Authors: James Hadley Chase
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.
Outside, the rain beat on the windows. Below, the streets were empty and glistening in the yellow lights of the street lamps.
Myra paced the room restlessly, a cigarette in her mouth. No word from Dillon. She looked impatiently at the clock. Then she turned and, pulling back the curtain, looked into the empty street.
Her mind was alive with doubts. She went over to the telephone, lifted the receiver, hesitated, then put it back on its cradle. Where the hell was Dillon? she kept asking herself. He said he'd be there at nine o'clock; it was just after eleven.
She walked into her bedroom and switched on the table-light. The room was well furnished, looking rather like a movie set. She stood looking round, seeing nothing.
Six months had gone by since the day they had got Hurst out of a jam. Six months of unrest and feverish activity. Hurst had paid them back for what they had done. Dillon was his right-hand man now. They were no longer petty gangsters. They were in the money now. Dillon's job was to see Hurst's racket ran smooth. He had a tough mob to work for him, while Hurst was content to sit in the background and collect the money as it rolled in.
Hurst's racket was this. He manufactured automatic machines of every description. He had gambling machines, moving-picture machines of a doubtful kind, food machines, cigarette machines and even prophylactic machines. On the face of it, a good sound business. It was where he put the machines that made his game a racket.
His mob went round with a truck planting the machines on small shopkeepers, or hotels, apartment houses and suchlike. These people were forced to take them. Those foolish enough to resist were either beaten up or had their windows smashed. They got no rake-off from the machines and Hurst had no over-heads. He sent men round weekly to clear the money, and he made a big thing out of it. His gambling machines were foolproof. Foolproof for Hurst. A sucker simply could not win anything from them, but still they tried. Hurst had over six thousand automatic machines in operation.
It was Myra who suggested the schools. Hurst was nervous that there would be a row, but Myra had planned carefully. Nearly every school had a favourite candy shop, and it was in the candy shop that the automatic was planted. They put a smut movie automatic and a gambling automatic, and the kids flogged all their candy money in these machines. It brought in a new and pretty big revenue.
Dillon kept all the shopkeepers on the jump. He had to find fresh fields to plant the automatics, and he had to supervise the collecting of the money Hurst gave him a ten per cent cut on what he turned in.
It was not quite the big job Dillon had planned but it was bringing them in fifteen hundred dollars a week. Also, Dillon was running a mob, and it was a mighty tough mob at that.
Myra had money to burn. She kept away from Dillon's headquarters, and lived the life of a rich business man's wife.
For six months Dillon had been coming back each night around nine o'clock, and they would go out some place and eat. And now there was no sign of him'.
She wondered if he'd run into trouble. After his one attempt to get rid of Hurst, Little Ernie had sunk in the background. Myra began to think maybe Dillon had got himself knocked off in a gun fight.
The bell whirred suddenly, making her start round.
She ran to the front door. Roxy was standing there, his black fedora tilted over his eyes, and his hands in his pockets.
Myra said, “Why, Roxy!” She was pleased to see him.
“H'yah, baby.” Roxy stood smiling at her. “Ain't seen you for a long time.”
“Come right in.” She stood aside to let him pass.
Roxy wandered in, his eyes roving round the room. He raised his eyebrows a little. “Swell joint you got here,” he observed.
“Do you like it?” Myra led him over to the leather couch.
“Sure, I think it's class. You two must be knockin' the berries off the bush all right.”
Myra nodded. “We get along,” she said. “And you, Roxy, how are you makin' out?”
Roxy shrugged. “About the same,” he said. “I'd like somethin' more steady, but I ain't moanin'.”
Myra said, “Maybe Dillon'd fix it for you.”
“You think he would?” Roxy sounded eager.
Myra nodded. “I guess he'd be glad to. I'll speak to him when he blows in.” The look of uncertainty came back.
“Ain't he around?” Roxy sounded disappointed. “I loped to see that guy.”
Myra shook her head. “I'm worried,” she said. “He ain't given me a buzz or nothin'.”
Roxy leant back. “Well, he'll be along... you see.”
Myra moved about the room. “What'll you drink, Roxy?” she asked.
“A rye if you've got it,” Roxy said. “You sure have moved up in the world.” He watched her mix the drinks, then he said casually, “You heard about Fan?”
Myra came over and gave him the rye. She shook her head. “No,” she said. “What's Fan been doin'?”
