Dead Stay Dumb Page 7

  “That's a hell of a tale,” Gurney said. The admiration in his voice pleased Dillon.

  “Listen, bozo,” Dillon said. “This country's nuts. Every goddam flatfoot has to buy his own rod. They give him everything else, but not his gun. He has to lay down cash for it. Okay; there comes a time when a sheriff gives over, see? Maybe he gives over 'cause he's too old, or maybe he's sick or somethin'. Well, that guy wants to buy a business or a farm or live on his savings. What the hell does he want with a gun? What's he to do then? Some guy blows in an' makes him an offer. He gets an offer twice as good as he'd get if he turned the rod over to a gunsmith. It ain't legal sellin' Thompsons to anyone, but what the hell? He's out for good, so he should worry.”

  Gurney said, “You got this from a sheriff?” His voice was incredulous.

  Dillon nodded. “Sure I did.” He reached forward and picked up the .45. “I went into town today an' got talkin'. Some guy said the sheriff in the next town was closin' down, so I grabbed the car an' went out to see him. That little lot set me back a good few bucks, but that ain't goin' to worry me. A Tommy talks any time.”

  Myra recognized this much. Dillon knew the ropes. Gurney wasn't in the same street with him for ideas. He knew where to-get things and how to get them. This guy could teach them something.

  She said, making her voice soft, “I guess that's smart.”

  Dillon looked at her hard, but Myra's eyes were wide with admiration. He grunted. “I guess I know my way around,” he said.

  “Can you work this?” Gurney said, tapping the Thompson.

  Dillon stood up. “Can I work it?” He picked it up and walked outside. “You watch me.”

  Myra and Gurney followed him out. They did not look at each other, but Myra put her hand on Gurney's arm, gripping his muscle. Gurney nodded his head, still keeping his eyes on Dillon's back.

  Dillon looked round thoughtfully, selecting a target. “You ain't got to worry about aimin' this gun, he said; “you spray it, see? You just gotta hold it steady an' bring it round slow in a sweep... like this.”

  He raised the gun, levelling it at the garage door, then he pressed the trigger. The shattering roar of the gun made Myra take an involuntary step backwards. Chips of white wood flew from the door. From where they stood they could see the holes spring up in the woodwork in an even line.

  Dillon stopped firing and turned to look at them. “See?” he said. “That's the way. This gun's goin' to stop anythin' on two legs.”

  Myra came over to him. “I bet I could do that,” she said.

  Dillon looked down at her, hesitating. Then his good-humour overcame his caution. He gave the gun to her. “You gotta hold her.”

  Myra pressed the butt into her side, her finger curling round the trigger, then she squeezed. The gun jumped about in her hand as if it were alive. The dry mud puffed up and the leaves from the trees overhanging the garage fell in a shower; she winged the door twice.

  Dillon said, “Take it easy... you gotta hold that gun.”

  Gurney was itching to try. He looked at Dillon, trying to catch his eye. Myra held the gun, looking at it thoughtfully, then she shoved it in Gurney's hands.

  Dillon scowled. “Hey,” he said, “those shells cost dough!”

  Gurney was not to be put off. He raised the gun and fired off a round. The wood splinters again spurted. He could see he'd drawn a line of holes almost as well as Dillon.

  Myra said, “You ain't so good as this guy.”

  That pleased Dillon. Anyway, that's why she said it. He took the gun from Gurney and walked back to the cabin Gurney followed close behind him.

  They both sat and watched Dillon clean the gun. Every now and then Myra would ask a question. She asked it in a way that touched Dillon's vanity. He talked all right. They learnt a lot about that gun while he was cleaning it.

  Gurney helped Dillon hide the case of shells, and they put the gun under Dillon's bed. Then they came back to the sitting-room.

  Dillon sat on the edge of the table and looked at Gurney. “There's a small bank down there that might be worth workin' over I'd do it if I'd someone to drive the car.”

  Myra said quietly, “I'll drive the car.”

  Dillon jerked his head round. “What the hell do you know about a car?” he said shortly. “A getaway is the main thing in a bank stick-up. The guy who handles the wheel's got to use his head. He's got to drive like hell an' keep on drivin' like hell.”

