walking on the grass border of the road approached silently.
One solitary light was burning in the downstairs room. Silently, moving his feet with care, he walked towards the window. He had a great respect for Butch's ears. He put his fingers on the window-ledge and pulled himself up.
Myra was standing quite close to him, pressing a dress with a flat-iron. She was alone.
Gurney lowered himself to the ground and walked round the front. He rapped on the screen with his knuckles. He waited a minute, feeling his heart beating jerkily against his ribs. Then Myra's silhouette blotted out the screen and she said, “Who is it?”
“Hyah, baby,” Gurney said, speaking very low; “you alone?”
She pushed open the screen and came out on the step. “Nick!” There was a little catch in her voice. It didn't get by Gurney. He grinned in the darkness.
“Sure,” he said. “Butch in?”
She shook her head. “He went down to the gym. He won't be so long, though.”
“Lemme in, baby, I gotta talk to you.”
“No—no, it's late, Nick. You can't come in now.”
Gurney reached out his hands, taking her arms just above her elbows. “Get goin',” he said gently; “you don't want to be seen yappin' out here.”
At his touch her resistance sagged. She let him push her back into the house. She broke away from him when they entered the room, standing with her back against the wall, her eyes fixed on him.
“You gotta be careful,” she said. “He's coming back. You know him. He'll be right in on us; he comes so quietly. Not now, Nick, I'm scared he'll come.... Nick, please...”
Gurney, his hat still at the back of his head, pulled her away from the wall. She struggled to get away from him until his mouth reached hers, then she clung to him, beating his shoulder-blades with the flat of her hands.
Down the road Butch came, his great body throwing a bloated shadow that stumbled and lurched just ahead of him. He made no sound, walking in the grass. He kept his ear-cocked for motors. Butch had got to watch out for himself. Skirting the bend, he hastened his steps; he knew that he was nearly home. Walking, his head bent, he was puzzling about Dillon. Sankey also worried him. He'd got a lot of dough on Sankey. If Dillon didn't get that brawl rigged he was going to be down a lot—a hell of a lot too much.
He silently padded up the mud path, pausing on the top step of the verandah to have a last smell of the night air. He didn't like it. It came hot and close to him. He thought maybe a storm would get up.
Myra slid from the settee to the floor when Butch walked in. Gurney sat up, his face going a little green with his fright. Butch would break his back if he caught him in here.
Myra hadn't any clothes on, except her shoes and stockings. She stood quite close to Gurney, her face set, and the first shock ebbing away. She said, “I was just going to bed.” Her voice was steady.
Butch remained by the door. Something told him that things weren't right. “It's late,” he said, listening with his head on one side.
Myra motioned Gurney to stay where he was. Gurney was sitting propped up on his elbow, one leg on the floor. Sweat ran down his face, making him look ghastly in the bright naked light.
Butch moved forward a little, shutting the door.
“Sankey all right?” Myra asked.
“Yeah,” Butch said; he passed his hand over the top of his bald head. His eyes looked straight at Gurney. The two yellow clots bore into Gurney's brain. “Seems quiet here,” Butch went on.
Myra stooped and picked up her dress. Butch heard the rustle of the material as she gathered it into a ring to slip over her head. “What you doin'?” he said sharply.
Myra shook a little, the dress slipping out of her hands. “I told you I'm going to bed.” She began to walk heavily about the room, taking up the ironing-board and putting it against the wall. “Sankey going to win?” she asked, for something to say.
“You're interested in that guy, ain't you?”
Gurney's muscles began to ache, sitting like that. He was too scared to move. He just stayed there, his eyes fixed on Butch.
“Why not?” Myra's knees were beginning to shake. The old geezer guessed there was something wrong, she thought. She walked carelessly over to the couch again and picked up her dress. Neither Gurney nor she looked at each other.
Butch moved quickly. He almost trod on Gurney's foot as he went by. He snatched Myra's dress out of her hands. Myra skipped away and flattened herself against the wall. Her eyes sprang open wide.
Butch felt the dress in his hands, then he put it to his nose. His big, rubbery face darkened. “What the hell you doin'?” he growled. “Why've you taken this off?”
Steeling her voice, she said, “What's the matter with you tonight? I was hot... can't a girl take her dress 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,