Roxy held the glass up to the light and looked at the liquor thoughtfully. “She pulled out about three weeks ago. Left me flat. I miss that dame.”
Myra raised her eyebrows. “What she want to do that for?” she asked.
“You know how it is. I guess we got along all right, but we just didn't think much of each other. She ran into some bird who'd got a lotta dough, and she joined up with him.”
Myra said, “Who's the bird?”
Roxy shook his head. “She didn't tell me that,” he said, stretching his legs out and looking at his feet. “Went off kind of mysteriously. Didn't even leave an address. She just said she'd found some guy who was goin' to stake her for a good time, and off she went.”
Outside they heard the front door click, and Dillon walked in. He stood in the doorway looking at Roxy, a little startled. Roxy put his glass on the table and stood up. “Hello, Bud,” he said. “I guess it's good to see you.”
Dillon came over and shook hands. He didn't look at Myra. “For the love of Mike,” he said, “this is a surprise.”
Myra said, “Where've you been? I'm starvin'.”
Dillon looked at her. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess I've dealt you a raw hand. I got held up by Hurst just as I was leavin', and that guy jawed until right now. I'd've given you a buzz, only you know how he is.”
Myra relaxed a little. “I was gettin' the jitters. I thought maybe you had been in a fight.”
Dillon grinned. “I don't get into fights,” he said. “This was just business.”
Roxy thought he was lying, but he wasn't sure.
Myra said, “Look, honey, can you work Roxy in your outfit?”
Dillon hesitated a moment, then he nodded. “Sure, I'd be glad to. Suppose you come down to the office tomorrow an' let's talk it over.”
Roxy was impressed in spite of himself. This Dillon was certainly a big shot now. He nodded. “I guess I'll blow,” he said. “You two want to eat.”
Myra saw him to the door. “Good, night, Roxy,” she said. “Don't you worry. He'll find you a job. We owe you somethin.”
Roxy tipped his hat and grinned, then he let himself out of the apartment.
Myra came back. “Suppose we have somethin' to eat right here?” she said. “It's too late to go out.”
Dillon was lying back in a chair, his eyes half shut. “You go ahead, I've had somethin'.”
Myra stood looking at him, her mind suddenly suspicious. She started to say something, but changed her mind. She went into the kitchen and cut a meat sandwich. She stood, leaning against the kitchen table, thinking. When she had finished the sandwich she went back into the other room.
Dillon had gone into the bedroom. She could hear the bathwater running. She finished her rye and lighted a cigarette. She stood waiting until she heard him go into the bathroom, then she walked over to the telephone and dialled a number.
Hurst came on. He sounded irritable. Myra said, “I'm worried about Dillon, Mr. Hurst. You ain't seen him, have you?”
“Hasn't he come in?” Hurst sounded bored.
“No, I don't know where he is.... I haven't seen him all day.”
“Wasn't he with you tonight?”
“I tell you I haven't seen him all day,” Hurst snapped. “He'll be along,” and he hung up.
Myra dropped the receiver into its cradle. Her eyes were stormy. There was only one reason why Dillon had lied to her. So the heel was two-timing. Who was the woman? Her hands clenched at her side, wave after wave of rage ran through her. For a moment she played with the idea of shooting Dillon there and then, but she knew he was now in too strong a position to be cast aside. Myra knew that without Dillon she would have to start all over again. No longer would she have an apartment or money.... No, Dillon must not be touched. It was the woman she'd have to go for.
Her rage subsided as she turned the problem over. The more she thought about it, the more she realized the danger she herself was in. Let Dillon find someone who really pleased him, and there was nothing to stop him from ditching her. He had Hurst and a tough mob at his back, and although she had given him ideas, and had helped him, she knew he was ruthless enough to toss her aside if she tried to make trouble for him.
She walked into the bedroom and began to undress. Dillon came out of the bathroom, humming to himself. She caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. His eyes were dull; dark rings under them gave him a tired, heavy look. She caught her breath sharply, sitting there, her heart beating hard.
Dillon got into bed and snapped off the lamp at his side. “Come on,” he said, “I wantta go to sleep.”
She stood up, passing the comb through her hair. “You
are
tired tonight,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort.
“Yeah,” Dillon grunted, “I'm damn tired. Get into bed for Gawd's sake.”
She put the comb down on the dressing-table and came over to him. She sat on the bed, looking at him with glittering eyes. “Shall I come in with you?” she almost snarled at him.