  Myra shrugged. “I guess nobody's goin' to drive like hell in that old jaloopy,” she said.

  “Who said I was going in her?” Dillon demanded. “You don't know a thing about this business. I'll knock a car off when I'm ready. A real fast job, with enough steam under the hood to shake anythin' on four wheels.”

  “Get a bus like that,” Myra said, “an' I'll drive it.”

  Dillon began to get angry. “Will you keep your goddam nose outta this?” he snarled. “This ain't for you, so shut up.”

  Myra got up and walked to the door. “Yeah?” she said. “Then watch this.”

  She ran over to the old car outside, slipped under the wheel and started the engine. She had that old bus going forty before she was out of sight. She had changed up, one—two—three—almost in so many seconds. Back she came, swinging the wheel so that the wheels on the offside lifted and slammed back, nearly jerking her out of the car. She pushed the old bus right up to the cabin, making Dillon and Gurney jump to their feet before she nailed it dead. She got out of the car and walked into the cabin again.

  Dillon looked at her. There was a look of astonishment in his eyes, but he kept his face blank.

  “She can handle a car all right,” Gurney said to him. “I guess she wouldn't lose her nerve.”

  Dillon hesitated and then he nodded. “Sure,” he said. “I guess we'll knock that bank tomorrow.”

  Behind his back the two exchanged glances.

  The big Cadillac settled down to business. Myra kept the pedal on the boards, holding the car to the crown of the road. Gurney was beside her, and Dillon sat at the back. He held the Thompson by his side, covered with a blanket.

  It was just after three o'clock, and the afternoon sun was hot. It reflected on the white road and shimmered across the green fields.

  They'd had the breaks all right. It was not just chance. Dillon had gone over everything with a thoroughness that surprised the other two. First he made a map on a piece of white card. The bank was plotted right in the centre. He had made arrangements for getting away in three different ways. “It's like this,” he explained. “We come out with the dough. Maybe some guy puts up a squawk. Okay. The sheriff might've grabbed himself a car and come beating down here.” He traced a line on the map. “We gotta go this way. Maybe he'll come from this direction. We ain't got time to swing the bus round, so we beat it to the right. With this map we got three getaways.” He had pinned the map just above the windscreen, over Myra's head. He'd taken Myra through that map until she was sick of it.

  “You gotta keep your nut,” he had told her. “I'll be right with you, but you gotta go where I say, an' go quick. You ain't gotta argue... you gotta drive.”

  When Dillon was through with her, he started on Gurney. He showed Gurney how to pull the gun, and how to shoot. Dillon said to him, “You ain't to pop that heater. You leave that to me. There's only two punks in that bank, an' those guys ain't goin' to cause trouble. They got a wife, an' maybe they got kids. All you gotta do is to collect the dough and get out quick.”

  Gurney had the .45 under his coat. It made him feel good. He was excited, and he wasn't scared any more.

  The jaloopy had been hidden in a wood some twenty miles from the bank. Dillon hadn't any trouble knocking off the Cadillac. It just stood in the main street asking to be knocked off. Even the engine was running, while some guy did his week-end store buying. That bus certainly could move.

  They began to run into the town. Dillon edged himself forward, so that his head came between the two in the front. “Take
it easy,” he said. “Just run up and stop without any fuss.”

  Myra said, between her teeth, “What the hell you think I'd do? Turn the goddam thing over, and push it down the street on its roof?” Her heart was banging against her ribs.

  Dillon sat back. “You keep your nut,” was all he said. Taking the blanket off the Thompson, he pulled the gun across his knees, his left hand on the car door.

  Gurney pulled the .45 from inside his coat. He held it in his lap. His mouth was very dry.

  They pulled up outside the bank.

  Myra shoved out the clutch, put the gear in bottom, and revved the engine hard. She said, “Don't take all day.”

  Dillon put his Colt automatic beside her. “Maybe you better have that.”

  Myra slipped the gun under her, and sat on it. The butt was just under her hand.

  Swinging the door open, Dillon ran across the pavement and entered the bank. The Thompson was under his coat. Gurney came in at his heels. There was a fat woman wedged against the grille, arguing with the teller. Gurney could hear her voice putting up a squawk. His brain was stiff. He couldn't get what she was saying.

