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.
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.
