didn't. You just went in there and picked the dough outta the safe. A goddam monkey could've done it.”

Gurney dropped his eyes. Dillon had him.

“I'm givin' you that hundred bucks, an' you can like it. When you've used that nut of yours an' pulled somethin' good, then we'll split even, but not before.”

“You double-crossing rat!” Myra screamed at him. “What do I get out of it? Didn't I drive the car?”

Dillon looked at her. “You ain't nothin' to me,” he said, his lips grinning. “That punk brought you. It's up to him to give you somethin'.”

He turned his back and walked into his room. They heard the bolt slam in the socket.

The moon floated high. From his bed Gurney could see every object clearly in the room. The window was wide open, but no air came to him. He was feeling hot and uneasy, lying there. He knew he couldn't sleep. His mind dwelt on Dillon. He thought of the hundred dollars, and he sweated with fury. When Dillon had gone into his room, Myra had disappeared into hers. She hadn't said a word to Gurney.

Sitting up impatiently, Gurney glanced at the battered clock on the mantelshelf. It was just after one. He sat up and swung his legs to the ground. His mind, restless and frustrated, made his body uneasy. He wanted Myra. He wanted her so badly that it made him feel weak. There she was just across the room, behind that door. He had only to go in there and take her. He knew he could force her. Maybe she would fight, but he'd have her in the end. Then he lay back on his elbow, savagely gnawing at his lip. He knew he hadn't the nerve to go in there and start anything. She was too well guarded by herself. She was too strong for him.

He sat up again, his eyes wide. Her door was opening quietly. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs, and he began to breathe unsteadily. He could see the flicker of the candle behind her, making her shadow dance before her. She raised her hand and beckoned him. He slid across the room quickly, without a sound. She took his arm and pulled him into the room and shut the door.

He was surprised and disappointed to see that she was still dressed. Her white face, and her eyes, hard and bright like glass, frightened him. He put his back to the door and stared at her.

“What is it?” he said, keeping his voice down.

“Don't you know?” she said. “We ain't taking any more from that lousy heel. He's gotta go.”

Gurney stared at her, his mouth going dry. “But how?” he whispered.

“You gotta get into that room an' knock him off,” she said.

Gurney recoiled. “You're nuts,” he said. “That guy's got three guns in there.”

Her face was close to his. “He's got a lot of dough in there as well. We gotta do it, Nick, can't you see? We won't get anywhere unless we do.”

Gurney walked round her and sat on the bed. “I tell you it can't be done,” he said, slamming his fist down on his knee. “What you thinking about? I tell you that guy's got three rods, and he'll just fall over himself to put some slugs into both of us.”

Myra came over to him and sat close. She put her arms round his neck. He could feel the warmth of her body pressing against him. He could feel the curve of her breast against his arm. He turned, dragging her over his knees, gripping her tight, his blood singing in his ears. She let him kiss her, then she broke away from him and stood up.

He sat there, shaken with desire for her. He said fiercely, “I gotta have you, Myra.” He reached out for her. “I can't wait... damn you... I gotta have you.”

Myra's voice came like a cold douche. “Get a grip on yourself, Nick... Dillon first... you'll never have me if you don't get that bastard... and you've got to get him now.”

Gurney got to his feet. He leant forward. “Do you mean it?” he said, his voice harsh.

She stood there looking at him. “I mean it all right,” she said.

“What've I gotta do?” He relied on her.

Myra moved round the room, thinking. Gurney could only watch her. His brain refused to work. He had only eyes for her, raking her from head to foot.

She said at last, “We mustn't slip up on this, Nick.”

Gurney didn't say anything.

“Give him a chance, an' he'll finish both of us.” She moved to the door. “Wait, I'll be right back.”

Gurney wiped his sweating palms on the sheet.

She came back into the room again. He caught the flash of steel. “What've you got there?” he said, his voice just a croak. She showed him. The short blade of the knife flashed in the candlelight. He looked at her, his eyes popping. He started to say something, but stopped.

She sat down on the bed beside him. “Listen,” she said, “we'll do it this way. When we're set, I'm goin' to start yellin'. I'm goin' to bring the roof down. He'll come in quick enough to see what's wrong. I'll give him the line that you attacked me, an' you've gotta get tough. When he's talkin' to you, I'll come up behind him an' stick him with this. As soon as the knife's in, you slam him one from the front. Watch his gun—he'll bring that out all right. He might start shootin' unless I kill him on his feet.”

Sweat ran down Gurney's face. “By God!” he said. “I don't like this.”

Myra jerked impatiently. “It's goin' to work—you see.”

“A knife ain't goin' to stop this bastard,” Gurney said; “don't you think it will.”

Myra hesitated. She guessed maybe Gurney was right about that. Then she said, “We'll give it him like he gave it to Butch.” She slipped into the outer room and came back almost immediately. She gave Gurney a small tin of pepper. Gurney looked at the tin and twisted his mouth into a grin.

“Yeah,” he said, and stood up.

“Wait for a break,” Myra warned him, “then toss the lot in his face. You make a mess of that, an' you an' me won't last long.”

Gurney nodded his head. His hands were shaking, but he was cooling down.

Myra pulled off her dress. She ran her hands through her hair, mussing it Gurney pulled her to him. He could smell her, the acid odour of sweat and the woman of her. She pulled his head down to her mouth, forcing herself against him. They stood like that for several moments, straining to each other. Then Myra broke away from him, and stumbled over to the bed. Her face was dazed with the desire for him.

Gurney said between his teeth, “Start squawkin'.” He wanted to get this over.

Myra began to scream—high-pitched screams that jarred Gurney's nerves. She stopped for a moment, then, when they heard the bolt slide back with a crash in Dillon's room, she started again.

Gurney shouted, “Shut up!”

“Get out... get out!” she screamed at him.

Dillon said from the door, “What the hell's goin' on?”

Gurney jerked his head. “She's gone nuts!”

Dillon advanced into the room. His face was cold and suspicious. Myra saw the gun in his hand. She sat up in the bed, her eyes wild. “Get him out of here,” she screamed to Dillon, “I won't have him here.”

Dillon said with a little snarl, “Pipe down... what the hell do you think this is?” He turned his head and looked at Gurney. “You better get out of this. If you gotta lay this bitch, why the hell didn't you knock her cold first? Suppose some car passed an' came up to see what was wrong? You two screwy or somethin'?”

Myra got off the bed. She kept the knife behind her back. She said in a frightened voice, “You must help me. Please keep this devil out of my room. I know you ain't got much use for me, but I guess you ain't lettin' him get away with this?”

Dillon turned his head to look at her, and Gurney tossed the pepper in his face. Myra threw herself flat. Dillon gave a strangled scream and the gun exploded at his side. Gurney made a dive for the door. He wanted to get the Thompson. He blundered into Dillon's room. It was dark in there, lit only by a flickering candle. He couldn't see the Thompson anywhere. He swore as he rushed round the room, feverishly turning things over, pulling out drawers, and groping in dark corners. Every moment he expected to feel the cold barrel of the gun, and his terror grew as his questing hands found nothing.

There was a fearful commotion of Dillon's screams and the gun going off outside. Gurney, sobbing with panic, ran back to the door again. He almost ran into Dillon, who was stumbling across the outer room, one hand over his eyes, the other holding the gun waist-high. Gurney ducked back, hastily squeezing himself behind the door. Dillon fired once. The bullet sent a spurt of splinters from the wall. He came into the room and stood listening.

Gurney held his breath. He was scared all right. Dillon groped his way across to the bed. Gurney let him go past, then he leapt forward, driving his knees into Dillon's back. The two went down with a crash. Gurney screamed for Myra to come.

The gun shot out of Dillon's hand and slid under the bed. Gurney could feel the heat from Dillon's body. They were both sweating with fear.

Arching his back, Dillon shot Gurney over his head, and then grabbed him round the body. He hit Gurney twice with his fists, as if he were driving a nail into wood. They both caught Gurney on the chest, driving the wind out of his body. Gurney lashed out with his feet, but in his terror he kicked wild. Dillon came at him again, his lips off his teeth, and a horrible sobbing noise coming deep down from his chest. Gurney took another punch that made him jerk convulsively, and then he slammed his right into Dillon's face.

Myra came running in. She stood in the doorway, the knife held before her, waiting for a chance to get at Dillon. The two men rolled over, away from her, into a dark corner. She sprang forward and caught up the candle, holding it above her head.

“Kill him, Nick!” she shrilled. “Get after him... don't let him get away!”

Gurney made a desperate effort to break away from Dillon, but Dillon was too strong for him. They crashed against the wall. One of Dillon's hands groped for Gurney's face, hooked fingers questing for his eyes. Gurney yelled and jerked his head back. Pinning Gurney with his knees, Dillon heaved up. Myra saw the broad shoulders suddenly coming up out of the shadow. She ran forward, holding the candle in her left hand, and drove the knife down hard.