  A thin, lanky man got off a stool at the far end of the bank and wandered down when he saw Dillon.

  “Stand by the door,” Dillon said to Gurney.

  The lanky guy said, “We're closin' down right now,” he sounded as if he were bored to hell with the bank.

  “Grab some air,” Dillon yelled, pitching his voice high, “this is a stick-up.” The Thompson showed its black barrel.

  The two guys behind the counter stiffened into waxworks.

  The fat woman turned her head. Dillon was right behind her. She took one look at him and her big mouth opened. Gurney nearly dropped his gun. “That dame's going to yell the roof off,” he thought.

  Dillon shifted the gun a little and swung his fist. He hit the woman across her mouth with his knuckles. There was a lot of steam in that punch. She was right up against the counter, so she couldn't ride the punch. It made a real mess of her face. She flopped down on her knees and then spread out. A whistling sound dribbled from her throat. Without taking his eyes from the other two, Dillon kicked at her head. He kicked her just once. The woman's head bounced away from his boot. She stopped making any noise.

  The lanky guy suddenly went green, and vomited on the floor in front of him. He didn't lower his hands, but just bent his head forward.

  Dillon said to Gurney, “Hey! This bastard's been eatin' ice cream.”

  Gurney wasn't feeling so good himself. He scrambled over the grille The two watched him with wide eyes. They were scared to death.

  Gurney went through the drawers, piling the notes on the counter. Dillon stood watchful, holding the Thompson ready. He said, “Get the safe open.” He looked hard at the teller.

  Gurney grabbed the teller's arm. “Get it open!” he snarled, pushing the .45 into his ribs. “Get goin', you sonofabitch.”

  The teller staggered across to the vault, his knees buckling. Gurney could see the sweat running down behind his ears into his collar. The teller pulled open the door. It wasn't even locked. He tried to say something, but he was so scared he couldn't get his tongue working.

  Gurney grabbed the money, done up in neat packets. There wasn't a lot, but he took everything he could see. He left the coin. Then he ran back to the counter and shoved all the money into a small flour-sack he'd brought with him. He vaulted over the grille again.

  Dillon said, “Get goin'.” He stood by the door until Gurney was out, then he began to back out. “Don't start anythin',” he snarled at the lanky guy. “This typewriter'll cut you to hell.”

  He turned and ran. Myra was already rolling the car. As he sprang on the running-board the Cadillac shot forward with a jerk that nearly threw him loose.

  The car lurched with screaming tyres as she pulled into the centre of the road. Dillon tossed the Tommy into the back seat and clung to the running-board, trying to get in. “Gimme a hand, you bastard!” he yelled at Gurney.

  Gurney grabbed Dillon's arm, pulling him forward. Another lurch tossed Dillon head first into the car. He scrambled to his knees, swearing savagely.

  Myra gritted her teeth. At the back of her mind she had hoped to lose Dillon. She had not consciously tried to ditch him, but now he was safe she knew that she had tried to shake him.

  The Cadillac went down the main street with a rush. The quivering needle of the speedometer swung to seventy. Faintly above the swish of tyres and the scream of the wind they could hear people shouting.

  Myra gripped the wheel, her eyes fixed on the road that seemed to jump up from the ground and rush to meet her. Another car coming from the opposite direction crowded on brakes as the Cadillac hurtled down on it. Myra touched the wheel and swept by. The open road lay in front.

  Dillon glanced through the rear window. The road was deserted. He sat back on the seat and wiped off his palms. He was tossed about in the back as the car tore down the rough road.

  Gurney twisted his head and grinned at him. “Just like that,” he shouted.

  Dillon didn't say anything. He was looking murder. He wasn't sure if Myra had tried to ditch him. He knew it was a mighty close thing. Gurney was still clutching the sack. Dillon leant forward and took it from him. Gurney looked round, a little startled, but Dillon's cold eyes made him flinch. “Take it easy,” Dillon shouted to Myra, “we ain't goin' to turn this can over.”

  Myra eased the pressure on the pedal and the Cadillac dropped down to fifty.

  Gurney said, “It was a cinch.”

  Dillon sneered. “Sure, but it could've been tough.”

