Dead Stay Dumb by James Hadley Chase Read Free Book Online Page B

becoming more and more feeble, until he reeled over and fell on his side, like a stricken elephant. She drew off. Swinging the chair-back over her head, she gave him one final crushing blow that made his battered head jerk up and then flop on the floor. Then, with a frightened look, she snatched up her dress and ran blindly up to her attic.
      
      
     They pushed their way down the aisle. Gurney came first, then Dillon, and then Morgan. The house was so full they had difficulty in getting to their seats. They were right on top of the ring.
     A preliminary was just commencing. The arc-lights overhead dimmed as they arrived at their seats. Gurney squeezed past a slim blonde, pulling her skirts to her knees. “Don't mind me,” she snapped.
     Dillon stood waiting to pass. “If your arches ain't broke,” he said, “suppose you stand up; I ain't so likely to strip you that way.”
     Two fat guys sitting behind her went off in loud, explosive sniggers.
     The blonde took a look at Dillon and figgered he was too tough for her. She stood up and let him through. Morgan crowded past her quickly. They sat down.
     Just above the ring lights a heavy haze of tobacco-smoke lay like a mist rising from damp ground. The hall was as hot as hell. Dillon wrenched his collar undone and pulled his tie down a little.
     The two lightweights were slamming into each other murderously. Gurney leant towards Dillon. “You seen Sankey?” he asked.
     Dillon shook his head. “Sankey ain't worryin' me,” he said. “I guess I'll give Franks a call.”
     “We got him scared,” Gurney said; “you see.”
     The crowd suddenly gave a great sigh, that sounded like a groan, as one of the fighters began to buckle at the knees.
     Morgan shouted, “Go after him, you little punk—nail him.”
     The gong saved him.
     Dillon got to his feet; he pushed past Morgan, climbed over the blonde and walked up the aisle again. At the head of the corridor leading to the dressing-rooms a little runt in a yellow-white jersey stopped him. “This is as far as you'll get,” he said.
     “I'm on business,” Dillon said, and went on.
     The little runt had to let him go; he was just swept aside.
     Dillon wandered into Sankey's room. Hank was sitting on a stool beside the table. Sankey was lying on the table, a bright-red dressing-gown covered him. They both looked up as Dillon came in.
     Hank said, “He's on next but one.”
     Dillon pursed his lips. “You okay?” he said.
     Sankey half sat up. “Sure I'm okay. This guy's goin' to take a dive, ain't he?”
     Dillon nodded. “That don't mean you ain't gotta try,” he said evenly; “you gotta watch this guy, Sankey.”
     Hank said heatedly, “Sure he'll watch him... what you think?”
     Dillon nodded. Then he wandered out again. He walked softly down the corridor until he came to Franks' room. He put his hand inside his coat, feeling the cold butt of the Colt. Then he opened the door and went in.
     Franks was staring moodily at his feet. His trainer, Borg, was sitting despondently on a wooden chair, cleaning his nails with a small knife. He looked up sharply as Dillon came in. “Wrong room, buddy,” he said crisply. “On your way.”
     Dillon didn't even look at him. He said to Franks, “We're outside watching.”
     Franks looked up. “Get out, an' stay out!” he said.
     Dillon didn't move. “Don't get this thing wrong,” he said. “We don't want to start anythin'.”
     Borg got off his chair. He came over to Dillon fast. He was only a little guy, and fat, but he'd got plenty of guts. “What the hell you blowin' about? Scram, you ain't wanted here.”
     Dillon looked down at him, sneered, and wandered out. At the door he turned his head. “In about the fifth, Franks,”