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.
Dillon said, “We’ve just knocked off these two killers.” He jerked his head to the two bodies. “They’re Little Ernie’s mob.”
“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.”