Dead Stay Dumb

by James Hadley Chase

  Hank said, “It'd be nice to own a joint like this, wouldn't it?” He wandered over to the cash register and rang up “No Sale”. He peered into the drawer, poking the money round with his finger. “I figger we take five hundred bucks a day here.”

  “There's more'n that in the can,” George said. “We had a few odd bills settled today.”

  “You think it out. I guess a joint like this would be mighty nice to own.”

  George nodded. “You're right,” he said.

  Outside, a car pulled up. The two jumped to their feet and ran out. The big shabby Packard was parked near the gas-pumps.

  Dillon got out. “Any more of you guys inside?” he asked.

  The two looked at him in surprise. “Just the two of us,” George said. “We'll take care of the bus all right.”

  Dillon raised his hands a little. He was holding the two guns. “Grab some air,” he said viciously, “and get inside.”

  The two attendants raised their hands. George went a little wobbly at the knees. He said, “Don't let that gun off, mister.”

  “Get inside!” Dillon snapped. “Jump to it!” He backed them into the office. “Stand over there by the wall, and keep your traps shut.”

  Myra came in and went over to the register. She rang it open and began scooping the money into a small bag. “Watch closely, boys,” she said. “You're seein' history bein' made.”

  Dillon said, “Much there?”

  Myra nodded. “It's worth while.” She went through the two drawers and then slammed them to. “Maybe they've got a can round here.”

  Dillon said, “Where's the safe?”

  Hank nodded miserably. “It's behind the desk,” he said.

  “Okay, get it open.”

  George unlocked the battered safe, and Myra walked over and peered inside. She scooped up a small wad of notes, pulled two or three ledgers out of the way, and glanced behind them. She straightened up. “That's the lot,” she said.

  Dillon went round to the telephone and jerked it away from its cable. “I don't want you boys to start yellin' just yet. We wantta get home safe, see?” He was feeling mighty pleased.

  Myra looked them over. “I guess this is your first stick-up?” she said.

  George mumbled, “Sure.”

  “You're havin' the breaks.” She took a cigarette from her handbag and paused to light it. “You're in swell company. Know who this is?” She jerked her head towards Dillon. “I bet you don't. That guy set fire to the middle west. He's the original twenty-five-minute egg. There'll come a time when you'll tell your grand-kids how you were stuck up by this guy. I sure envy you boys; you gotta story to blow.”

  Dillon said, “Get goin', you big-mouthed doll.”

  She walked over to the door and Dillon crowded her into the darkness outside. The two attendants stood against the wall, their hands held high.

  The Packard shot away and ripped into the darkness. Dillon shoved his gun away. “Suppose you keep that trap of yours shut?” he said from the blackness.

  “You ain't got to worry... I'm buildin' you up.”

  “If there's any buildin' up, I'm the guy to take care of that,” Dillon returned.

  Myra held the wheel. She didn't say anything. Her eyes were intent on the road. As the car lurched to the bends she let her body swing against Dillon. She could feel the hardness of him under his coat, and it sent a flicker through her that made her blood sing in her ears.

  This guy was tough, she thought, but he was a man. He had muscles and sinews and she began to ache for contact with him. Dillon, suddenly sensing her physical feeling for him, moved away, leaning well into the corner of the seat. She went limp with her frustrated longing for him.

  Back at the apartment, they mounted the stairs silently and shut their door. Myra flicked on the light, walking slowly into the centre of the room, pulling her hat off as she did so, shaking her hair free.

  Dillon stood by the door, rubbing his chin. He felt a vague urge towards her, but he ignored it. That urge made him a little uneasy.

  Myra emptied the sack on the table and turned the money over with her finger. “Ain't a great deal here,” she said, “but it'll do to get on with.”

  Dillon came over and sat down. He counted the money and stacked the notes neatly before him. Myra stood behind him, watching him. When he had finished she reached out and put her hands on his shoulders. The heavy muscles of his back contracted under her touch. She felt the flicker of flame shoot through her again.

  He got abruptly to his feet, throwing her hands away. “Cut it out!” he said savagely. “You keep your whore tricks for some other punk.”

  She moved towards him. “We can't go on like this,” she said; “you can't share this room with me—”

  Dillon reached out his fist and shoved her away. “You heard me,” he said. She caught the unevenness of his voice. “Get into bed, an' shut up!”

  She said softly, “Sure, I guess I was only thinkin' of you.”

