The Dead Stay Dumb

by James Hadley Chase

  She walked into the bedroom and began to undress. Dillon came out of the bathroom, humming to himself. She caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. His eyes were dull; dark rings under them gave him a tired, heavy look. She caught her breath sharply, sitting there, her heart beating hard.

  Dillon got into bed and snapped off the lamp at his side. “Come on,” he said, “I wantta go to sleep.”

  She stood up, passing the comb through her hair. “You are tired tonight,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort.

  “Yeah,” Dillon grunted, “I’m damn tired. Get into bed for Gawd’s sake.”

  She put the comb down on the dressing-table and came over to him. She sat on the bed, looking at him with glittering eyes. “Shall I come in with you?” she almost snarled at him.

  Dillon’s heavy face hardened. He sat up on his elbow. “Didn’t I tell you I’m beat?” he snapped. “Get into bed. I wantta sleep.”

  “Too tired, even for love?” The gritty, suppressed rage startled him into wakefulness.

  “What the hell’s this?” he said. “Can’t I get tired sometimes?”

  “Not the way you’ve been gettin’ tired,” she shrilled. “I’m on to you—”

  Dillon pulled back the bedclothes and swung his feet to the floor. He reached out and gripped her throat in his hand. She struck at him wildly, but his arm was too long. He held her away from him.

  “That’s the way it is, huh?” he said softly. “You’re gettin’ too big for your pants. Jest because you’ve been laid a few times you think you can talk big. Okay, sister, here it is.”

  He smacked her across her face hard with his open hand, at the same time releasing his grip on her throat. She fell off the bed and rolled on the floor. He kicked her hard in her ribs with his bare foot. She slid away with the force of the kick across to her own bed.

  “Now get to sleep an’ shut your trap. You ain’t got anythin’ more than any other woman… get it?”

  He pulled up the bedclothes and snapped out the light. She remained sobbing with rage on the cold floor.

  Dillon used Jakie’s Poolroom on Nineteenth for his headquarters. The boys spent a lot of their time pushing the balls around, waiting for something to turn up. Dillon had a little office at the far end of the poolroom. It was quite a place. He had a roll-top desk and several modern chairs of chromium and leather. The door had a ground-glass panel with ‘AUTOMATICS, LTD.’ painted on it, and in smaller letters at the bottom right-hand corner, ‘Manager’. Dillon liked that, it made him feel good.

  When Roxy blew in during the early afternoon the poolroom was full. Dillon’s boys were drinking, talking and playing snooker. They glanced up when Roxy came in, looked at him suspiciously and glanced at one another.

  Roxy stood in the doorway, his hat tipped over his eyes. “Mr. Dillon around?” he asked.

  One of them jerked his thumb to the door. “In there,” he said briefly.

  Roxy started across the floor. A big bird suddenly got in his way. “Hey!” he said. “Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”

  Roxy said patiently, “I wantta see Dillon.”

  The big bird said, “Wait.” He ran his hands over Roxy, feeling for a gun, then he knocked on the door and put his head round. He withdrew after a moment and nodded at Roxy. “Go ahead,” he said. “You’re okay.”

  Dillon was thumbing through a newspaper, half hidden by the top of the desk. He glanced up and looked at Roxy thoughtfully.

  “Jeeze! Quite the big shot,” Roxy said.

  Dillon said coldly, “Come on in, an’ shut the door.”

  Roxy closed the door and sat down. He ran his fingers over the stove-pipe furniture. “Hot, ain’t it?” he said admiringly. “This is some joint.”

  Dillon opened a drawer and took out a box of cigars. He pushed them over to Roxy. “You wantta join up?” he said.

  Roxy selected a cigar, bit the end off and spat it from his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like to get into somethin’ steady. My racket is gettin’ shot to hell.”

  Dillon looked at him thoughtfully. “What I’m goin’ to tell you ain’t to go further,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  Roxy looked a little startled, but he nodded. “Sure, I don’t talk,” he said. “You should know that!”

  Dillon hitched his chair closer. “I’m figgerin’ you’re the guy I’ve been lookin’ for,” he said. “Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think so. Listen. At the moment I’m runnin’ this automatic racket an’ I’m picking up around fifteen grand a week. Nice, but nothin’ to rave about. Hurst’s got a grand organization. He’s got protection. He’s got a real tough crowd workin’ for him. This Hurst guy gets so far, but he don’t go the limit. With his organization, he could go the limit.”

