“Who are you?” the woman stammered.
“The name's Dillon—”
“Let him in for God's sake!” Hurst snarled. “We'll have the cops up here in a minute.”
The woman said, “Come in.”
Dillon walked into the apartment, followed by Myra, and the woman hastily closed the door.
Hurst covered Dillon with his gun. “Put that Thompson on the floor,” he said.
Dillon stared at him, shrugged, and put the gun down. He walked a little way past Hurst.
“Come on,” Hurst snapped. “What the hell's going on?”
Dillon said, “Little Ernie's gunnin' for you. He sent those two punks up here. I heard about it and came down quick. That's all.”
Hurst hesitated, then he said, “Wait.” He went over to the telephone and dialled. He stood there, the gun still menacing, waiting for his line to connect. They heard the faint “plop” as someone answered the ring at the other end. Hurst said, “McGovern? Listen, there's been a fight up here an' two of Ernie's boys have run into a lot of grief. Send a wagon an' pick 'em up. This has got to be covered up, see? Just come up quick and get these birds out of here. I'll be along an' do some talking later. I don't want your men asking questions here, do you get all that?” He listened for a moment and then hung up.
He put the gun on the table and lit a cigarette. Myra could see his hand was still shaking. He looked at the woman and jerked his head. “Get dressed quick,” he said. “Maybe the newshounds'll start buzzin'.”
The woman went into the other room and shut the door. Hurst pushed his fingers through his hair and looked at Dillon.
“What's the idea of butting in on my fight?”
Dillon showed his teeth in a mirthless smile. “I guess you ain't so good at lookin' after yourself. Anyway I figgered it's time you an' I got together.”
“You're the guy who's been stickin' up all those service stations, aren't you?” Hurst was watching him closely.
Dillon nodded his head. “Sure,” he said. “I'm figgering to get in with a mob like yours and doin' somethin' in a big way.”
Hurst stared at his fingernails, thinking. He looked up at last. “I guess we might talk this over some time,” he said. “Suppose you look me up tomorrow?”
Dillon said, “Sure, I'll do that.”
Hurst jerked his head to the other door. “I gotta get this girl out of here. I ain't got time to talk to you now. You've done a swell job... don't think I ain't mighty obliged.”
Dillon moved over to the front door. “I'll see you tomorrow,” he said. Myra followed him out.
Coming up the stairs with a rush were two cops. They waved their guns at Dillon. Hurst heard them and came out quickly.
“Let these two through here,” he said. “Those are the stiffs you gotta look after.” He pointed to the two bodies lying on the floor.
The cops stared at Dillon and Myra as they walked past them. Their looks were curious. They hadn't seen these two before.
Dillon kept the Thompson under his coat and walked quickly. He was glad to get into the street. In the car, on the way back, he said, “I guess we're movin' in the right direction. This Hurst bird will get us just where we wantta get... you see.”
Leaving the car in the basement garage, they groped their way upstairs to their apartment. Dillon went first. Halfway up, her heart beating hard, Myra made a deliberate false step. She stumbled up against Dillon.
He cursed as her weight struck him, and to save himself he twisted and caught at her. She felt his hard hands gripping her waist. The feel of his hands for the first time made her go limp. They stood in the dark like that, his hands digging into her flesh.
He said at last, “Can't you watch your feet?” He did not take his hands away, but shifted them a little so that they were just under her breasts.
She said nothing. His touch paralysed her. The fire that had burnt inside her for him blazed up so that she could only lean limply against him, willing him to stay there.
He suddenly took his hands away and took a step from her. “Come on up, for God's sake,” he said thickly. “You goin' to stand there all night?”
They moved on again. He kept just one step ahead of her. She could feel the heat from his body, and she could hear his breath coming jerkily.
In the apartment he flicked on the light. She could see his face glistening, and a wild look she had not seen before in his eyes. She leant against the wall, her mouth a little slack, looking at him through half-closed eyes.
They stood facing each other, then without moving she said, “Now...”
Dillon passed his tongue over his lips. She could see the urge in him struggling with his caution. Moving forward, she passed close to him and sat on the bed. She put her hands behind her and leant back.
The blood slowly mounted to his face until it was congested. She saw his mouth twist and she dropped back, flat across the bed. He came towards her and, reaching out, he gripped the neckband of her dress, savagely ripping the flimsy stuff from her.
Triumphantly she received him, and gave herself to his ruthless and urgent possession.
PART THREE
Outside, the rain beat on the windows. Below, the streets were empty and glistening in the yellow lights of the street lamps.
Myra paced the room restlessly, a cigarette in her mouth. No word from Dillon. She looked impatiently at the clock. Then she turned and, pulling back the curtain, looked into the empty street.
Her mind was alive with doubts. She went over to the telephone, lifted the receiver, hesitated, then put it back on its cradle. Where the hell was Dillon? she kept asking herself. He said he'd be there at nine o'clock; it was just after eleven.
She walked into her bedroom and switched on the table-light. The room was well furnished, looking rather like a movie set. She stood looking round, seeing nothing.
Six months had gone by since the day they had got Hurst out of a jam. Six months of unrest and feverish activity. Hurst had paid them back for what they had done. Dillon was his right-hand man now. They were no longer petty gangsters. They were in the money now. Dillon's job was to see Hurst's racket ran smooth. He had a tough mob to work for him, while Hurst was content to sit in the background and collect the money as it rolled in.
Hurst's racket was this. He manufactured automatic machines of every description. He had gambling machines, moving-picture machines of a doubtful kind, food machines, cigarette machines and even prophylactic machines. On the face of it, a good sound business. It was where he put the machines that made his game a racket.
His mob went round with a truck planting the machines on small shopkeepers, or hotels, apartment houses and suchlike. These people were forced to take them. Those foolish enough to resist were either beaten up or had their windows smashed. They got no rake-off from the machines and Hurst had no over-heads. He sent men round weekly to clear the money, and he made a big thing out of it. His gambling machines were foolproof. Foolproof for Hurst. A sucker simply could not win anything from them, but still they tried. Hurst had over six thousand automatic machines in operation.