Dillon watched him go, and when the door had closed he stretched his neck and spat viciously into the brass spittoon by the desk.
The news that Myra knew that he wasn't with Hurst the previous night infuriated him. He sat back in his chair and tried to reconstruct the scene between them. Myra was no sucker. She knew there was another woman. His brows came down. Just let her start something, he told himself. If she thought she could push him around, she'd got a surprise coming. Hurst and Myra. They both knew too much for his comfort. Maybe... He sat there thinking. Yeah, maybe... He'd have to watch those two. It looked like he'd have to do something.
His cold, sullen face became grimly set.
Myra waited until Dillon had left the apartment, then she began a systematic search. She knew Dillon had no head for addresses. Somewhere, she was sure, she would find a clue that would lead her to this broad. Her face hard and set and her hands impatient, she went carefully through Dillon's wardrobe. She turned out every pocket, but she found nothing. She went through his drawers, careful not to disturb anything, but again she was unsuccessful.
She sat back on the bed thinking. This was getting her nowhere. He must have written the address down. She was certain of it. The only hope was he would be carrying it on him. That would make things difficult. She went once more to his compact room. Three soiled evening shirts caught her eye, hanging up on a peg. He'd been too lazy to throw them out for the wash.
On the cuff of one of them she found what she was looking for. Scribbled in pencil was an address—158 Sunset Avenue.
She stood there, holding the shirt in her hand, a cold fury sweeping over her. “You see, you two-timin' bastard, this whore of yours is goin' to get a shock.”
Putting the shirt carefully back in the cupboard, she went to her drawer and found her gun. It was a toy affair with a mother-o'-pearl handle, exceedingly unpleasant at close quarters. She put on her hat and coat and shoved the gun in her handbag. Then she stood hesitating. Maybe this wasn't quite the job for a gun. A hard little smile reached her mouth. She took from Dillon's drawer a length of solid rubber hose. She balanced it in her hand thoughtfully. Then, winding the thong round her wrist, she forced the hose up her sleeve.
Slamming the front door behind her, she took the elevator to the street level. A yellow taxi shot to the kerb and she nodded briefly. “Sunset Avenue,” she said. “An' flog your horse.”
The taxi jerked away. The driver said, “This is a hell of a town. I've never run into any guy who ain't in a hurry.”
Myra wasn't in the mood to talk. She said nothing.
The taxi-driver studied her in the mirror thought she was easy on the eye, and let it go at that.
Sunset Avenue was at the far end of the town. It took them a good half-hour's run to make it. The driver suddenly crammed on his brakes. “Here it is, lady: what number jer want?”
Myra said, “Stop here... this'll do.” She got out of the cab and paid him off. Then she walked slowly down the Avenue looking for 158. Her fury was smouldering by the time she found it. The place was a neat little villa standing in a fair-size garden. A place like this would cost money to keep up, she thought, and for a moment she hesitated. Maybe she had made a mistake. This place might be where one of Dillon's business associates hung out. Her step faltered. Then she thought she'd come this far, it wouldn't take long to check it up.
She walked up the crazy pavement and rang on the bell. She stood waiting, uncertain of herself. The door jerked open and Fanquist gaped at her.
It was certainly a shock to Myra. She saw it in a flash. Dillon was the rich guy who was staking this floosie to a good time.
She said quietly, “Hello. I bet this is a surprise.”
Fanquist got her nerve back. She said, “My Gawd, it's the kid again! What the hell you doin' here?”
Myra said, “Dillon told me you had moved, so I thought I'd look you up.”
“Dillon told you?” Fanquist's eyes hardened.
Myra nodded. “Sure. May I come in? I'd love to look around.”
Fanquist stood squarely in the doorway. She said in a hard voice, “Scram... go on, get to hell out of here!”
Myra could see two men wandering down the street. She had to get inside quick. Still keeping a smile on her face, she said, “Why, Fan, that ain't the way to talk. I gotta message for you.” She opened her bag casually. Fanquist watched her, a puzzled look on her face. She wondered what the hell all this was leading to.
Myra took the gun out of her bag and showed it to Fanquist. “Get inside quick, you bow-legged street pushover,” she said with a rush.
Fanquist's eyes opened very wide, and she went white under her rouge. She took a step back, and Myra stepped in and shut the door.
A big living-room opened out from the hall, and Myra drove Fanquist in there. The room was expensively furnished.
Myra said between her teeth, “So this is the love-nest, is it?”
Fanquist stammered, “You're going to be sorry for this.... Wait until he hears about it.”
“Sit down, you bitch,” Myra said. “I've got a lot to talk to you about.”
Fanquist said harshly, “You ain't throwin' a scare into me. You better get out an' get out quick.”
“Sit down,” Myra repeated. She held one hand behind her back, jerking the rubber club down from her sleeve.
Fanquist was getting her nerve back all right. She sneered. “That rod ain't gettin' you anywhere.... Get out!”
Myra swung the club round and hit Fanquist across her face with it. Fanquist staggered back, the chair struck her behind her knees, and she collapsed into it. She held both her hands over her face, the pain striking her dumb. Myra stepped back a little and waited.
“Maybe you'll jump to it next time,” she said.
“You're goin' to pay for this,” Fanquist gasped. “My God, you're goin' to pay for this!”
“Listen, you bohunk. You're goin' to clear out of this town quick, an' you'll stay out. I'm just givin' you a warning.”
Fanquist took her hands away from her face. Her eyes glittered murderously. She screamed suddenly, “You can't make me get out!... Dillon's mine now—He's mine—do you hear?”
Myra's face was hard. She took a step forward. The .25 was pointing directly at Fanquist. “That's what you say,” she snapped. “You're goin' okay, and you're goin' for good.”
Fanquist moved like a snake striking. She smacked Myra's hand away, sending the gun flying across the room. At the same time she sprang forward, her head down, and her hands grasping Myra's waist.
Myra went over with Fanquist on top of her. They both hit the floor with a crash that jarred the room Fanquist shifted her hands quickly, trying to catch Myra round the throat. Myra got her chin down, so Fanquist only got a grip on her jaw. Swinging the club up, Myra hit Fanquist on the shoulder. It was a glancing blow, but it made Fanquist squeal. She made a grab at Myra's hand, but missed, and got another sock from the club.
Myra was twisting like an eel, trying to get from under Fanquist, but she was too heavy for her. She kept beating Fanquist with the club, but there was no weight behind the blows. They hurt Fanquist, but not enough to shake her off. All the time, she was lunging to get Myra's arm pinned down with her knee.
Myra got in a lucky one, hitting Fanquist on the side of her head. Fanquist went crazy with the pain. She grabbed Myra by the hair, banging her head twice on the floor. Myra stiffened her neck, checking the force, but even then it half stunned her.
Letting go of the club, so that it swung by its thong, she reached out, catching Fanquist's ears. Fanquist was wearing big pearl stud earrings. Myra wrenched them away, splitting the lobes as she did so. Fanquist let go of her and put her hands over her ears, screaming like a train going through a tunnel. Blood ran through her fingers, down
