Free Dead Stay Dumb by James Hadley Chase Page A

thought he was having a swell break bringing her along, and then to have her lock herself in every night. His chin was covered with a stubbly beard, and his eyes, still puffy with sleep, peered at her hungrily.
     Across the way was another little room, where Dillon slept. The door was shut. They didn't expect to see him for some time.
     Myra said, “Suppose you get the fire goin'.” She spoke shortly.
     Gurney said, “Sure.” He wandered outside and came back with a handful of wood. He sat down in front of the small stove and began to poke at the ashes.
     Myra filled the kettle and began to lay the table. When the wood in the stove was crackling Gurney got up and put the kettle on. He walked round the room, scratching himself under the arms, yawning. His eyes were on Myra. She didn't take any notice of him, but she could feel his lust for her.
     He came up behind her, slipping his arms round her, his hands over her breasts. He hugged her to him.
     Myra stood quite still. “Get away, will you?” she snapped. “There's work to do.”
     Gurney forced her round. “I'm sick of this,” he said savagely. “I ain't goin' to stand it.”
     He lifted her off her feet and ran her into her room. Myra made no effort to resist him. In the room, he set her down, arid stood holding her, his chest heaving.
     She said, “You're gettin' wrong ideas, Nick.”
     “Yeah?” He shook her a little. “That's what you think. You're enough to drive a guy nuts.... What's the idea? You're hot enough when Butch might've killed you... but now...”
     She kept her face cold. “The kettle's boiling,” she said. “Suppose you come down to earth.”
     Gurney took his hands off her. “By God!” he said angrily. “You can't treat me like this.”
     A furious wave of rage shot through her like a flame. “And what d'you think this is?” she screamed at him. “Look at me! How d'you think I like this? There's not a rag to my back. All you think is gettin' into bed. Well, you got another think coming. That lousy punk out there's got a roll of dough, and he just sits on it. How long d'you think we're goin' to stay in this sty? Who the hell are you to get sore?”
     Gurney backed away uneasily. “Pipe down,” he said surlily, “I can't help it, can I?”
     “You can't help it!” She beat her hands together. “I'll show you something.”
     She pushed past him and burst in on Dillon. Dillon was sitting up in bed. He was wearing a shirt and trousers, a splinter of wood between his teeth. He looked at her suspiciously. “What the hell do you want, bustin' in like this?” he snarled.
     “I'll tell you what I want,” she stormed at him. “I want to get out of here. I want some dough to buy things with.... I'm sick of messing around working for a couple of ragged-arse bums like you for nothin'. Look at me... look at this dress...”
     Dillon swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up. Gurney stood in the open doorway. He was scared. Dillon hunched his shoulders. “Listen,” he said. “You just get out quick or I'll toss you out. I'm the boss of this outfit, see?”
     Myra sneered at him. She stood with her legs planted wide and her hands on her hips. “You couldn't be a boss of any outfit, you small-time gunman,” she said. “Get that into your thick dome Now come on, let's have some dough.”
     Dillon swung his fist and hit her on the side of her head. It was a solid punch. She hurtled across the room, banging her shoulder against the rough wood, and falling in a heap.
     Gurney said feebly from the door, “Hey! You can't knock her around like that.”
     Dillon looked at him. His cold eyes were glittering. “Keep out of this,” he said; “she had it comin' to her. She ain't goin' to get anywhere with that line of talk.”
     Myra scrambled to her