The light warned Dillon. He let go of Gurney and threw himself backwards, crashing into Myra. The candle fell to the floor and went out. Myra went over heavily. The breath in her body rushed out of her throat as she hit the boards. She felt a hand close round her ankle. Screaming wildly, she kicked out furiously with her free foot. Twice she kicked Dillon's head, but he kept on. He dragged her close and his hands gripped her thighs, his fingers like steel hooks, driving into the flesh and muscle. The agony of his grip made Myra scream again. She twisted forward, her fists beating him like flails. Still he kept that grip, digging his nails deeper and deeper into her.

“Nick... for God's sake...!” Myra screamed.

Gurney heaved out of the darkness and smashed down on both of them. Myra got a hard knock from his arms as he came down. The paralysing grip on her legs loosened as, swearing in great gasping breaths, Dillon grabbed at Gurney again. Myra rolled clear. The cold blade of the knife touched her hand and she seized it by the handle.

Gurney yelled, “I got him... quick... Myra quick!”

She ran into the darkness towards the sound of the struggle. Her shins struck their bodies and she fell on top of them.

Gurney panted out of the darkness, “Get him... for Christ's sake... I can't... hold him.”

Myra kept her head. She lay flat on the two struggling bodies. Her hand groped in the dark and touched a face. The two men heaved up, nearly throwing her clear.

A muffled voice mumbled, “He's underneath... get him.” And blindly she thrust down with the knife. She heard a sigh and the struggling suddenly ceased.

“Don't leave him... Nick...” Myra gasped to Gurney. “Hold him.” Her hand still held the horn shaft of the knife; she pulled it out, and then, moving the point a little way up, she shoved down hard again on the handle.

She stabbed four times before she was satisfied. Then she rolled away and got shakily to her feet. There was a heavy silence in the darkness She said uneasily. “You all right, “Nick?”

A burning, claw-like hand gripped her wrist, twisting it sharply, so that the knife fell with a little clatter on the boards. “You've killed him, you silly little cow,” Dillon said in her ear.

Myra screamed once. Then her body stiffened with terror. “Don't touch me... don't touch me!” she moaned, trying to free her wrist.

She heard Dillon's foot touch the knife and kick it away. Then he let go of her and struck a match. With red, streaming eyes he looked at her in the dim flicker of the light.

“Stay still,” he said through his teeth. “You make a move an' I'll smash you.”

She remained motionless, one shaking hand at her mouth, while he walked stiffly to the lamp and lit it. Her eyes left him and turned slowly to Gurney, lying in the shadow. A narrow ribbon of blood ran from Gurney towards her, twisting like a snake across the rough boards. Still she could not move. The blood ran close to her feet, and she followed its course with eyes wide with horror.

Dillon pushed the door closed and mopped his eyes with his shirt-sleeve. His chest still heaved a little, and his face was set in granite-like lines.

“You dumb little bitch,” he said, “what you thinks goin' to happen to you now?”

Myra jerked her eyes from Gurney. She looked at him, suddenly sensing her danger. “He made me do it...” she began; “he made me—”

Dillon sneered. “That hick wouldn't've started anythin' like that. He ain't got the guts. You put him up to it; ain't that the way it went? You said 'Kill him', an' the louse just went ahead. I got you lined up. You bashed Butch. You're a little hell-cat. Well, I guess you an' me are goin' to understand each other.”

He walked over to her slowly. She backed away, throwing out her hands and shaking her head at him in her terror.

“Don't kill me...” she implored. “Don't... do... it!...” Her voice went shrill.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist, jerking her close. His inflamed eyes made her shrink back. “I've changed my mind about you,” he said. “You've got what it takes, so I guess you can string along with me. I always could use a broad like you. When I pick a moll she's got to be tough, an' I reckon that goes for you. Now do you get it? You an' me are goin' to work together. You're doin' what I tell you. I'm the boss, an' you're yessing your goddam guts out.”

Myra said quickly, “I'll do anythin'.”

Dillon took her arm and led her out of the room. She went with him, keeping her eyes from the still body that had now ceased to bleed. Dillon took her into her room again. He said quietly, “Wait here.” He went out, leaving her standing shivering by the bed. There was something terrifying in his cold, ruthless face. She just stood, her hands hanging at her sides, and her eyes blank.

Dillon came back again. He brought with him the thin steel rod they used to clear the stove. Myra looked at it and then suddenly came to life. Her hands shot up to her face. “What are you doin' with that?” she gasped, pushing herself against the wall, as if trying to force her body through the plaster.

“You gotta learn some sense, ain't you?” Dillon said, moving softly towards her. “I guess a good bashin' with this will get your ideas workin' right.”

Myra screamed, “Don't!... Don't!... Don't!...”

Dillon shifted his feet a little, then swung his fist. He hit her in her mouth, banging her head back with a crash against the wall Her eyes rolled up, and she went down Dillon kicked her over on her face, then, putting his boot on her neck, pinning her to the floor, he slashed down at her with the rod.

Off Bunker Avenue, within smelling distance of the Kansas City Stockyards, Miss Benbow ran a dress shop. It was the kind of shop you'd go to if your last nickel was a phoney, and you were anxious to have some excuse to scratch yourself.

Miss Benbow was a big negress. She'd got a smile like a split pumpkin, and if you looked hard enough at her when she pulled that grin you'd see it never reached her eyes. She made a lot of money, but not from the shop. If you asked her when her last sale had been she couldn't've told you. Her memory wasn't that long.

At the back of the shop, up a flight of dirty narrow stairs, she ran a flop-house. At one time or another she had given guys like Karpis, or Barker or Frank Nash, a shake-down while the cops were looking for them. Miss Benbow was safe. The cops left her alone. Some said she'd got a hold on the Police Commissioner. Anyway, the police let her alone, and that was good enough.

The two, Myra and Dillon, came to Miss Benbow at sight. The rain fell lightly on the glistening pavements, and the soft mist from the river was for the moment washed away. They came out of the night, Dillon walking softly, looking over his shoulder suspiciously from time to time. He was conscious of his new clothes, and the weight of the Thompson lying at the bottom of his big grip. ;

Myra stepped down the wet flags, her wooden heels tapping their challenge. She held her head up, delighting in the soft caress of silk against her skin. Dillon had done things to her in a short time. For the first time in her life she knew what it meant to have a man around. She no longer had to urge or suggest. She was told what to do and she obeyed blindly.

She glanced at Dillon, seeing his powerful shoulders and his thick, muscular neck. A little flame flickered through her. She wanted him. She wanted him to take her brutally, to bruise her in the taking of her.

They had been two nights on the journey, moving cautiously forward towards Kansas City. She had spent two nights of sick disappointment with him. He had treated her coldly, sharing the same room with her, but not touching her.

Dillon disturbed her thoughts abruptly. “This is it,” he said.

They stopped outside the dress shop. The place was in gloomy darkness.

“This joint is good,” Dillon said, speaking out of the side of his mouth. “All the boys come here.”

He located a bell-push at the top of the door and pressed. They could hear the sharp whir somewhere at the back of the building. They waited there in the rain like statues.

Miss Benbow came and opened the shop door herself. She blocked the entrance with her great body. “My!” she said. “Ain't you made a mistake?”

Dillon said distinctly, “It's mighty hot round here. I guess it's cooler inside.”

Miss Benbow looked at them suspiciously. “Where you from?” she snapped.

Dillon growled, “Suppose we come in an' talk? I'm gettin' wet.”

The negress hesitated, then stepped to one side. “Come in,” she said.

They stepped into the dark shop and waited in the darkness until Miss Benbow had shot the bolt, then she turned on the electric light, and they blinked at her.

“Now then,” she said suspiciously, “where you from?”

“Plattsville,” Dillon said.

“Who sent you here?”

Dillon said softly, “You heard of a guy called Nelson?”

Miss Benbow nodded. “Sure,” she said, “I knew Nelson.”

Dillon pushed his hat back. “Okay: I toted a rod for Nelson. I'm Dillon.”

Miss Benbow moved uneasily. “I guess most of Nelson's boys are dead,” she said.

“This one ain't.” Dillon grinned mirthlessly. “We want a room an' some grub.”

Miss Benbow hesitated, then she said, “Fifty bucks a day.”

Myra said, “For Gawd's sake... this ain't the Belmont Plaza.”

Dillon broke in sharply. “Shut up! We're floppin' in this joint... who's payin', anyway?”

“Let's see your money.” Miss Benbow held out her hand. There was a cold look in her eyes.

