Dead Stay Dumb by James Hadley Chase Page B

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