  Roxy drew on his cigar, letting the heavy smoke slide from his mouth. “What’s the limit?” he asked.

  Dillon said very quietly, “Little Ernie’s the limit.”

  Roxy’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t get that,” he said.

  “I want to take over Ernie’s part of the town. Hurst won’t stand for it, but I guess if I did it he’d have to stick by me an’ like it.”

  “What’s that to me?” Roxy asked cautiously.

  Dillon looked at him hard. “The whole town’d be too big for me to handle. I gotta have a guy I could trust. You’d get in on this on the ground floor.”

  Roxy said, “Maybe Hurst wouldn’t stand for it.”

  Dillon got up and walked to the door. He opened it and glanced outside, then he came back and put his head close to Roxy’s. “Maybe what Hurst says won’t count any more.”

  Roxy looked up into his black eyes. He shifted uneasily at the malevolence there. He hastily turned his eyes, and studied the grey ash of his cigar. “Got the mob at the back of you?” he asked.

  Dillon nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Those guys out there see me all the time. I tell ’em to do this an’ that an’ they do it. Okay. When the time comes, an’ Hurst fades away, those guys ain’t asking questions. They’ll just go on takin’ orders from me… get it?”

  Roxy thought a little, then he said, “You’ve got somethin’ there.”

  Dillon nodded. “Yeah, I guess I got somethin’ there all right.”

  Roxy said, “I bet Myra thinks that’s a good stunt.”

  Dillon scowled. “That dame don’t count,” he said coldly. “She’s gettin’ big ideas, an’ she’s goin’ to get a surprise one of these days.”

  Roxy looked startled. “I like Myra,” he mumbled. “She’s got what it takes.”

  Dillon shrugged, and stood up. “When I’m ready, I’ll tell you,” he said. “Can I count on you?”

  Roxy said, “Sure, you can count me in. I’ve been waiting for a break like this for some time. I guess I was too cautious when I was runnin’ around with Fan. You seen her, by the way?”

  Dillon shot him a quick, suspicious glance. “I ain’t seen her,” he said.

  Roxy sat down on the edge of the table. “Listen, Bud,” he said evenly. “Don’t let’s start this game with a double-cross. I ain’t sore you pinched Fan from me. I miss her just like I’d miss a deck of cards I got used to, but that’s all.”

  Dillon clenched his fists. His eyes gleamed at Roxy. “You been checkin’ up on me?” he said, a gritty sound in his voice.

  Roxy said hastily, “Hell! I wouldn’t do a thing like that. I just heard—”

  Dillon said, “It’d better get no further. I don’t want that little bag Myra gettin’ ideas about Fan.”

  Roxy shook his head. “She ain’t dumb,” he said thoughtfully. “You watch her. She’ll get on to it.”

  Dillon began pacing the small office. “I’m gettin rattled with that dame. I guess she’s about washed up with me. She’ll have to get to hell out of it.”

  Roxy touched the ash off his cigar into the tray. “You’ll have a little trouble,” he said. “I’d be careful how you handle that bird.”

  Dillon shot him another
cold look. “I can handle her,” he said. “You keep your nose clean on this. Anyway, suppose you get to work an’ wise yourself up on Little Ernie’s territory? What I want is a list of all the smalltime stores, hotels an’ suchlike who could take on automatic machine. You walk round an’ take a look at the ground. You’re on the pay-roll now, so you might as well get used to a little work.”

  Roxy grinned. “I get it,” he said. “What you pay in’?”

  “I’ll give you a couple of hundred bucks an’ ten per cent on the take when we get goin’.”

  Roxy shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’re right about gettin’ rid of the big shots. I could do with a little of their share.”

  When he had gone, Dillon went over to the telephone and rang Fanquist. Her slow drawl floated to his ear. “Listen, baby,” he said, speaking close to the mouthpiece, “I’ve just had a word with Roxy. He knows, but that guy is shootin’ on the level. I’ve fixed him up to work for me, an’ he ain’t goin’ to start trouble.”