Dillon grinned wolfishly. He pulled out his roll and let Miss Benbow feast her eyes on it. She drew her thick lips off her teeth. There was plenty of grease in that smile of hers. “Like the look of that?” he said.

Miss Benbow said, “You can have a room all right. I guess I want a week's rent now, mister.” Her voice was well shot with oil.

Dillon stripped some notes off the roll and slung them on the table. Miss Benbow picked up the money and counted it carefully. Then she jerked her head. “I'll take you up,” she said.

They followed her up a narrow stairway to a big landing that could have been a lot cleaner. There were four doors leading on to the landing. She plodded over to the farthest one and unlocked it.

“How's this?” she said.

The room was big. Two beds divided by a small table faced the window. The carpet was thick, and the chairs overstuffed. It looked good to Myra after Butch's shack.

“This'll do fine,” she said.

Miss Benbow shot her a contemptuous look. Her eyes rolled inquiringly at Dillon.

“Yeah,” Dillon said, dumping the suitcases down. “What about some chuck? My belly's flappin'.”

Miss Benbow put another pound of grease in her smile. She could well afford to feed these two. “I'll send somethin' up right away,” she said, “you bet.”

When she had pulled the door to after her Myra shot a look at Dillon. “You're playin' a fancy hand, ain't you?” she said. “Fifty bucks a day! That's some dough.”

“Pipe down,” Dillon said coldly. He gave her a hard look. “Can't you use your head? This joint means a lot to me. I can meet the big shots here.... I gotta hunch I can pull somethin' big... ain't that worth payin' for?”

He tossed his fedora on a hook on the door and walked over to Myra. They looked at each other.

“I've been out of this game too long,” he said, speaking very slowly, choosing his words. “I gotta get an in before I get goin'.”

Myra put her hand on his sleeve. “You're goin' to be the biggest shot of them all.” There was a soft yielding tone in her voice.

Dillon curled his lip. “Yeah?” he said. “Who says?”

Her face, no longer the face of an adult child, was hard with determination to the point of ruthlessness. “I say so. You're goin' to show all these little mobsters just where they get off. You're gonna think an' act big. No one must get in your way... you understand that? No one must get in your way.” She spoke slowly, emphasizing every word.

Dillon reached out and gripped her arms. His steel-like fingers bit into her muscles and she suddenly went weak inside for him. “You got it right the first time,” he said. “And you're trailin' along right behind me.” He paused, then went on, “Thought of the cops?”

She laughed at him. “What did Nelson do with the cops? He'd enough dough to straighten things. Didn't he get protection? Okay, that's what you're goin' to get.”

Dillon shook his head wisely. “Sure he got protection—an' look at him now. They dug twenty-four slugs outta that guy when they put him on the slab.”

“G-men,” Myra said tersely. “You ain't got any worry. You keep clear of the G-men an' you'll be okay.”

Yeah I'll keep clear of the G-men.” There was a hard note of menace in his voice.

A knock sounded on the door. They stiffened, then Dillon said crossly, “Relax, can't you?” He went over to the door and jerked it open.

A tall, thin girl, with heavily rouged cheeks, was standing there holding a large tray, covered with a cloth. “Miss Benbow sent this up.” She had a nasal whine that put Myra's teeth on edge.

Dillon stood back and let her in. Myra looked her over. The girl glanced at Dillon wide-eyed, and put down the tray. She again looked at Dillon, a sly side-look with a strong line of “come hither” in it. She went out, swinging her hips a little.

Dillon kicked the door shut. “I guess that street pushover thinks she's good,” he said.

Myra took the cloth off the tray. “I guess dames don't mean much to you,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

Dillon shrugged. “The reason why a dame don't mean a thing is because they toss it in your face. The way most of 'em carry on, you'd think it wore out.”

Myra put her hands on the table and examined her nails.

She said, without looking up at him, “They could give a guy like you a pretty good time.”

Dillon turned and stared at her. “That's what you think,” he said, a faint sneer on his mouth. “I think different.”

He sat down at the table and began to eat hungrily.

Across the landing, behind a locked door, Roxy was having breakfast. The Kansas City Times was propped up against the coffee-pot, and he read it carefully as he ate.

Fanquist still lay in bed, her flaxen hair spread out on the pillow, a cigarette in her lips. She watched Roxy sleepily.

“A blue-nosed bishop is puttin' up a squawk about the number of unfortunate women he's been runnin' into lately on Main Street. Says it's a disgrace,” Roxy announced with a grin. “What you think, Fan?”

“Search me,” she said with a Southern drawl. “Maybe he forgot his dough, or maybe he's got beyond it.”

Roxy shook his head. “Those guys never get beyond it,” he said. “I guess he hadn't any dough. And listen to this, Fan; Some guy found his wife two-timin' an' set about her with a meat-cleaver. There's a picture of the guy here... wantta see it?”

Fanquist shook her head. “I don't like horrors... lay off it, will you?”

Roxy tossed the paper on the floor. He finished his coffee and lit a cigarette. “Got any ideas for today?” he asked hopefully.

“I'm havin' a finger-wave.” Fanquist stretched her arms and yawned. “Ten o'clock. It'll take the best part of two hours... meet me for lunch?”

Roxy nodded. “Yeah, I'll do that,” he said. “I'll pick you up at Verotti's.”

A tap came at the door. Roxy looked over at Fanquist, his eyebrows raised. Then he put his hand inside his coat and loosened the gun in its holster. “Who is it?” he asked.

“It's okay,” came Miss Benbow's hoarse whisper.

“What the hell does she want?” Roxy said, walking to the door and jerking it open.

Miss Benbow came in. Her white teeth glittered like piano keys. Roxy shut the door and turned the key again. “What's the trouble?” he asked, tossing the cigarette-butt into the fireplace.

Miss Benbow nodded to Fanquist. “You've got neighbours,” she said. “They're new... I ain't seen 'em before.”

Roxy looked a little startled. “They okay?” he asked sharply.

“I guess so,” Miss Benbow said. “They knew how to get in. He's called Dillon.”

“Dillon? Why, that guy's been out of the game for a long time. You remember Dillon?” Roxy looked over at Fanquist.

“Sure, I remember hearin' of him. A mean guy. A guy who don't smoke or drink or have a girl is a mean guy.”

Roxy grinned. “That's what you say.”

Miss Benbow moved a little restlessly. “There's something about those two I don't like. The broad is just a kid, but she's bad. She's got a cold little face that I wouldn't like to wake up an' find on my pillow. The guy's big an' tough. He makes me uneasy.”

Fanquist looked interested. “This guy, is he handsome?”

Roxy laughed. “You oughtta have a cold bath, Fan,” he said. “Ain't she a hot momma?”—to Miss Benbow.

Miss Benbow grinned some more. “I like to see it,” she said. “There're too many cold-blooded broads around to please me.”

Fanquist pouted. “Come on, you big lump,” she said. “Don't keep a girl waitin'. What's he like?”

Miss Benbow nodded her head. “Sure, sure,” she said. “He's got it all. Dressy kind of a guy. Big, strong and hard. Good in bed, he'd be.”

Fanquist looked over at Roxy. “Ain't you jealous?” she asked.

Roxy grinned. “Sure I am... I'm burnin' up.”

“I'd leave that guy alone,” Miss Benbow cautioned. “That little bag don't look like she'd stand for much interference.”

Fanquist shrugged. “Aw! To hell with her,” she said. Then, glancing at the clock, she dragged off the bedclothes. “My Gawd!” she said. “I gotta get my hair fixed at ten.”

Miss Benbow moved to the door. “I figgered you'd like to hear about those two,” she said.

Roxy nodded. “I'll look 'em over.”

He sat down in the overstuffed chair and watched Fanquist dress. “You ain't in such a goddam hurry you can't wash,” he said, when she started to pull her clothes on.

She took no notice. She adjusted the straps of her hold-up. Roxy looked with raised, eyebrows. “You be careful,” he said. “Some guy's going to trip over your chest one of these days.”

Fanquist giggled. “The things you say,” she said, doing things to her face.

Roxy switched his mind. “I guess I'll take a gander at those two,” he said, picking his teeth with a match-end. “Maybe they'll be interestin'.”

“Watch yourself with the broad,” Fanquist warned him. “I'll hook her eyes out if she starts on you.”

“Okay,” Roxy waved his hand. “You know me. I ain't got the strength to take on two dames at once. You watch Dillon.”

She paused at the door. “Say, if these two ain't dumb, bring 'em along to Verotti's. They might amuse me.”

Roxy nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “if they are bright I'll do that.”

Fanquist shut the door behind her and ran downstairs. Roxy picked up the paper again and studied the police news.

