Dead Stay Dumb

by James Hadley Chase

  The Dead Stay Dumb

  James Hadley Chase

  PART ONE

  There were three of them. The bigness of the room hid them from the sun, burning up the road outside. They sat round a table, close to the bar, drinking corn whisky.

  George, behind the bar, held a swab in his thick fingers, and listened to them talk. Every now and then he nodded his square head and said, “You're dead right, mister.” He just “yessed” them along—that was all.

  Walcott uneasily fingered a coin in his vest pocket. It was all the money he had, and it was worrying him. Freedman and Wilson had stood him a round, and now it was coming to his turn. He couldn't rise to it. His weak, freckled face began to glisten. He touched his scrubby moustache with a dirty thumb and moved restlessly.

  Wilson said, “Cain't go no place these days but there's some lousy bum lookin' for a free flop an' a bite of somethin' to eat. This town's lousy with bums.”

  Walcott said quickly, “Ain't it gettin' hot in here? Seems like it's too hot to drink even.”

  Freedman and Wilson looked at him suspiciously. Then Freedman drained his glass and set it on the table with a little bang. “Ain't never too hot for me to drink,” he said.

  George leant over the bar. “Shall I fill 'em up, mister?” he said to Walcott.

  Walcott hesitated, looked at the two blank, coldly suspicious faces of the other two, and nodded. He put the coin on the counter. He did it reluctantly, as if the parting with it was a physical hurt. He said, “Not for me... jest two.”

  There was a heavy silence, while George poured the liquor. The other two knew it was Walcott's last coin, but they wouldn't let him off. They were determined to have everything they could from him.

  George picked up the coin, looked at it, spun it in his thick fingers, and flipped it into the till. Walcott followed every movement with painful intensity. He screwed round a little in his chair, so that he couldn't see the others drinking. He put his hands over his eyes.

  Freedman turned his red fat face and winked at Wilson. He said, “It's only the Kikes that have the dough.”

  George said ponderously, “Yeah, you're right, mister.”

  “Sure I'm right,” Freedman said, sipping his corn whisky. “Take a look at Abe Goldberg, ain't he got most of the dough in the town?”

  Walcott turned his head. His pale eyes lit up. “That guy's stinking with it,” he said. “Hell of a lot of good it does him, too.”

  Wilson shrugged. “His fat cow sews up his pockets,” he said. “He don't drink, he don't smoke, he don't do nothin'.”

  Freedman winked again. “You're wrong there,” he said. “But what he does do don't cost him anything.” They laughed.

  The three-quarter swing doors of the saloon pushed open, and a girl came in. She stood hesitating in the patch of sunlight at the door, trying to see in the dimness of the room. Then she came over to the bar.

  George said, “'Morning, Miss Hogan, how's your Pa?”

  The girl said, “Gimme a pint of Scotch.”

  George reached under the counter and slapped down a bottle in front of her. She gave him a bill, and while he was getting change she looked round the room. She saw the three, sitting watching her. They sat like waxworks, suspended in everything but her. She looked slowly from one to the other, then she tossed her head and turned back to the bar.

  “I ain't got all day,” she said. “Stir your stumps, can't you?”

  George put the money on the counter. Aw, Miss Hogan—” he began.

  She picked up the money and the bottle quickly. “Forget it,” she said, and walked out.

  The three turned in their chairs as she went, their eyes fixed in a bright, unblinking stare. They watched her push the swing doors and disappear into the hot, sunlit road.

  There was a lengthy silence.

  Then Freedman said, “She ain't got a thing under that dress, did you see?”

  Walcott still stared at the door, as if hoping she'd return. He nervously wiped his hands on a cap he held on his knee.

  Wilson said, “If I were Butch I'd take the hide off her back... the little whore.”

  George said, “Ain't she a looker? There ain't another skirt in this dump like her, ain't that right?”

  Walcott dragged his eyes away from the door. “Yeah,” he said: “See the way she came in? Standin' in the sunlight like that, showing all she got. That girl's a tease. She's going to get into trouble one of these days, you see.”