Dillon's heavy face hardened. He sat up on his elbow. “Didn't I tell you I'm beat?” he snapped. “Get into bed. I wantta sleep.”
“Too tired, even for love?” The gritty, suppressed rage startled him into wakefulness.
“What the hell's this?” he said. “Can't I get tired sometimes?”
“Not the way you've been gettin' tired,” she shrilled. “I'm on to you—”
Dillon pulled back the bedclothes and swung his feet to the floor. He reached out and gripped her throat in his hand. She struck at him wildly, but his arm was too long. He held her away from him.
“That's the way it is, huh?” he said softly. “You're gettin' too big for your pants. Jest because you've been laid a few times you think you can talk big. Okay, sister, here it is.”
He smacked her across her face hard with his open hand, at the same time releasing his grip on her throat. She fell off the bed and rolled on the floor. He kicked her hard in her ribs with his bare foot. She slid away with the force of the kick across to her own bed.
“Now get to sleep an' shut your trap. You ain't got anythin' more than any other woman... get it?”
He pulled up the bedclothes and snapped out the light. She remained sobbing with rage on the cold floor.
Dillon used Jakie's Poolroom on Nineteenth for his headquarters. The boys spent a lot of their time pushing the balls around, waiting for something to turn up. Dillon had a little office at the far end of the poolroom. It was quite a place. He had a roll-top desk and several modern chairs of chromium and leather. The door had a ground-glass panel with 'AUTOMATICS, LTD.' painted on it, and in smaller letters at the bottom right-hand corner, 'Manager'. Dillon liked that, it made him feel good.
When Roxy blew in during the early afternoon the poolroom was full. Dillon's boys were drinking, talking and playing snooker. They glanced up when Roxy came in, looked at him suspiciously and glanced at one another.
Roxy stood in the doorway, his hat tipped over his eyes. “Mr. Dillon around?” he asked.
One of them jerked his thumb to the door. “In there,” he said briefly.
Roxy started across the floor. A big bird suddenly got in his way. “Hey!” he said. “Where the hell do you think you're goin'?”
Roxy said patiently, “I wantta see Dillon.”
The big bird said, “Wait.” He ran his hands over Roxy, feeling for a gun, then he knocked on the door and put his head round. He withdrew after a moment and nodded at Roxy. “Go ahead,” he said. “You're okay.”
Dillon was thumbing through a newspaper, half hidden by the top of the desk. He glanced up and looked at Roxy thoughtfully.
“Jeeze! Quite the big shot,” Roxy said.
Dillon said coldly, “Come on in, an' shut the door.”
Roxy closed the door and sat down. He ran his fingers over the stove-pipe furniture. “Hot, ain't it?” he said admiringly. “This is some joint.”
Dillon opened a drawer and took out a box of cigars. He pushed them over to Roxy. “You wantta join up?” he said.
Roxy selected a cigar, bit the end off and spat it from his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “I'd like to get into somethin' steady. My racket is gettin' shot to hell.”
Dillon looked at him thoughtfully. “What I'm goin' to tell you ain't to go further,” he said, keeping his voice low.
Roxy looked a little startled, but he nodded. “Sure, I don't talk,” he said. “You should know that!”
Dillon hitched his chair closer. “I'm figgerin' you're the guy I've been lookin' for,” he said. “Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think so. Listen. At the moment I'm runnin' this automatic racket an' I'm picking up around fifteen grand a week. Nice, but nothin' to rave about. Hurst's got a grand organization. He's got protection. He's got a real tough crowd workin' for him. This Hurst guy gets so far, but he don't go the limit. With his organization, he could go the limit.”
Roxy drew on his cigar, letting the heavy smoke slide from his mouth. “What's the limit?” he asked.
Dillon said very quietly, “Little Ernie's the limit.”
Roxy's eyes narrowed. “I don't get that,” he said.
“I want to take over Ernie's part of the town. Hurst won't stand for it, but I guess if I did it he'd have to stick by me an' like it.”
“What's that to me?” Roxy asked cautiously.
Dillon looked at him hard. “The whole town'd be too big for me to handle. I gotta have a guy I could trust. You'd get in on this on the ground floor.”
Roxy said, “Maybe Hurst wouldn't stand for it.”
Dillon got up and walked to the door. He opened it and glanced outside, then he came back and put his head close to Roxy's. “Maybe what Hurst says won't count any more.”