Roxy was a heistman. He wasn't very spectacular, but he made a nice living on the side. He specialized in car hold-ups. Gangdom considered him smart, and they had a certain respect for him. He had kept clear of the cops, he'd never been mugged or finger-printed, and he wasn't a killer. His stick-ups brought him in on the average a grand a week, and he was doing pretty well for himself.

Fanquist helped towards the weekly contribution by dipping pockets. She seldom came back without a piece of jewellery or a pocket-book in her bag.

Roxy and Fanquist had teamed up about eighteen months ago. They liked each other well enough, but there was no real affection there. Fanquist thought he was a bit of a wop, and Roxy considered she was a little tramp. They kept their opinions to themselves and broke no bones. They slept together as a matter of physical convenience, and they ate together for company. They shared a room for economy, and they got on pretty well.

When Roxy had finished the newspaper he got up, put on a black fedora, looked himself over in the long wall-mirror, and sauntered on to the landing. He took a packet of gum from his pocket and peeled off the wrapper, then he put the gum in his mouth and clamped on it thoughtfully. All the time he did this he was listening.

He knew it would be dangerous to tap on the door; he remembered hearing things about Dillon. He'd seen a guy take some hot lead through his belly, just tapping on doors. He leant up against the doorway and waited, hoping someone would come out. He waited some little time, then he shrugged his shoulders. He went back to his room, leaving his door open.

The big Spanish guitar gave him an idea. He reached over and began playing. He went right into the Prologue of Pagliacci. Roxy had a smooth voice; a nice rich tenor. With the Prologue he knew he was good. He could reach the E Flat and he could swell up on it until the windows rattled. He liked tossing this high stuff off, but Fanquist wouldn't stand for it.

He guessed no dame would remain long behind a door with this hot Italian stuff going on, and he was right. Myra put her head round the door and came out.

Roxy wallowed in the sobs, made himself miserable with the last bars, then closed down hurriedly with a few showy chords.

He grinned at Myra. “I bet you thought it was a cat-fight.”

She stood looking at him admiringly. “Say, that was swell,” she said.

“You like it?” He tried to look surprised. “That's just classic stuff. Wantta hear me do 'Stormy River'?”

She nodded, her hands clasped in front of her. Roxy thought she was easy on the eye. Her figure was subtle, not like Fanquist's curves that reached out and tried to snap at you. Her big eyes made Roxy glad that she couldn't read his mind. He ran his fingers over the strings. Roxy could certainly handle that guitar.

Out came Dillon. His face was cold and suspicious. Roxy nodded to him, but kept on playing, then he began to sing. It wasn't for nothing he had listened to every record Bing Crosby had ever made. Roxy hadn't enjoyed himself so much for years.

He finished off with a real tricky ending, and put the guitar down on the couch. “Come on in,” he said: “I guess I owe you two a drink.”

Myra walked in quite at ease. She sat down on the arm of the couch and looked round the room. Dillon leant against the doorway. He watched Roxy closely.

Myra thought Roxy looked like George Raft. She liked him. He didn't strike her as being a big shot, but she thought he'd do to be getting on with.

Roxy fixed three highballs and passed them round. Dillon put his glass on the table, shaking his head.

Roxy raised his eyebrows. “What's wrong with it?”

Dillon said sourly, “I don't use it.”

Myra said, “Come on in an' shut the door—there's a draught.”

Dillon came in and shut the door. There was a second's silence. Then Myra and Roxy started to speak. They looked at each other and laughed. “I'm Myra... this is Dillon,” she said.

Roxy nodded. “I'm pleased to know you both. I guess you two wouldn't be here if you weren't in the game.”

Dillon said coldly, “What's your racket?”

Roxy took a pull at his glass. He glanced at Myra. “I'm known as Roxy around here,” he said. “Maybe we'd better get more acquainted before we get down to rackets.”

Dillon shrugged. “That don't suit me,” he said. “You may act dumb, but I bet you know who I am, so I guess a little info from you might ease things.”

Roxy tipped his hat over his eyes. This guy had a mean look, he thought. He tried to remember some of the things he had heard about him. It was too long ago. He could only remember he was a killer.

“Sure,” he said at last, “I know you. I guess I'm just in a small way. My line's stickin' up cars. I make a little dough now an' then. My girl's a dip.”

A sneer went across Dillon's face. Real small-time stuff, he thought. “I gotta get back into the racket,” he said. “I've been out too long.”

Roxy went over and lay on the couch. He studied his cloth-top boots. He had very small neat feet, and he liked to admire them. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess you're forgotten.”

Dillon flashed a look at Myra—signalling her to be quiet. He said, “I wantta contact someone big.”

“I like you two,” Roxy said thoughtfully, “so I'll deal it off the top deck. You don't stand a chance 'musclin' in on anything big in this burg until you got yourself a reputation again. The old mobs are washed up and the new crowd just think there's no one who can show 'em anythin'. You try to horn in there an' you're goin' to run into plenty of grief.”

Myra said in a quiet voice, “Well, that's talkin'.”

Roxy looked up and grinned. “Sure, that's the way it is, sister. You gotta go slow, see? I can give you an openin' here and there. I'd be glad to, but you gotta build your set-up slow.”

Dillon said, “We're as good as the rest of the punks in this dump.” The cold light in his eyes escaped Roxy.

Roxy rambled on: “You ain't met the big shots yet,” he said. “I've been in the racket for ten years, an' I'm glad not to know them, see? The big shots stick out, an' they're the first to get their ears slapped down. You gotta get protection, an' you've gotta pay for it, if you're a big shot. You get G-heat smeared over you. Look at Floyd an' Bailey an' Nash or any of 'em, They're on the nun an' they'll keep on the run. I ain't got anythin' to worry about, I'm smart.” Again he missed the look in Dillon's eyes.

The telephone whirred suddenly, startling them. Roxy got off the couch and took the receiver off the cradle. A husky voice came over the wire. “There're a couple of hard-lookin' guys casin' the street. I guess they're Feds. They're headin' your way.”

Roxy said, “Thanks, pal,” and put the receiver back. He looked at the other two. “You better park your rods,” he said quietly. “A couple of Federal dicks are on their way up.”

Dillon got to his feet quickly and silently. “They got nothin' on me,” he said.

Roxy pulled his coat away from his shoulder-holster and undid the buckle. He slipped off the harness. “If you got a rod, you better park it,” he said; “these guys get tough if they catch you toting a gun.”

Myra said in a little flurry of panic, “Where can we hide them?”

Roxy walked over to the fireplace and knelt down. He pushed the tiled hearth back like a drawer and dropped his gun into the narrow hollow beneath. “The old girl's got this in every room. Use it.”

Dillon left the room and went to his apartment. He collected his two guns and the Thompson and stowed them away. He came back silently. “What's the idea?” he snarled. “I thought this place was okay?”

Roxy nodded. “Sure it's okay. You can't keep the Feds outta any place. The bulls leave it alone, but not the Feds. You ain't wanted by no G-man, are you?” There was sharp anxiety in his voice.

Dillon didn't say anything. He stood by the table, a little tense. With eyes like chips of ice he stared at Roxy. The expression in his eyes quite startled Roxy.

Myra broke in. “I guess not,” she said.

Roxy relaxed. “Okay, just you go on drinkin' an' say nothin'. I'll do the talkin' if there's any talkin' to be done.”

“Hell!” Dillon said savagely. “That black cow's goin' to lose some of her rent. She's nuts thinkin' I'm payin' all that dough, when the Feds can come in here.”

Roxy nodded his head. “Sure,” he said. “I guess she's been stringin' you along. You fix her. It's been comin' to her for a long time.”

Suddenly they heard a commotion going on downstairs. They stiffened involuntarily. “Here they come,” Roxy said, putting his feet up on the couch. “Now don't let those guys stampede you. They'll try all right.”

They could hear Miss Benbow protesting on the stairs. They, heard her say, “You dicks ain't got anythin' on me. You can't come bustin' in like this. I tell you this is a respectable house.”

Someone said in a gritty voice. “Take it easy, Coon, we're just lookin' the place over.”

A heavy step sounded outside then the door was kicked open. The three in the room turned their heads and looked. Dillon was cool, but Myra's nerves were jumpy. Two big men stood in the doorway, their eyes watchful. Dillon thought they looked a couple of real tough birds.

“Hello, boys,” Roxy said from the couch. He kept his hands in his lap. “I guess you ain't lookin' for me?”

One of them wandered into the room, leaving the other by the door. He said. “Get up when you talk to me.”

Roxy got up quickly and took off his hat. He looked hard at the Federal and grinned a little uneasily. “Why, if it ain't Mr. Strawn,” he said. “Ain't seen you for a long time.”

Strawn went over to him and patted his pockets. “Where's your rod?” he asked.