  Freedman leered. “You don't know nothin',” he said. “You can't teach that babe a thing. I'm tellin' you, she's hot. I've seen her at night with one of those engineer fellows in the fields.”

  The other two jerked their chairs forward. They leant over the table. George looked at them. They had suddenly lowered their voices. He couldn't hear what they were saying. He hesitated, then, feeling himself excluded, he moved further down the bar, and began to polish glasses. Anyway, he told himself, it wasn't too healthy talking about old Butch Hogan's daughter Old Butch was still dangerous.

  A long, starved shadow of a man tell across the floor of the saloon, making George look up sharply.

  The man stood in the doorway holding the swing doors apart with his hands. A battered, greasy hat pulled over his face hid his eyes. George looked at him, saw the frayed, stained coat, the threadbare trousers and the broken shoes. He automatically reached forward and put the cover on the free-lunch bowl.

  “Another goddam bum,” he thought.

  The man came in with a limping shuffle. He looked at the three at the table, but they didn't see him. They were still wrangling about the girl. George leant forward a little over the bar and spat in the brass spittoon. Then having expressed his attitude, he straightened up and went on polishing a glass.

  “The name's Dillon,” the man said slowly.

  George said, “Yeah? Ain't nothin' to me What's yours?”

  “Gimme a glass of water.” Dillon's voice was deep and gritty.

  George said, his face hostile, “We don't serve water here.”

  “But you'll serve me an' like it,” Dillon said. “D'you hear me, punk?—I said water.”

  George reached under the counter for his club, but Dillon suddenly pushed up his hat and leant forward.

  “You ain't startin' anythin',” he said.

  The cold black eyes that looked at George made the barman suddenly shiver. He took his hand away with a jerk. Dillon continued to stare at him.

  There were no guts in George. He was big, and every now and then he had to smack someone down with his club. He did it without thinking. This bum was different. George knew he'd get nowhere being tough with a guy like this.

  “Here, take the water, an' get the hell outta here.” He pushed a bottle of water across the wood in Dillon's direction.

  The three at the table stopped talking about Hogan's daughter and turned in their chairs. Freedman said, “Well, by God! Here's another bum blown in.”

  George began to sweat. He walked down the counter to Freedman, shaking his head warningly.

  Dillon took a long pull from the water-bottle.

  Sure of himself, because of his two companions, Freedman said, “This punk stinks. Get him outta here, George.”

  Dillon put the bottle down on the counter and turned his head. His white, clay-like face startled Freedman. Dillon said, “You're the kind of heel that gets slugged some dark night.”

  Freedman lost some of his nerve. He turned his back and began talking to Walcott.

  Just then Abe Goldberg came in. He was a little fat Jew, maybe about sixty, with a great hooked beak and two sharp little eyes. His mouth turned up at the corners, giving him a kindly look. He nodded at George and ordered a ginger ale. Dillon looked at him closely. Abe was sh
abby, but he wore a thick rope of gold across his chest. Dillon eyed that with interest. Abe met his eye. He said, “You a stranger around here?”

  Dillon began to shuffle to the door. “Don't you worry about me,” he said.

  Abe looked him over, sighed, and put his glass on the wood. He walked over to Dillon, looking up at him. “If you could use a meal,” he said, “go over to the store across the way. My wife'll fix you something.”

  Dillon stood looking at Abe, his cold eyes searching the little Jew's face. Then he said, “Yeah, I guess I'll do that.”

  The three at the table, and George, watched him shuffle out of the saloon. Freedman said, “That's a bad guy all right. There's somethin' about that guy.”

  George mopped his face with the swab. He was mighty glad to see Dillon go. “You gotta be careful with those bums, Mr. Goldberg,” he said. “You don't know how tough hoboes are.”

  Abe drained his glass, then shook his head. “That guy's all right. He's hungry,” was all he said. He crossed the street and went into the store.

  Abe Goldberg was proud of that store. It was all right. It was a good store. You could get most things from Goldberg's Stores. Maybe you did have to pay a little more, but it was convenient. All under one root. It saved a walk in the heat, so you expected to pay a little more. Anyway, Abe made a good thing out of it. He didn't toss his money about, nor did he yell-about it. He just socked it away in the bank, and said nothing. Most people liked Abe. He was a little sharp, but then you expected that too, so you haggled with him. Sometimes, if you haggled long enough, you got what you wanted cheaper. Abe's joint was the only one in town that you could haggle in. And sometimes people like to haggle.

