Authors: James Hadley Chase
“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.