Roxy shrugged his shoulders. “You got me wrong,” he said. “I don't tote a rod. You know me, boss; I wouldn't do a thing like that.”

Strawn said, “That line don't get you nowhere, so lay off it.”

He looked at Dillon. Then he glanced over to the other dick. “Seen this monkey before?” he asked.

The other dick shook his head.

Strawn walked over to Dillon. “Who're you an' what you doin' around here?”

Dillon looked at him impassively. “Just havin' a drink with a pal of mine,” he said. “What's wrong with that?”

Strawn looked him over, his face hardening. “Where you from?” he snapped.

Dillon shot a look at Myra. Strawn swung his fist. He smacked Dillon on the jaw. Dillon was off balance—he went over with a thud.

Roxy yelled, “Don't start anything!” His eyes were popping.

Dillon looked up at Strawn, his eyes black with hate. He came slowly to his feet, rubbing his jaw with his hand. Beyond the look in his eyes he remained impassive.

Strawn said, “Listen, you melon-headed monkey, when I ask you somethin' you answer quick Where are you from an' what's your name?”

The other dick looked bored, but he had got a gun in his hand.

Dillon said between his teeth, “I'm from Plattsville. Name's Gurney... Nick Gurney.”

Myra stood very still. She put her hand to her mouth.

“Just a big farmer's hick, huh?” Strawn sneered. “Well, listen, hayseed, you better keep outta this town. We don't like punks like you. You better go right back to Plattsville an' stay there. Do you get it?”

Dillon just stood there hating him with his eyes. Strawn clenched his fists. “Answer me, will you? By heck! You get snotty with me, you goddam bohunk, an' I'll tear your guts out an' beat you to death with 'em!”

Dillon said, “I get you.”

Strawn looked Myra over. “Well, sister, an' who're you?” he asked, eyeing her thoughtfully.

“I'm his wife,” Myra said quietly. She put a lot of personality into her look.

Strawn shook his head. “This ain't no place for a kid like you to be in. You better get out an' go home. You'll lose a lotta time goin' round with a bum like this.” He jerked his head at Dillon. “Forget him, an', go home to your Ma.”

Myra lowered her eyes. She thought, “The big dumb-mouthed bastard.

Strawn shrugged. “Okay, watch yourselves, you three.” He stepped outside the door and pulled it shut. He said in a low voice to the other dick, “We'll watch that Gurney, he's a bad guy.”

Roxy held his hand up for silence. They sat there staring at the door, listening. It was only when they heard them go downstairs that they relaxed.

Dillon said evenly, “Some day I'll fix that heel. By God! He's got it comin' to him!”

* * *

Verotti's was a dive off Twenty-second Street, near the Union Station. Fanquist had a table in the corner. She was drinking a rye highball.

When Roxy came in with Dillon and Myra she waved excitedly to them. Roxy came up to the table and waved his hand. “This is Myra and Dillon,” he said. “They've got a room across the way.”

Fanquist had eyes only for Dillon. “What a hot-looking man!” she said. “Am I pleased to meet you, or am I?”

Myra's face was cold. She sat down next to Fanquist, trapping her against the wall. Dillon sat opposite, with Roxy at his side.

Myra said, “It's grand to run into a guy like Roxy. He's been a real pal.”

Fanquist shot her a quick look. “Say,” she said, swiveling round so that she faced Myra, “what are you doin' away from your Ma? Hey, hot man, you're baby-snatching. That ain't right.”

Myra's eyes glinted. “Don't embarrass him,” she cut in quickly. “He likes 'em young. This guy ain't got time for broads who've got the grass worn off... you ask him.”

Fanquist leant against the wall. “Smart kid, huh?” she said, two bright-red spots on her cheeks. “Grass worn off, huh? That's a nice crack from a kid.”

Myra turned her head. “Don't we do anythin' around here but talk?”

A waiter shuffled up and they ordered drinks. Roxy sat with his hat over his eyes, grinning to himself. Nothing pleased him more than to listen-in to two women clawing each other.

Fanquist leant over the table towards Dillon. “I bet you know some hot spots in this town,” she said.

From where he sat Dillon could look down the neck of her dress. He lifted his eyes and gave his hard stare. Fanquist suddenly felt a little cold. She sat back hurriedly.

Dillon said, “We thought maybe we might see some of em. We've just blown in.”

Roxy said, “That guy over there's Hurst.”

They looked across at a table in the middle of the room. A big blond man was drinking by himself. He wore his neat dark suit well. There was an air of money and importance about him.

Dillon said, “Who's Hurst?”

Fanquist laughed. “You do say things!” she said. “That guy's tops just now. He runs most of the big rackets round here.”

“That so?” Dillon looked Hurst over again. “A big shot, huh?”

Roxy nodded. “Yeah, he's a big shot all right.”

Myra said, “Maybe you know him?”

Roxy looked blank. “Hey!” he said. “What you think? I said this guy was a big shot. He don't mix with guys like you an' me.”

Fanquist said in her slow drawl, “Maybe the kid fancies her chance.”

Myra said, “Why not? He's just a guy, ain't he?”

Fanquist sneered. “Hurst don't play with kids,” she said. “When that guy takes a woman he takes a woman.”

Myra pushed back her chair. “I'll show you how I take a guy like that,” she said.

Roxy said quickly, “Don't you start anythin' like that. Hurst's a tough bird. He don't like stunts like that.”

Myra paused. “I'm interested in that guy,” she said.

“You're interested because he's got somewhere. But the trouble with those guys is they don't stay that way long.”

“No?”

“No. Hurst won't stay much longer. He's been in the racket too long.”

Myra took a sip from her glass. Her eyes were cloudy. “He looks big enough to take care of himself,” she said.

Roxy shook his head. “You wait an' see. Little Ernie's gunnin' for him. An' Little Ernie'll get him all right.”

Myra moved restlessly. “Maybe he'll get Little Ernie first,” she suggested.

“You ain't got the lowdown to this burg.” Roxy spun his glass between his finger and thumb. “Hurst runs the Automatic racket. He's been makin' a pile of dough for some time. Little Ernie runs the Cat shops. He's in a big way too. That's the set-up. For years these guys ain't overlapped. They've made their pile outta their rackets an' kept to their side of the town. These guys are never contented, see? Maybe they pick up a couple of million bucks a year. Good money? Not to these guys. They want more. They've got big overheads. They've got a long list of retainers to pay off. So they always want more.”

Myra said softly, “A couple of million bucks?”

Roxy nodded. “Sure, that ain't so much to guys like that,” he said. “Hurst is startin' somethin'. He's expandin'. He's pushin' into Little Ernie's territory. That wop won't stand for that. Hurst says it's okay. Automatics can't hurt Little Ernie's Cat «hops. So he pushes ahead.” Roxy shrugged. “One day, mighty soon, Hurst's goin' to get a handful of slugs tossed into his guts. Then his million bucks ain't goin' to mean a thing.”

Myra lit a cigarette. “Maybe he'll get the wop first,” she said.

“Yeah, maybe he will.”

Fanquist said, “So you ain't taking Hurst after all?”

Myra shook her head. “I'll take him a little later on,” she said.

Fanquist got up. “I guess we'd better get goin',” she said to Roxy. “I gotta job of work to do.”

Roxy pushed his chair away and nodded Jo Myra. “We'll be seein' you.”

Fanquist turned to Dillon and gave him one of her 'any-time-you-say-so' smiles.

“Bye, big boy,” she said. “Don't let this babe get too many big ideas.”

Dillon grunted.

Myra watched them go. “That little curdle-puss thinks she's smart,” she said furiously. “She'd better keep her claws off you.”

Dillon sat back. “You've got a lot to worry about, ain't you?” he sneered.

Hurst snapped his fingers, calling the waiter. He paid his check and got up. Myra watched him walk across the room and go into the street. Two tough-looking birds, sitting by the door, got up and followed him. Through the doorway she saw them get into a big powerful car and drive off.

Dillon said, “That guy might get me somewhere.”

Myra said softly, “You don't need guys like that. You can get sky-high playin' solo.”

“Yeah?” Dillon sneered. “Suppose you get wise to yourself. We ain't nobody here. Look how that Federal dick shoved me around. Think we're goin' to get anywhere without an in? Not a chance. You keep your trap shut an' let me do the thinkin'. When I run outta ideas I'll give you a buzz. An' believe me, it'll take a long time before I'm screwy enough to take ideas from a dope like you.”

Myra flushed. Her eyes grew stormy, but she didn't start anything. She said, “Maybe a smart lie-down like that Fanquist moll could give you ideas.”

Dillon stared at her. “Your mind runs on one track,” he said. “She don't cut meat with me. You dames are all alike, ain't you? There's nothin' new about you, is there? I've seen it all before... so what the hell?”

