off?”
“Come here.”
Gurney stopped breathing.
Myra said, pressing herself against the wall, “Not damn likely!”
Butch walked slowly to the door and locked it. He took the key out and put it in his pocket. “There’s something phoney goin’ on here,” he snarled at her. “Let’s see what it is.”
Gurney thought, “With a gun I could blast the old devil.”
With a sliding shuffle Butch came at Myra. He came so quickly that she only just escaped him. Slithering along the wall, out of his reach, she stood by the door breathing in short, jerky gasps.
Butch stood, his hand on the wall, his sightless eyes turned on her. “You’d better come here,” he said.
Myra said in a small voice, “You’re scaring me. Open the door, I tell you, I want to go to bed.”
Butch caught her this time. Gurney didn’t think it possible for him to move so quickly. His great hand caught her arm as she fled from him. He jerked her to him. His hot breath fanned her face.
She said, “Let me go!… Let me go!… Let me go!” Her voice went up a tone, mounting to a scream.
Gurney swung himself to the floor and stood up. Swiftly, Butch jerked his head round. “What’s that?” he said harshly. He shook Myra. “What was that? There’s someone else here…. Who is it?”
“You’re crazy,” she gasped. “There’s no one here.”
His hand, swinging down, slapped her. Then he stiffened. Holding both her wrists in a crushing grip, he touched her quivering body.
Gurney was creeping inch by inch towards the open window. Myra, seeing him, began to scream, covering any sound that he made.,
Butch reached up; his hand, closing on her throat, nipped her screams short. Gurney swung himself forward, falling head first out of the window, his feet jerking the curtains from the rod. Picking himself up, he began to run drunkenly down the road, swaying from side to side.
Butch said, “So that’s it, is it, you little whore?”
Myra felt her knees buckle. If Butch weren’t holding her she would have slipped to the floor.
“Who was it?” He shook her. His great arms flung her this way and that, banging her legs against the wall. “Do you hear, who was the sonofabitch?”
“You’ll… never make… me tell,” she gasped, trying to tear her hands away.
“Yeah? Just wait an’ see.”
He dragged her across the room, until his legs struck the settee, then he flung her down on it. She lay there, her eyes wide with terror. He kept a grip on her arm, muttering to himself and fumbling at the buckle of the broad belt at his waist. As he pulled it off, she twisted and turned over on her face, her arms protecting her head, screaming deep in her throat.
The belt curled through the air and hit her arched body. Myra screamed, “I’ll kill you for this!…”
It Was only when his hand was slippery with sweat that she escaped him. She rolled off the settee, her arm sliding from his grip. They stood there, facing each other. Butch, his rubbery face hideous with cruel rage; Myra, her body streaked with red weals, murderous in her fury. Her hands closed on the back of a chair and, swinging it high, she hit Butch across the head with it.
Butch half guessed what she was doing, and he swerved, but she had anticipated the move. The chair crashed on his bald head, shattering itself. The legs of the chair flew across the room. Butch fell on his knees, roaring, as his brain reeled. She came at him again, battering down his upraised arms, beating him again and again with the thick chair-back. He tried to save himself, his defence becoming more and more feeble, until he reeled over and fell on his side, like a stricken elephant. She drew off. Swinging the chair-back over her head, she gave him one final crushing blow that made his battered head jerk up and then flop on the floor. Then, with a frightened look, she snatched up her dress and ran blindly up to her attic.
They pushed their way down the aisle. Gurney came first, then Dillon, and then Morgan. The house was so full they had difficulty in getting to their seats. They were right on top of the ring.
A preliminary was just commencing. The arc-lights overhead dimmed as they arrived at their seats. Gurney squeezed past a slim blonde, pulling her skirts to her knees. “Don’t mind me,” she snapped.
Dillon stood waiting to pass. “If your arches ain’t broke,” he said, “suppose you stand up; I ain’t so likely to strip you that way.”
Two fat guys sitting behind her went off in loud, explosive sniggers.
The blonde took a look at Dillon and figgered he was too tough for her. She stood up and let him through. Morgan crowded past her quickly. They sat down.
Just above the ring lights a heavy haze of tobacco-smoke lay like a mist rising from damp ground. The hall was as hot as hell. Dillon wrenched his collar undone and pulled his tie down a little.
The two lightweights were slamming into each other murderously. Gurney leant towards Dillon. “You seen Sankey?” he asked.
Dillon shook his head. “Sankey ain’t worryin’ me,” he said. “I guess I’ll give Franks a call.”
“We got him scared,” Gurney said; “you see.”
The crowd suddenly gave a great sigh, that sounded like a groan, as one of the fighters began to buckle at the knees.
Morgan shouted, “Go after him, you little punk—nail him.”
The gong saved him.
Dillon got to his feet; he pushed past Morgan, climbed over the blonde and walked up the aisle again. At the head of the corridor leading to the dressing-rooms a little runt in a yellow-white jersey stopped him. “This is as far as you’ll get,” he said.
“I’m on business,” Dillon said, and went on.
The little runt had to let him go; he was just swept aside.
Dillon wandered into Sankey’s room. Hank was sitting on a stool beside the table. Sankey was lying on the table, a bright-red dressing-gown covered him. They both looked up as Dillon came in.
Hank said, “He’s on next but one.”
Dillon pursed his lips. “You okay?” he said.
Sankey half sat up. “Sure I’m okay. This guy’s goin’ to take a dive, ain’t he?”
Dillon nodded. “That don’t mean you ain’t gotta try,” he said evenly; “you gotta watch this guy, Sankey.”
Hank said heatedly, “Sure he’ll watch him… what you think?”
Dillon nodded. Then he wandered out again. He walked softly down the corridor until he came to Franks’ room. He put his hand inside his coat, feeling the cold butt of the Colt. Then he opened the door and went in.
Franks was staring moodily at his feet. His trainer, Borg, was sitting despondently on a wooden chair, cleaning his nails with a small knife. He looked up sharply as Dillon came in. “Wrong room, buddy,” he said crisply. “On your way.”
Dillon didn’t even look at him. He said to Franks, “We’re outside watching.”
Franks looked up. “Get out, an’ stay out!” he said.
Dillon didn’t move. “Don’t get this thing wrong,” he said. “We don’t want to start anythin’.”
Borg got off his chair. He came over to Dillon fast. He was only a little guy, and fat, but he’d got plenty of guts. “What the hell you blowin’ about? Scram, you ain’t wanted here.”
Dillon looked down at him, sneered, and wandered out. At the door he turned his head. “In about the fifth, Franks,” he said, and pulled the door to with a sharp click.
A sudden burst of ironic cheering came to him from the hall. He passed the little runt again, who glowered at him but said nothing.
At the entrance of K Section he saw Gurney and Morgan pushing through to the saloon. Dillon forced his way through the crowd and caught up with them.
“Those two little punks are scared sick of each other,” Morgan said, as he came up. “They’re just sleepin’ off time in each other’s arms.”
Gurney said, “Did you see Franks?”
Dillon nodded. He leant against the counter, his thumbs hooked in his belt. “He’ll be okay,” he said.
Gurney poured himself out a shot of bourbon and pushed the bottle over to Morgan. “And Sankey?”
“Sankey’s got his nerve back. He’s a big shot now the brawl’s rigged. That guy’s got a yellow streak
