In the car, Myra drove rapidly past the George Washington monument, past Union Station and into Main Street. She kept the car steady, threading her way through the traffic, but taking no risks. This was no time to get into an argument with a traffic cop. Dillon sat beside her, the Thompson between his knees, covered by his raincoat.
Myra said, “For God’s sake don’t wait for these guys to start anythin’. Blast ’em as soon as you see ’em.” She eased the Packard past a tumbledown jaloopy, then went on, “Hurst’ll see there ain’t a murder rap hangin’ on to this.”
Dillon said out of the darkness, “One of these days I’m goin’ to shut that trap of yours for good. You talk too much.”
Myra said nothing. Her lips tightened a little, but she kept her temper with an effort. She swung into Eighteenth and stopped the Packard at the corner of Eighteenth and Central Streets. She spilled out of the car quickly. Seventeenth was just a block ahead.
Keeping the Thompson under his coat, Dillon hurried after her. The apartment house was one of those discreet places with everything automatic and no attendants to check who came in or went out.
Myra went over to the row of mail-boxes. She looked over her shoulder at Dillon. “It’s on the fourth floor. Suppose we take the elevator to the third an’ walk?”
Dillon said, “We walk from here.”
Silently they mounted the stairs. On the third floor two tough-looking birds were lounging against the wall. They looked at Dillon hard, but the two kept on. Myra gave them just a casual glance. Dillon didn’t even look at them, but he saw them all right. On the fourth floor no one was about.
A little breathless from the climb, Dillon said, “I guess those two guys are waiting for him down there.”
“What are we goin’ to do? Go back an’ give it to ’em?”