Myra thought savagely, “I'll get under his skin one day. I'll fix him.”

Dillon got up. “I'm takin' some air,” he said. “This line of talk gives me a pain in my tail.”

She followed him into the street. The sun was hot, and they walked along, keeping in the shade.

Dillon said, “I gotta get me a car—I guess I'll get it now.”

“A car?” Myra was startled. “Where's the dough comin' from?”

“Suppose you keep your mind on your bed and your nose outta this?” Dillon snarled at her.

Off the main street they found a large garage with a dilapidated showroom, full of second-hand cars. A tall, thin guy, with a bobbing Adam's apple, came out and nodded to them.

“I'm pleased to meet you,” he said. “Mabley's the name, an' if you're lookin' for a good bus you've come to the right joint.”

Dillon said, “We're lookin', brother, but maybe we won't buy, then, maybe, if we find somethin' good an' cheap, we will.”

Mabley put his thumbs in his trousers pockets and raised himself on his toes. “That's fair enough, mister,” he said. “You look around.” He leant up against the wall and watched them.

Dillon spotted the car right away. It was a big, shabby-looking Packard standing in a corner by itself. It was the only car of the lot that looked as if it could hit a wall at sixty and not dent its fenders.

He didn't go over to it at once, but made a pretence of looking at the others first. Myra followed him around, not saying anything. She left it to him. At last he walked over to the Packard and examined it carefully. He opened the door and got in. The springs were good.

Mabley came over and dusted off the hood with a flick here and there. “You like this one, I bet,” he said.

Dillon got out of the car and leant against the fender. “Maybe we could use it.”

Mabley opened his eyes wide. “Listen,” he said earnestly, “that car's got guts. There's plenty under that hood. Suppose you come for a run an' see?”

Dillon nodded. “Sure,” he said, “I don't mind givin' you a break if it will hold together.”

Mabley ran his hands through his hair. “If it will hold together... you'll see.”

Dillon got under the wheel. “I guess I'll drive,” he said.

The Packard was good. Dillon knew it would be. Out on a good stretch of road he worked it up to eighty-five. It held the road without a roll, and he guessed with a little tuning he could squeeze some more speed out of it.

They drove back to the garage in silence. Mabley was smug with certainty. When Dillon nailed the Packard, and they got out, Mabley said, “Didn't I tell you?... That bus can move.”

Dillon said, “You're right. She's a bit too fast, if anythin'.”

Mabley raised his hands. “Gawd!” he groaned. “Ain't you ever happy?”

Dillon broke in, “Now, come on, we ain't got all day. How much?”

Mabley leant against the fender. “Two thousand bucks, an' it's cheap at the price,” he said.

Dillon stared at Myra. “Did you hear him?” he gasped. “Two thousand bucks for that old heap?”

He turned to Mabley. “We don't want your garage, we want the car, see?”

Mabley shrugged. “I tell you it's cheap,” he said firmly.

Dillon said, “That old can ain't worth more'n eight hundred bucks, an' you know it.”

Mabley said, “Two thousand.”

Myra shrugged. “Let's go,” she said. “This guy's crazy.”

“Maybe he doesn't know his game right. Listen, I'll stretch a point an' buy it from you for a grand.”

Mabley shook his head. “No use to me, mister. It's givin' it away at two.”

Myra wandered away. “Come on, you can see he won't be reasonable.”

Dillon said, “You're right. I guess we'll leave it.” He walked over to where Myra was pretending to examine another car.

Mabley hesitated. “Well, seein' you're sold on this bus, I'll let you have it for nineteen hundred. That's rock bottom.”

Dillon took Myra's arm and walked her to the door. “These small-time traders are nuts,” he said. “Nineteen hundred! What a crack!”

Mabley came after them. “Wait a minute. Don't you be in such a hurry.”

Dillon said, “Forget it. We ain't interested no more.”

Myra cut in sharply, “Fourteen hundred. That's flat.”

Dillon shot her a hard look, but didn't say anything. Mabley scratched his head. “I'll split the difference. I'm cuttin' my own throat, but I guess business is busted to hell these days.”

Dillon wanted that car. He nodded. “Sixteen hundred if you fill the tank an' oil her.”

Mabley looked at him. “You sure are a hard guy,” he said. “But I'll do it.”

“Get her ready in an hour,” Dillon said sharply. “We'll be back.”

They walked out of the garage. Myra started a moan. “This is goin' to knock a hole in our dough.”

Dillon said, “Where do you get this 'our' stuff? We're fillin' the hole up again tonight, so what do you care?”

* * * * *

The Conoco Service station at Bonner Springs was floodlit at night. Two tired attendants relaxed in the office, their ears unconsciously cocked for the sound of a car, ready to snap to attention and come out at a run.

George, a fair-haired boy, thought of his girl-friend. When he wasn't busy his mind dwelt on her, when it wasn't dwelling on how he could make more money. George was a simple hick. He was like thousands of other guys. Two things came uppermost, his girl and money.

Hank, his fellow attendant, lolled across the table. “What's bitin' you, pal?” he asked. “You been lookin' like a bad dream for a coupla hours.”

George heaved a sigh. “Say, you know Edie... What you think's the matter with her?”

Hank scratched his head. “How the hell should I know what's the matter with her?” he said impatiently. “She ain't wearin' the bustle wrong?”

George shook his head. “Not a chance,” he said gloomily. “Maybe we'd get married if it was like that.”

“Then what's biting you?”

“She keeps away from me now... she's cooled off. Now what you think's come over her?”

Hank said with a sudden rush of inspiration, “Suppose you try this soap they're always croakin' about.”

George scowled. “Don't you start to rib me,” he said coldly. “I guess it's the dough that's the trouble. Edie was always keen to have dough. I ain't had a raise for two years now. I guess that's what's makin' her sore.”

Hank said, “It'd be nice to own a joint like this, wouldn't it?” He wandered over to the cash register and rang up “No Sale”. He peered into the drawer, poking the money round with his finger. “I figger we take five hundred bucks a day here.”

“There's more'n that in the can,” George said. “We had a few odd bills settled today.”

“You think it out. I guess a joint like this would be mighty nice to own.”

George nodded. “You're right,” he said.

Outside, a car pulled up. The two jumped to their feet and ran out. The big shabby Packard was parked near the gas-pumps.

Dillon got out. “Any more of you guys inside?” he asked.

The two looked at him in surprise. “Just the two of us,” George said. “We'll take care of the bus all right.”

Dillon raised his hands a little. He was holding the two guns. “Grab some air,” he said viciously, “and get inside.”

The two attendants raised their hands. George went a little wobbly at the knees. He said, “Don't let that gun off, mister.”

“Get inside!” Dillon snapped. “Jump to it!” He backed them into the office. “Stand over there by the wall, and keep your traps shut.”

Myra came in and went over to the register. She rang it open and began scooping the money into a small bag. “Watch closely, boys,” she said. “You're seein' history bein' made.”

Dillon said, “Much there?”

Myra nodded. “It's worth while.” She went through the two drawers and then slammed them to. “Maybe they've got a can round here.”

Dillon said, “Where's the safe?”

Hank nodded miserably. “It's behind the desk,” he said.

“Okay, get it open.”

George unlocked the battered safe, and Myra walked over and peered inside. She scooped up a small wad of notes, pulled two or three ledgers out of the way, and glanced behind them. She straightened up. “That's the lot,” she said.

Dillon went round to the telephone and jerked it away from its cable. “I don't want you boys to start yellin' just yet. We wantta get home safe, see?” He was feeling mighty pleased.

Myra looked them over. “I guess this is your first stick-up?” she said.

George mumbled, “Sure.”

“You're havin' the breaks.” She took a cigarette from her handbag and paused to light it. “You're in swell company. Know who this is?” She jerked her head towards Dillon. “I bet you don't. That guy set fire to the middle west. He's the original twenty-five-minute egg. There'll come a time when you'll tell your grand-kids how you were stuck up by this guy. I sure envy you boys; you gotta story to blow.”

Dillon said, “Get goin', you big-mouthed doll.”

She walked over to the door and Dillon crowded her into the darkness outside. The two attendants stood against the wall, their hands held high.

The Packard shot away and ripped into the darkness. Dillon shoved his gun away. “Suppose you keep that trap of yours shut?” he said from the blackness.

“You ain't got to worry... I'm buildin' you up.”

“If there's any buildin' up, I'm the guy to take care of that,” Dillon returned.

Myra held the wheel. She didn't say anything. Her eyes were intent on the road. As the car lurched to the bends she let her body swing against Dillon. She could feel the hardness of him under his coat, and it sent a flicker through her that made her blood sing in her ears.

