Dead Stay Dumb

that?”

     Hurst got to his feet. He controlled himself with an effort. “You're drunk,” he said. “You haven't the brains to run any business. You want protection, an' you ain't got it. You're nobody. The cops would close you up damn quick without me right behind you.”

     Dillon sneered. “Do you think I've been in this game an' not got the lowdown to it? You ain't got any pull; you've got dough. I know how much you give the cops to lay off you, an' I'll give 'em more. The guy that pays the most gets the best service.”

     Hurst turned to the door. “You're washed up,” he said shortly. “Get out and stay out!”

     Dillon jerked his gun from inside his coat. “Just a minute, Mr. Hurst,” he said between his teeth.: Hurst stood, frozen. Then he put out his hands like a blind man groping. “What are you doing with that gun?” he gasped, his face going suddenly flabby.

     Dillon didn't bother to get to his feet. “You talk too much,” he said. “If we're goin' to break, I guess we'll break the way I want it.”

     While he was speaking, his finger curled on the trigger, gently squeezing. The gun suddenly boomed, jerking a little in his hand.

     Hurst took a step forward, his hands pressed to his chest. Then his knees gave, and he sank down. Leaning forward over the desk, Dillon shot him again. The heavy slug made a big hole in Hurst's head.

     Dillon stayed there, leaning over the desk, his gun still pointing at Hurst, his lips off his teeth.

     “Now, you bastard,” he said, “you can stay dumb!”

     Roxy tipped his hat back and stared. “Hey,” he said, “you've spoilt your rug.”

     * * * *

     Myra sat before the dressing-table, a loose silk wrap across her shoulders. Her skin was faintly red from the hot water of the shower. A cigarette dangled from her full red lips and the spiral of smoke rose over her head. She took time fixing her nails.

     Dillon jerked open the door and walked in. Myra looked at him and glanced at the clock. It was not seven o'clock.

     “You're early,” she said, laying down the file. She pulled the wrap on and fastened the sash.

     Dillon was very thoughtful. He went over to the window and, raising the blind a little, peered into the street. Myra watched him. She had an uneasy feeling that something had happened. “What is it?” she asked.

     Without looking round, Dillon said, “Plenty.” He stood there a moment, then he dropped the blind and came back to the middle of the room. With his hat at the back of his head, he stared at Myra with blank eyes.

     She said, “For God's sake... what is it?”

     “Hurst's washed up,” he said abruptly.

     “Little Ernie?” Myra got to her feet.

     Dillon hesitated, then he shook his head.

     “I did it.”

     Myra put her hand to her mouth. She took a step back, pushing the stool away.

     “You did it?” she repeated. “Did what?”

     Dillon moved restlessly. “I gave him the works,” he said. “The yellow rat came in shootin' off his mouth, so I gave it to him.”

     Myra's eyes flashed. “Are you crazy?” she screamed. “You've killed Hurst, you goddam fool?”

     Dillon went over to her with two quick strides. His hand shot out and gripped her wrap, twisting it in his fist. He jerked her forward, so that their faces were close. “Shut up!” he snarled. “You shut your trap. I'm runnin' this outfit. I ain't standin' any yap from you. If you don't watch out, I'll knock you off.”

     Myra stiffened.

     “Yeah, I mean that,” he said, his eyes glaring at her.

     She put her hand on his wrist. “Let me go,” she said. “I won't start anythin'.”

     Dillon gave her a shove, sending her backwards. She sat down in the chair, her hands limply at her sides. “What are you goin' to do?” she asked.

     Dillon, satisfied that he had fixed her, went over to an arm-chair and sat down.

     “I've got the mob,” he said, picking his words. “I've got the racket, I guess I'm goin' to be the big shot... the only big shot around here.”

     Myra said, “But the cops?”

     Dillon sneered. “Hurst paid the cops. Okay, I'll pay 'em. They ain't to have any beef. I'll pay 'em better, see?”

     Myra didn't say anything. She sat staring at the floor.

     Encouraged by her silence, Dillon went on, “Tonight I'm goin' after Ernie. We've got him sewn up tight.”

     Myra jerked up her head. She just stared at Dillon, speechless. Dillon nodded at her, his triumph making him expand.

     “Yeah,” he said, “I've got the whole layout fixed. First Hurst. Okay, he's gone. Then Little Ernie.... He goes tonight. Then I got this burg to play with. It means plenty of dough, baby, an' I'm gettin' the lot.”

     Myra beat her hands together. “For God's sake... can't you see where you're headin'? Little Ernie's got everything. He's got a bigger mob... he's got protection... the cops are behind him.... Oh, hell! I tell you he's got everything.”

     Dillon grinned. “Okay. When he's washed up, I get it, so what?”

     The telephone began to ring shrilly. Myra got up and answered it. Dillon saw her suddenly stiffen. She said, “Sure he's here.” She turned round. “Roxy wants you quick,” she said. “Something gone wrong.”

     Dillon scowled, but he got up fast and took the receiver out of her hand. “Yeah, what is it?” he snapped.

     Roxy said, “Listen, Bud. Vessi's blown the gaff. He's tipped Little Ernie off about tonight. You gotta get out fast. They're after you with rods.”

     Dillon went a dirty white. “After me?” he said, his voice rising. “What the hell do you mean, they're after me?”

     “For God's sake,” Roxy raved at the other end, “don't stand there yappin'. Get out quick. They've taken two cars and are on their way right now.”

     “Sure, I'll scram,” Dillon said evenly. “Listen. Come on over, with a fast car. I ain't gotta car here. I'll meet you at the corner.”

     Roxy said, “I'll do that.”

     Dillon slammed down the receiver and swung round. His face was twisted with fury. “Come on,” he said, “we gotta get out of here quick.”

     Myra sprang to the cupboard and snatched out a dress. Tearing the wrap off, she pulled the dress over her head. She put on a pair of shoes. She was dressed under thirty seconds. Her eyes were like two glittering pebbles.

     “The Thompson,” she said.

     Dillon ran into the other room. As soon as he had gone, she hurriedly returned to the cupboard and took from an inside pocket of a coat hanging there a roll of money. She hastily slipped it into her bag, looking over her shoulder while she did so.

     Dillon returned, carrying the riot gun. He went over to the door and opened it, looking into the dark passage. Then he jerked his head at her and walked out.

     Myra heard a car draw up with a squeal of brakes. She ran over to the window and peered round the blind.