  Abe walked into his shady cool store, sniffed at the various smells, and smiled to himself. His wife, who came a little older than he, shook her black curls at him. She was fat, and she had big half-circles of damp under her arms, but Abe loved her a lot.

  “Goldberg,” she said, “what's the big idea, sending bums into my kitchen?”

  Abe lifted his narrow shoulders and spread out his hands. “That guy was hungry,” he said. “What could I do?”

  He lifted the trap on the counter and passed through. His small hand patted his wife's great arm. “You know how it is,” he said softly; “we've been hungry Give him a break, Rosey, won't you?”

  She nodded her head. “It's always the same. Bum after bum comes into this town and they all make tracks for you. I tell you, Goldberg, you're a sucker.” Her big, fleshy smile delighted him.

  “You're a hard woman, Rosey,” he said, patting her arm again.

  Dillon was eating in the kitchen, intent and morose, when Abe went in. He glanced up, keeping his head lowered over his plate, then he looked down again.

  Abe stood there, shifting his feet a little in embarrassment. He said at last, “You go ahead an' eat.”

  With his mouth full, Dillon said, “Sure.”

  Sitting there, his hat still wedged on his head, the knife and fork dwarfed in his big hairy hands, Dillon impressed Abe. There was an intense, savage power coming from him; Abe could feel it. It scared him a little.

  For something to say, Abe remarked, “You come far?”

  Again Dillon raised his cold eyes and looked. “Far enough,” he said.

  Abe pulled up a chair and carefully lowered his small body down. He put his hands on the table—clean, soft hands of a child. He said, “Where you headin' for?”

  Dillon tore a piece of bread from the loaf and swabbed his plate round, then he put the bread in his mouth and clamped on it slowly. He pushed his plate away from him and sat back, hooking his thumbs in his belt. He still kept his head slightly lowered, so Abe couldn't see him very well. “As far as I can git,” he said.

  “Maybe a drop of beer'd come nice?” Abe said.

  Dillon shook his head. “I can't use the stuff.”

  In spite of himself, Abe's face brightened. The guy could have a drink on him with pleasure, but, maybe, he was getting a little generous. He said, “A smoke?”

  Again Dillon shook his head. “Can't use that either.”

  Outside, in the store, Rosey gave a sudden squeal. Abe sat up listening. “What's up with my Rose?” he said.

  Dillon explored his teeth with a match-end. He said nothing. Abe got to his feet and walked into the store.

  Walcott was leaning over the counter, glaring at Rosey. His thin, boney face was red.

  Abe said nervously, “What is it?”

  Walcott shouted, “What's up? I'll tell you what's up, you goddam Kike. She ain't givin' me no more tick, that's what's up.”

  Abe nodded his head. “That's right, Mister Walcott,” he said, going a little white. “You owe me too much.”

  Walcott saw he was scared. He said, “You gimme what I want, or I'll bust you.” He closed his hand into a fist and leant over the counter, swinging at Abe. Abe stepped back hastily and banged his head hard against a shelf. Rosey squealed again.

  Dillon shuffled slowly out of the kitchen into the store. He looked at Walcott, then he said, “Lay off.”

  Walcott was drunk. The corn whisky still burnt in a fiery ball deep inside him. He turned slowly. “Keep out of this, you bum,” he said.

  Dillon reached forward and hit Walcott in the middle of his face. The blow came up from his ankles. A spongy mass of blood suddenly appeared where Walcott's nose had been. Walcott reeled away, holding on to his face with both hands.

  Dillon stood watching him. He rubbed his knuckles with his other hand. He said, “Scram... get the hell outta here!”

  Walcott went, his knees buckling as he walked.

  Abe and Rosey stood motionless. The little Jew's hands Muttered up and down his coat. He finally said, “You shouldn't've hit him that hand.”

  Dillon said nothing. He began to move to the door.