This guy was tough, she thought, but he was a man. He had muscles and sinews and she began to ache for contact with him. Dillon, suddenly sensing her physical feeling for him, moved away, leaning well into the corner of the seat. She went limp with her frustrated longing for him.

Back at the apartment, they mounted the stairs silently and shut their door. Myra flicked on the light, walking slowly into the centre of the room, pulling her hat off as she did so, shaking her hair free.

Dillon stood by the door, rubbing his chin. He felt a vague urge towards her, but he ignored it. That urge made him a little uneasy.

Myra emptied the sack on the table and turned the money over with her finger. “Ain't a great deal here,” she said, “but it'll do to get on with.”

Dillon came over and sat down. He counted the money and stacked the notes neatly before him. Myra stood behind him, watching him. When he had finished she reached out and put her hands on his shoulders. The heavy muscles of his back contracted under her touch. She felt the flicker of flame shoot through her again.

He got abruptly to his feet, throwing her hands away. “Cut it out!” he said savagely. “You keep your whore tricks for some other punk.”

She moved towards him. “We can't go on like this,” she said; “you can't share this room with me—”

Dillon reached out his fist and shoved her away. “You heard me,” he said. She caught the unevenness of his voice. “Get into bed, an' shut up!”

She said softly, “Sure, I guess I was only thinkin' of you.”

Dillon turned from her and went over to his bed. He sat down and began to pull off his shoes. Myra stood in the middle of the room and undressed. She took her time. She let each garment fall to the floor until she had nothing on. She stood like that, looking at Dillon, then she turned and got into bed.

For the first time since she had known him she knew that she had made an impression on him. She knew that he was aware of her and she was content to wait for him.

Early next morning they woke with a start. Someone was drumming on their door. Dillon shot out of bed, making a grab for his gun. For a moment Myra was startled and she made to follow him, then she relaxed back on the pillow.

Roxy called from the other side of the door, “It's me.”

Swearing softly, Dillon opened the door.

“What the hell do you want?” he said. “You got me thinkin' the bulls were here.”

Roxy eased his way into the room. He looked a little startled at the sight of Dillon's gun. “I guess I'm sorry about that,” he said. “But you two seen the paper?” His eyes were popping a little.

Myra said from the bed, “Let me see.”

Roxy tossed the paper on to the bed. “Got a big write-up there,” he said. “I guess you two've started already.”

Dillon went over and took the paper from Myra. He read through the account coldly and then tossed the paper back to Myra. “What makes you think that was me?” he asked Roxy quietly.

Roxy didn't like the look in his eyes. He said uneasily, “Why, I just guessed it. None of the mob round here talk big when they pull a job. I just figgered that maybe you had started a new line.”

Dillon walked over to the mirror and examined his beard in the glass. Both Myra and Roxy watched him. He turned his head, so that he could look at them. “It ain't goin' to be the last those rags are goin' to print about me,” he said. “They'll have plenty to print before I'm through.”

During the two weeks that followed Dillon pulled three more hold-ups. He purposely kept them small—a service station and two out-of-the-way stores. He made enough money to be sure of living well for the next few weeks.

Although they shared a room, he did not again give Myra any opportunity of expressing her feelings. He was cold and ruthless to her. She was there to do what he said, and nothing more. Myra was sure of herself. She accepted his indifference and waited. She knew now that he had feelings, and she knew that it was only a matter of time.

Acting on Roxy's suggestion, they moved out of Miss Benbow's and took a small apartment off Grand Avenue.

Roxy thought Strawn might get a line on Dillon. Strawn was no fool, and he was just aching to push someone around. Dillon, one day, would overstep the line and start shooting, Roxy reasoned, and Roxy was not going to be there when Strawn called with the wagon. He reasoned it out carefully with Dillon. “This guy Strawn likes gettin' tough. He ain't got anythin' on you, but that wouldn't stop him lookin' you up an' slappin' your ears down if he hadn't anything better to do. I guess you'd be a lot safer away from this joint.”

Through Roxy's efforts they got another apartment. It had one big advantage of being near the Union Station and having two entrances, and consequently two exits. Also, Roxy pointed out, they were just a block away from the General Hospital, so what more could they want!

A week after they had moved in, Roxy surprised them by a late visit. It was just after eleven o'clock, and Dillon was sitting by the radio reading the newspaper. Myra was practising dance steps at the other end of the room. She broke off to let Roxy in. She had only to take one look at Roxy to see that he was seriously worried. “What's your grief?” she asked him sharply.

Dillon swung round in his chair and stared at him with his hard eyes.

Roxy wandered in and sat on the arm of a chair. He pushed his hat to the back of his head. “I gotta load on my mind,” he said. “You know Hurst?”

Dillon said impatiently, “I know Hurst all right. What's the matter with him?”

“Little Ernie's crowd is after him. He's asked for it an' he's goin' to get it.”

Dillon shrugged. “Why get low? You ain't got to worry about Hurst. Suppose they do iron him out?”

Roxy said, “You don't get it. If Hurst gets knocked there's goin' to be a hell of a stink. The cops'll crack down on everyone they can lay their hands on. Hurst pays 'em plenty, and it's sure goin' to make them mad to have a meal-ticket like that shot to hell.”

Myra said, “What do you mean, crack down?”

Roxy moved a little impatiently. “This guy's a big shot. The papers'll play it to the sky. The cops won't touch little Ernie... he's too big for 'em. They'll go after the small guys like us. They'll hang every goddam frame on us to make a pinch, get it? We'll be the mugs who'll get tossed in the can.”

“You mean all this?” Myra asked.

“For God's sake, of course I mean it. There's only one thing to do an' that's to take a powder quick.”

Dillon got up. His face was cold and set. “No bull's goin' to frame me,” he said. “How the hell do you know they're after him?”

Roxy said, “I heard it from Archer, one of Ernie's boys. He took Fan out last night an' got a little plastered. Fan keeps her ears open; she kidded him along, an' he blew the set-up. They're fixin' him tonight.”

Myra took a step forward. “Tonight?”

Roxy nodded. “Hurst's got a dame he's nuts about. She's the wife of some high-pressure guy in the City. She's scared sick her old man'll get the lowdown on her two-timing. Right; she meets Hurst in an apartment every now an' then. Hurst is crazy enough to go there on his own. I guess he's scared his bodyguard might get talkin'; anyway, when he goes on these outings he goes alone. Ernie's been watching him for weeks, an' he's got this business taped. They're callin' on Hurst and they'll give it to him at the apartment.”

Dillon sprang to his feet. “Get the Tommy,” he said, his words tumbling out of his mouth. “We're certainly goin' to surprise those bums.”

Myra stared at him. Roxy put in quickly, “You goin' to pull Hurst out of this?”

Dillon swung round. “Sure I'm goin' to pull him out of it. It's the chance I've been waitin' for. Listen, Roxy, you use your head. You ain't gettin' anywhere as a solo stick-up artist. You want to get in with Hurst. You come with us. We're gettin' in on the ground floor.”

Roxy shook his head. “Yeah, it's a grand chance all right—for a swell funeral. Little Ernie's mob know how to handle a rod. I ain't riskin' my hide for a punk like Hurst.”

“He's right,” Myra said. “Forget it, can't you?”

Dillon went over and took the Thompson gun out of the cupboard. “Where's this guy meet the dame?” he asked.

“It's a corner place on Seventeenth and Central. Apartment 364.” Roxy moved to the door. He seemed anxious to go. “I guess I'll be movin' along. Take my tip, pack your bags and scram. This burg ain't goin' to be too healthy after they've put this Hurst guy in a wooden overcoat.”

Dillon waited until he had gone, then he wheeled round on Myra. “You're comin',” he snarled at her. “This is our big break. We let Hurst get knocked off an' the bulls'll either make a pinch or run us out. We go down there an' pull Hurst outta this jam an' he's goin' to take notice.”

Myra shook her head. “Forget it,” she said stubbornly. “If you think I'm goin' to stick my neck out an' get it sapped, you're crazy.”

Dillon jerked up the Tommy. The thin barrel pointed directly at Myra. “Listen,” he said evenly. “This is the chance I've been waitin' for. If you think I'm goin' to let a rotten-gutted monkey like you get in my way, you got another think comin'. You back out of this an' I'll make a sieve out of you. Get it? I can go into the street an' get some other punk who's got enough guts to work with me any goddam time I want to. So get this right, now and for keeps. You play ball the way I want it or else...”

The vicious look in his eyes made her mouth go dry. “You ain't got to get mad,” she faltered. “I'll come. I didn't think you felt that way about it, that's all.”

Dillon lowered the gun. “Maybe you'll get into your skull one of these days that when I tell you what to do you do it quick.” His eyes were hard and suspicious.