  Dillon turned from her and went over to his bed. He sat down and began to pull off his shoes. Myra stood in the middle of the room and undressed. She took her time. She let each garment fall to the floor until she had nothing on. She stood like that, looking at Dillon, then she turned and got into bed.

  For the first time since she had known him she knew that she had made an impression on him. She knew that he was aware of her and she was content to wait for him.

  Early next morning they woke with a start. Someone was drumming on their door. Dillon shot out of bed, making a grab for his gun. For a moment Myra was startled and she made to follow him, then she relaxed back on the pillow.

  Roxy called from the other side of the door, “It's me.”

  Swearing softly, Dillon opened the door.

  “What the hell do you want?” he said. “You got me thinkin' the bulls were here.”

  Roxy eased his way into the room. He looked a little startled at the sight of Dillon's gun. “I guess I'm sorry about that,” he said. “But you two seen the paper?” His eyes were popping a little.

  Myra said from the bed, “Let me see.”

  Roxy tossed the paper on to the bed. “Got a big write-up there,” he said. “I guess you two've started already.”

  Dillon went over and took the paper from Myra. He read through the account coldly and then tossed the paper back to Myra. “What makes you think that was me?” he asked Roxy quietly.

  Roxy didn't like the look in his eyes. He said uneasily, “Why, I just guessed it. None of the mob round here talk big when they pull a job. I just figgered that maybe you had started a new line.”

  Dillon walked over to the mirror and examined his beard in the glass. Both Myra and Roxy watched him. He 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 a
way 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. You ain't gettin' anywhere as a solo stick-up artist. You want to get in with Hurst. You come with us. We're gettin' in on the ground floor.”

  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. They looked at Dillon hard, but the two kept on. Myra gave them just a casual glance. Dillon didn't even look at them, but he saw them all right. On the fourth floor no one was about.

  A little breathless from the climb, Dillon said, “I guess those two guys are waiting for him down there.”

  “What are we goin' to do? Go back an' give it to 'em?”

  Dillon shook his head. “Maybe we can tip Hurst off first,” he said. “I'll go up the next set of stairs an' you ring up Hurst. If they come up I'll start somethin'. Mind you drop flat.”

  With her heart jumping a little, Myra watched him disappear round the bend of the staircase, then she walked Over to the apartment door and rang the bell. Faintly she could hear the bell ringing. No one came.

  She waited there impatiently and rang again. A faint sound behind her made her look round quickly. The two men had come up and were standing at the head of the stairs watching her. She kept her thumb on the bell and looked at them coolly.

  One of them, a dark Jew, took two steps forward. “Get away from that door, sister,” he said.

  She said, “I don't know what you mean.” Her thumb dug the bell flat.

  The Jew came over to her quickly and knocked her hand away. “If you squawk I'll kick your mug in,” he said softly.

 
Myra backed away a little until her shoulder touched the wall. She stood looking at the Jew, not saying anything.

  The other guy moved a little round the bend of the staircase, sliding the gun from his holster.

  Dillon, watching them through the banisters, couldn't start anything because of Myra.

  The Jew said, “Who are you?”

  The other guy broke in, “Where's the punk who came in with you?”

  That startled the Jew, who had forgotten about Dillon. He jerked out a gun quickly.

  Myra screamed, “Give it to them!” and flung herself flat.

  Dillon squeezed on the trigger and the Thompson roared. He held the muzzle high. The stream of lead caught the two like a whip-lash across their faces. Dillon gave them just a short burst, but it was enough.

  The Jew stood for a moment, his hands groping out before him. The front of his face had disappeared, leaving just a horrible spongy mess on his shoulders. Myra caught her breath and turned her head quickly.

  The Jew fell near her. His body twitched and jerked. The other guy curled up in a corner, the top of his head blown off.

  Dillon came down the stairs like a cat. He stood looking at the two incuriously. “You all right?” he called to Myra. She got to her feet, keeping her eyes away from the two. Her face was pale, but her eyes glittered with suppressed rage.

  “I rang an' rang,” she said, keeping her voice low. “An' that yellow rat inside didn't come. Those two might have killed me but for you.”

  Dillon straightened a little. He went over and beat on the door with the butt of the Thompson. He made a lot of noise. “Open up!” he shouted. “The war's over.”

  The door opened an inch or two, and the face of a terrified woman peered at him. She was dressed in an orange wrap, which she clutched tightly to her. Dillon could see her figure sharply outlined beneath the silk. Behind her, his face twitching with terror, stood Hurst. He was holding a heavy gun in his hand. His hair was standing stiffly and his complexion was a dirty muddy colour.