  They drove in silence for the next few miles. Gurney was feeling uneasy. He knew that if he'd let Dillon alone he'd have been shaken off the running-board. He knew Dillon knew it. What the hell was Myra playing at? This guy Dillon was too tricky to double-cross.

  Myra ran the Cadillac off the road when they came to the wood where the jaloopy was hidden. They all got out, leaving the Cadillac hidden from the road.

  Dillon took two quick steps away from the other two. His face was hard and threatening. He slightly raised the Tommy. “Put your rod on the ground,” he said to Gurney. “You keep away from the car,” he went on to Myra.

  The two stood very still. Myra found her voice. “What's the big idea?” she said, her voice suppressed.

  “I want those rods... maybe you didn't try to hang it on me in the car, but I ain't takin' any chances with you. Snap into it. Drop that gun, Gurney.”

  Gurney let the gun fall on the grass. He stepped away from it. His face was a little white. He was scared.

  Dillon picked the gun up and shoved it down the waistband of his trousers. He walked over to the Cadillac and took the gun lying on the seat. “Okay,” he said, “I guess that's all. We'll run back to the cabin now in the jalopy.”

  The two didn't say anything. Gurney got under the wheel and Myra got in beside him. Dillon climbed in at the back. They drove away, leaving the Cadillac.

  When they reached the cabin Dillon went straight to his room and shut himself in. They heard the bar fall in its socket, bolting him in.

  Myra stood very still, looking at Gurney. “We ain't gettin' anywhere with this guy,” she said, keeping her voice low. “He's gotta lot comin' to him.”

  Gurney slouched over to the bench and sat down. He rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully, looking hard at his feet. Myra stared at him for a moment, then she began getting a meal together.

  They didn't see Dillon until supper was on the table. He came out of his room, a cold, triumphant look on his face. He was conscious of the hard glances from the other two. Sitting down at the table, he began to shovel the food into his mouth. The other two just sat and watched him. After a moment he looked up irritably. “What the hell's the matter with you?” he demanded fiercely. “Ain't you hungry?”

  Myra said, “Did we get much outta that bank?”

  Dillon sneered at her. “You ain't gotta worry abo
ut that,” he said. “You're here to work, see?” He took some notes out of his pocket and tossed them across the table to Gurney. “That's your split,” he said evenly, and went on eating.

  Gurney looked at the notes as if he couldn't believe his eyes. He poked at them with his finger.

  Myra said, her voice very brittle, “Count 'em.”

  Gurney couldn't count them. He just sat and stared at them.

  Myra leant forward and snatched up the notes. She counted them out on the table, slapping them down and counting aloud. She made it a hundred dollars.

  Dillon went on eating, his eyes on his plate. There was a little circle of white round his mouth. He was getting mad all right.

  Myra said with a little hiss of breath, “What's this?”

  Dillon looked up at Gurney. “You let this bitch talk too much,” he said. He tossed the knife and fork on to his plate with a clatter and sat back. His hands lay on the table, his ringers tapping.

  Gurney said with a little rush, “A hundred bucks ain't much.”

  “Don't you stand for this,” Myra shrilled, pushing the notes away from her. “He's double-crossing you.”

  Dillon stood up, kicking over his chair. His eyes glittered. “I've told you,” he snarled at Gurney, “I ain't standin' any more of it. That bitch gets outta here, see? You're crazy to have her here... well, this finishes it... she's out!”

  Gurney looked up at him, his face drawn and glistening, but he knew he was up against Myra. “Say, listen,” he said, “somethin' is wrong. You don't mean this's all I get out of the stick-up?”

  Dillon eyed him. “You gone nuts?” he demanded savagely. “What the hell d'you think you're goin' to get out of it?”

  “A hundred bucks is peanut money.”

  Dillon sneered. “Sure it's peanut money. What of it? You didn't case the job, did you? You didn't fix the plans, did you? You didn't know where to find the bank, did you? Like hell you didn't. You just went in there and picked the dough outta the safe. A goddam monkey could've done it.”

  Gurney dropped his eyes. Dillon had him.

  “I'm givin' you that hundred bucks, an' you can like it. When you've used that nut of yours an' pulled somethin' good, then we'll split even, but not before.”