Myra walked to the door, snatching up her hat and putting it on. “Come on,” she said, “I'm ready.”

In the car, Myra drove rapidly past the George Washington monument, past Union Station and into Main Street. She kept the car steady, threading her way through the traffic, but taking no risks. This was no time to get into an argument with a traffic cop. Dillon sat beside her, the Thompson between his knees, covered by his raincoat.

Myra said, “For God's sake don't wait for these guys to start anythin'. Blast 'em as soon as you see 'em.” She eased the Packard past a tumbledown jaloopy, then went on, “Hurst'll see there ain't a murder rap hangin' on to this.”

Dillon said out of the darkness, “One of these days I'm goin' to shut that trap of yours for good. You talk too much.”

Myra said nothing. Her lips tightened a little, but she kept her temper with an effort. She swung into Eighteenth and stopped the Packard at the corner of Eighteenth and Central Streets. She spilled out of the car quickly. Seventeenth was just a block ahead.

Keeping the Thompson under his coat, Dillon hurried after her. The apartment house was one of those discreet places with everything automatic and no attendants to check who came in or went out.

Myra went over to the row of mail-boxes. She looked over her shoulder at Dillon. “It's on the fourth floor. Suppose we take the elevator to the third an' walk?”

Dillon said, “We walk from here.”

Silently they mounted the stairs. On the third floor two tough-looking birds were lounging against the wall. They looked at Dillon hard, but the two kept on. Myra gave them just a casual glance. Dillon didn't even look at them, but he saw them all right. On the fourth floor no one was about.

A little breathless from the climb, Dillon said, “I guess those two guys are waiting for him down there.”

“What are we goin' to do? Go back an' give it to 'em?”

Dillon shook his head. “Maybe we can tip Hurst off first,” he said. “I'll go up the next set of stairs an' you ring up Hurst. If they come up I'll start somethin'. Mind you drop flat.”

With her heart jumping a little, Myra watched him disappear round the bend of the staircase, then she walked Over to the apartment door and rang the bell. Faintly she could hear the bell ringing. No one came.

She waited there impatiently and rang again. A faint sound behind her made her look round quickly. The two men had come up and were standing at the head of the stairs watching her. She kept her thumb on the bell and looked at them coolly.

One of them, a dark Jew, took two steps forward. “Get away from that door, sister,” he said.

She said, “I don't know what you mean.” Her thumb dug the bell flat.

The Jew came over to her quickly and knocked her hand away. “If you squawk I'll kick your mug in,” he said softly.

Myra backed away a little until her shoulder touched the wall. She stood looking at the Jew, not saying anything.

The other guy moved a little round the bend of the staircase, sliding the gun from his holster.

Dillon, watching them through the banisters, couldn't start anything because of Myra.

The Jew said, “Who are you?”

The other guy broke in, “Where's the punk who came in with you?”

That startled the Jew, who had forgotten about Dillon. He jerked out a gun quickly.

Myra screamed, “Give it to them!” and flung herself flat.

Dillon squeezed on the trigger and the Thompson roared. He held the muzzle high. The stream of lead caught the two like a whip-lash across their faces. Dillon gave them just a short burst, but it was enough.

The Jew stood for a moment, his hands groping out before him. The front of his face had disappeared, leaving just a horrible spongy mess on his shoulders. Myra caught her breath and turned her head quickly.

The Jew fell near her. His body twitched and jerked. The other guy curled up in a corner, the top of his head blown off.

Dillon came down the stairs like a cat. He stood looking at the two incuriously. “You all right?” he called to Myra. She got to her feet, keeping her eyes away from the two. Her face was pale, but her eyes glittered with suppressed rage.

“I rang an' rang,” she said, keeping her voice low. “An' that yellow rat inside didn't come. Those two might have killed me but for you.”

Dillon straightened a little. He went over and beat on the door with the butt of the Thompson. He made a lot of noise. “Open up!” he shouted. “The war's over.”

The door opened an inch or two, and the face of a terrified woman peered at him. She was dressed in an orange wrap, which she clutched tightly to her. Dillon could see her figure sharply outlined beneath the silk. Behind her, his face twitching with terror, stood Hurst. He was holding a heavy gun in his hand. His hair was standing stiffly and his complexion was a dirty muddy colour.

Dillon said, “We've just knocked off these two killers.” He jerked his head to the two bodies. “They're Little Ernie's mob.”

“Who are you?” the woman stammered.

“The name's Dillon—”

“Let him in for God's sake!” Hurst snarled. “We'll have the cops up here in a minute.”

The woman said, “Come in.”

Dillon walked into the apartment, followed by Myra, and the woman hastily closed the door.

Hurst covered Dillon with his gun. “Put that Thompson on the floor,” he said.

Dillon stared at him, shrugged, and put the gun down. He walked a little way past Hurst.

“Come on,” Hurst snapped. “What the hell's going on?”

Dillon said, “Little Ernie's gunnin' for you. He sent those two punks up here. I heard about it and came down quick. That's all.”

Hurst hesitated, then he said, “Wait.” He went over to the telephone and dialled. He stood there, the gun still menacing, waiting for his line to connect. They heard the faint “plop” as someone answered the ring at the other end. Hurst said, “McGovern? Listen, there's been a fight up here an' two of Ernie's boys have run into a lot of grief. Send a wagon an' pick 'em up. This has got to be covered up, see? Just come up quick and get these birds out of here. I'll be along an' do some talking later. I don't want your men asking questions here, do you get all that?” He listened for a moment and then hung up.

He put the gun on the table and lit a cigarette. Myra could see his hand was still shaking. He looked at the woman and jerked his head. “Get dressed quick,” he said. “Maybe the newshounds'll start buzzin'.”

The woman went into the other room and shut the door. Hurst pushed his fingers through his hair and looked at Dillon.

“What's the idea of butting in on my fight?”

Dillon showed his teeth in a mirthless smile. “I guess you ain't so good at lookin' after yourself. Anyway I figgered it's time you an' I got together.”

“You're the guy who's been stickin' up all those service stations, aren't you?” Hurst was watching him closely.

Dillon nodded his head. “Sure,” he said. “I'm figgering to get in with a mob like yours and doin' somethin' in a big way.”

Hurst stared at his fingernails, thinking. He looked up at last. “I guess we might talk this over some time,” he said. “Suppose you look me up tomorrow?”

Dillon said, “Sure, I'll do that.”

Hurst jerked his head to the other door. “I gotta get this girl out of here. I ain't got time to talk to you now. You've done a swell job... don't think I ain't mighty obliged.”

Dillon moved over to the front door. “I'll see you tomorrow,” he said. Myra followed him out.

Coming up the stairs with a rush were two cops. They waved their guns at Dillon. Hurst heard them and came out quickly.

“Let these two through here,” he said. “Those are the stiffs you gotta look after.” He pointed to the two bodies lying on the floor.

The cops stared at Dillon and Myra as they walked past them. Their looks were curious. They hadn't seen these two before.

Dillon kept the Thompson under his coat and walked quickly. He was glad to get into the street. In the car, on the way back, he said, “I guess we're movin' in the right direction. This Hurst bird will get us just where we wantta get... you see.”

Leaving the car in the basement garage, they groped their way upstairs to their apartment. Dillon went first. Halfway up, her heart beating hard, Myra made a deliberate false step. She stumbled up against Dillon.

He cursed as her weight struck him, and to save himself he twisted and caught at her. She felt his hard hands gripping her waist. The feel of his hands for the first time made her go limp. They stood in the dark like that, his hands digging into her flesh.

He said at last, “Can't you watch your feet?” He did not take his hands away, but shifted them a little so that they were just under her breasts.

She said nothing. His touch paralysed her. The fire that had burnt inside her for him blazed up so that she could only lean limply against him, willing him to stay there.

He suddenly took his hands away and took a step from her. “Come on up, for God's sake,” he said thickly. “You goin' to stand there all night?”

They moved on again. He kept just one step ahead of her. She could feel the heat from his body, and she could hear his breath coming jerkily.

In the apartment he flicked on the light. She could see his face glistening, and a wild look she had not seen before in his eyes. She leant against the wall, her mouth a little slack, looking at him through half-closed eyes.

They stood facing each other, then without moving she said, “Now...”

Dillon passed his tongue over his lips. She could see the urge in him struggling with his caution. Moving forward, she passed close to him and sat on the bed. She put her hands behind her and leant back.

The blood slowly mounted to his face until it was congested. She saw his mouth twist and she dropped back, flat across the bed. He came towards her and, reaching out, he gripped the neckband of her dress, savagely ripping the flimsy stuff from her.

Triumphantly she received him, and gave herself to his ruthless and urgent possession.