  Fanquist started her old beef. “When are we really goin’ to get together? I’m sick of this jumpin’-in-an’-out-of-bed stunt of yours.”

  Dillon said sharply, “It ain’t time yet. Myra wants handlin’.”

  Fanquist said, “Why the hell don’t you toss that piece of ass out on her can?” Her voice was suddenly strident and furious.

  “I tell you it ain’t time for that yet,” Dillon snarled. “Suppose you leave this to me?”

  “Am I seein’ you today?”

  Dillon looked round his office, a harassed expression on his face. “You gotta have patience—” he began.

  “That’s another tune I’m getting sick of,” Fanquist said bitterly. “You make me tired. I guess I’m a sucker to stand for it. All right, if that’s the way you feel I guess you can stay away.” She hung up.

  Dillon slammed the receiver down on the prong and mopped his face with his handkerchief. Women were hell, he thought. Before Myra had come along and he had started fooling with her, he just kicked women around; now they had him crawling. What the hell had come over him?

  The door opened and Hurst walked in. For a moment Dillon was startled. Hurst never came to this place. He got to his feet. Hurst looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded. He walked over to a chair and sat down. “I was passing, so I thought I’d look in and hear how things were going,” he said.

  Dillon sat down. “They’re all right.”

  “No trouble?”

  Dillon shook his head. He gave a bland smile. “Why, no, Mr. Hurst, I guess things are goin’ mighty smooth just now.”

  Was Hurst looking at him in an odd way, or was he imagining things?

  Hurst said abruptly, “What’s wrong with your girlfriend?”

  Dillon raised his eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Myra? I don’t get it.”

  Hurst shrugged. “She pulled me from a game last night asking where you were.”

  Dillon suddenly went cold. Aw, she’s always like that if I’m a shade late,” he said carelessly. “I’ll tell her not to worry you.”

  Hurst got to his feet. “That’s okay,” he said. “I just wondered.” He moved to the door. With the handle in his hand, he glanced back over his shoulder. “You ain’t causin’ Little Ernie any worries?”

  Dillon knew now why he had come in. Since Little Ernie had sent two gunmen after him, Hurst was scared sick of any other trouble starting.

  Dillon shook his head. “We’re leavin’ em alone,” he said quietly, and grinned to himself. This punk would have a tit if he knew what was going to happen.

  Hurst nodded. “That’s it,” he said. “You leave those guys alone. We can get along without treading on their corns.

  Dillon watched him go, and when the door had closed he stretched his neck and spat viciously into the brass spittoon by the desk.

  The news that Myra knew that he wasn’t with Hurst the previous night infuriated him. He sat back in his chair and tried to reconstruct the scene between them. Myra was no sucker. She knew there was another woman. His brows came down. Just let her start something, he told himself. If she thought she could push him around, she’d got a surprise coming. Hurst and Myra. They both knew too much for his comfort. Maybe… He sat there thinking. Yeah, maybe… He’d have to watch those two. It looked like he’d have to do something.

  His cold, sullen face became grimly set.

  Myra waited until Dillon had left the apartment, then she began a systematic search. She knew Dillon had no head for addresses. Somewhere, she was sure, she would find a clue that would lead her to this broad. Her face hard and set and her hands impatient, she went carefully through Dillon’s wardrobe. She turned out every pocket, but she found nothing. She went through his drawers, careful not to disturb anything, but again she was unsuccessful.

  She sat back on the bed thinking. This was getting her nowhere. He must have written the address down. She was certain of it. The only hope was he would be carrying it on him. That would make things difficult. She went once more to his compact room. Three soiled evening shirts caught her eye, hanging up on a peg. He’d been too lazy to throw them out for the wash.

  On the cuff of one of them she found what she was looking for. Scribbled in pencil was an address—158 Sunset Avenue.

  She stood there, holding the shirt in her hand, a cold fury sweeping over her. “You see, you two-timin’ bastard, this whore of yours is goin’ to get a shock.”