  Abe said, “Wait. Don't go. I guess we gotta thank you for that.”

  Dillon turned his head. “Save it,” he said, “I got to get goin'.”

  Rosey plucked at Abe's sleeve. “Give that boy a job, Goldberg,” she said.

  Abe looked at her in astonishment. “Why, Rosey...” he began.

  Dillon looked at them suspiciously. Standing there in the dim store, his great shoulders hunched, he frightened Abe.

  Rosey said, “Go on, Goldberg, give him a break You gotta get a hand some time, so make it now.”

  Abe looked timidly at Dillon. “Sure,” he said uneasily. “That's dead right. I was goin' to hire me a hand. That's right. Suppose we talk it over?”

  Dillon stood hesitating, then he nodded.

  “Sure, go ahead an' talk about it.”

  Myra Hogan walked down the main street, conscious of the turning heads. Even the niggers hesitated in their work, frightened to look up, but peeping their heads lowered.

  She clicked on, her high wooden heels tapping a challenge. The men watched her, stripping her with their eyes, as she passed them.

  The women watched her, too. Cold, envious eyes, hating her. Myra rolled her hips a little. She put on a slight strut, patting her dark curls. Her firm young body, unhampered by any restraining garment, moved rhythmically. Her full, firm breasts jerked under the thin covering of her cheap, flowered dress.

  At the end of the street a group of slatternly women stood gossiping, ripping people to pieces in the hot sunlight. They saw her coming and stopped talking, standing there; silent, elderly, bulging women, worn out by childbirth and hard work. Myra stiffened as she approached them. For a moment her step lost its rhythmic swing. The wooden heels trod softer. Her confidence in herself had no solid foundations; she was still very young. In the company of her elders she had to force herself forward.

  With an uneasy smile on her full red lips she came on. But the women, as she came nearer, shifted like a brood of vultures, turning their drooping shoulders against her, their eyes sightless, not seeing her. Again the wooden heels began to click Her face flushed, her head held high, she went past.

 
A buzz of talk broke out behind her. One of the women said loudly: “I'd give her something—the dirty little whore.”

  Myra kept on. “The sluts!” she thought, furious with them. “I've got everything, and they hate me.”

  The bank stood at the end of the main street. Clem Gibson was standing in the doorway. He saw Myra coming, and he nervously fingered his tie.

  Clem Gibson was someone in the town. He ran the bank, he owned a car, and he changed his shirt twice a week.

  Myra slowed down a little and flashed him a smile.

  “Why, Miss Hogan, you are lookin' swell,” Gibson said.

  This line of talk pleased Myra. She said, “Aw, you're kiddin'.”

  Gibson beamed behind his horn glasses. “I wouldn't kid you, Miss Hogan, honest.”

  Myra made to move on. “Well, it's nice of you to say so,” she said. “I've just got to get goin'. My Pa's waitin' for me.”

  Gibson came down the two steps. “I was going to suggest—that is—I wanted to ask you... He paused, embarrassed.

  Myra looked up at him, her long black lashes curling above her eyes. “Yes?”

  “Look, Miss Hogan, suppose you an' me go places sometime.”

  Myra shook her head. She thought he'd got a hell of a nerve. Go out with him and have his horse-faced wife starting a beef. He was crazy. Myra had enough sense to leave the married men alone. They were only after one thing, and she wasn't giving anything away. “Pa just wouldn't stand for it,” she said. “He don't like married men takin' me out. Ain't he soft?”

  Gibson stepped back. His face glistened with embarrassment. “Sure,” he said, “your Pa's right. You better not tell him about this. I wasn't thinking.” He was scared of Butch Hogan.

  Myra moved on. “I won't tell him,” she said.

  He watched her hungrily as she went, her buttocks jerking under the tight dress.

  It was quite a walk to her home, and she was glad when she pushed open the low wooden gate that led to the tumbledown shack.

  She stood at the gate and looked at the place. She thought, “I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!”

  The garden was a patch of baked, cracked mud. The house was a one-storeyed affair, made throughout with wood that wind and rain had warped and sun had bleached. It stood there—an ugly depressing symbol of poverty.