  Putting the shirt carefully back in the cupboard, she went to her drawer and found her gun. It was a toy affair with a mother-o’-pearl handle, exceedingly unpleasant at close quarters. She put on her hat and coat and shoved the gun in her handbag. Then she stood hesitating. Maybe this wasn’t quite the job for a gun. A hard little smile reached her mouth. She took from Dillon’s drawer a length of solid rubber hose. She balanced it in her hand thoughtfully. Then, winding the thong round her wrist, she forced the hose up her sleeve.

  Slamming the front door behind her, she took the elevator to the street level. A yellow taxi shot to the kerb and she nodded briefly. “Sunset Avenue,” she said. “An’ flog your horse.”

  The taxi jerked away. The driver said, “This is a hell of a town. I’ve never run into any guy who ain’t in a hurry.”

  Myra wasn’t in the mood to talk. She said nothing.

  The taxi-driver studied her in the mirror thought she was easy on the eye, and let it go at that.

  Sunset Avenue was at the far end of the town. It took them a good half-hour’s run to make it. The driver suddenly crammed on his brakes. “Here it is, lady: what number jer want?”

  Myra said, “Stop here… this’ll do.” She got out of the cab and paid him off. Then she walked slowly down the Avenue looking for 158. Her fury was smouldering by the time she found it. The place was a neat little villa standing in a fair-size garden. A place like this would cost money to keep up, she thought, and for a moment she hesitated. Maybe she had made a mistake. This place might be where one of Dillon’s business associates hung out. Her step faltered. Then she thought she’d come this far, it wouldn’t take long to check it up.

  She walked up the crazy pavement and rang on the bell. She stood waiting, uncertain of herself. The door jerked open and Fanquist gaped at her.

  It was certainly a shock to Myra. She saw it in a flash. Dillon was the rich guy who was staking this floosie to a good time.

  She said quietly, “Hello. I bet this is a surprise.”

  Fanquist got her nerve back. She said, “My Gawd, it’s the kid again! What the hell you doin’ here?”

  Myra said, “Dillon told me you had moved, so I thought I’d look you up.”

  “Dillon told you?” Fanquist’s eyes hardened.

  Myra nodded. “Sure. May I come in? I’d love to look around.”

  Fanquist stood squarely in the doorway. She said in a hard voice, “Scram… go on, get to hell out of here!”

  Myra could see two men wandering down the street. She had to get inside quick. Still keepi
ng a smile on her face, she said, “Why, Fan, that ain’t the way to talk. I gotta message for you.” She opened her bag casually. Fanquist watched her, a puzzled look on her face. She wondered what the hell all this was leading to.

  Myra took the gun out of her bag and showed it to Fanquist. “Get inside quick, you bow-legged street pushover,” she said with a rush.

  Fanquist’s eyes opened very wide, and she went white under her rouge. She took a step back, and Myra stepped in and shut the door.

  A big living-room opened out from the hall, and Myra drove Fanquist in there. The room was expensively furnished.

  Myra said between her teeth, “So this is the love-nest, is it?”

  Fanquist stammered, “You’re going to be sorry for this…. Wait until he hears about it.”

  “Sit down, you bitch,” Myra said. “I’ve got a lot to talk to you about.”

  Fanquist said harshly, “You ain’t throwin’ a scare into me. You better get out an’ get out quick.”

  “Sit down,” Myra repeated. She held one hand behind her back, jerking the rubber club down from her sleeve.

  Fanquist was getting her nerve back all right. She sneered. “That rod ain’t gettin’ you anywhere…. Get out!”

  Myra swung the club round and hit Fanquist across her face with it. Fanquist staggered back, the chair struck her behind her knees, and she collapsed into it. She held both her hands over her face, the pain striking her dumb. Myra stepped back a little and waited.

  “Maybe you’ll jump to it next time,” she said.

  “You’re goin’ to pay for this,” Fanquist gasped. “My God, you’re goin’ to pay for this!”

  “Listen, you bohunk. You’re goin’ to clear out of this town quick, an’ you’ll stay out. I’m just givin’ you a warning.”

  Fanquist took her hands away from her face. Her eyes glittered murderously. She screamed suddenly, “You can’t make me get out!… Dillon’s mine now—He’s mine—do you hear?”

  Myra’s face was hard. She took a step forward. The .25 was pointing directly at Fanquist. “That’s what you say,” she snapped. “You’re goin’ okay, and you’re goin’ for good.”