Dillinger (v5) (2 page)

Martha recoiled instinctively. Dillinger's courtly smile had changed into a stone mask. She went out, wanting to glance back, Lillian Holley followed. The door closed behind them. Dillinger stood there for a moment, then felt inside the mattress and took out the pistol.

'Are you with me?' he asked Youngblood.

'You crashing out, Mr Dillinger?'

'That's it.'

'The guy I killed was trying to stick a knife in me, but I could still get the chair, Mr Dillinger, him being white. That don't leave me much choice, so I'm with you.'

'Good, when the time comes just do as I say and I'll get you out of here,' Dillinger told him.

He took his jacket out of the cupboard, put it on and slipped the pistol into his right-hand pocket, then he lay on the bed and closed his eyes, thinking of his father. Boy that old son-of-a-bitch would be surprised if his bad boy walked in the door.

As one of the deputies unlocked the door at the rear of the prison, Lillian Holley said, 'Well, what did you make of him?'

Martha Ryan was bewildered and showed it. 'I expected a monster, not a ... ladies' man.'

'I know. It's very confusing. You know there are people who argue that he's never even killed anybody.'

'I can't believe that.'

'I'll tell you one thing. He's an Indiana farm boy, born and bred, and wherever he travels in the back country, people know, but they don't turn him in, not for any reward. Can you explain that to me?'

'No.'

'Well, when you can, you'll have your real story.'

She shook hands and Martha Ryan passed outside and the door closed behind her.

When Cahoon unlocked the door of Dillinger's cell he was carrying a bucket full of soapy water which he put down by the wall.

'OK, Herbert,' he said to Youngblood. 'Cleaning time.' He straightened and found himself staring into the muzzle of a Colt automatic, steady in Dillinger's hand. 'Jesus Christ,' he said softly.

Dillinger got off the bed. 'Just do as I say, Sam, and we'll get along. Understand?'

'Anything you say, Mr Dillinger,' Cahoon told him eagerly.

'Who's out there?'

'The cleaning detail, all trusties. They won't give you no trouble.'

'Any guards?'

'No.'

'What about down in the old jail?'

'I saw Deputy Sheriff Blunk down there a few moments ago.'

'Fine, we'll get to him in a second.'

Dillinger moved out into the long corridor, cells opening off it. There were about twelve men out there, all trusted prisoners as Cahoon had said, the cleaning detail starting the day's work, talking cheerfully amongst themselves.

Dillinger moved closer and paused. The man nearest to him saw him almost at once and stopped in the act of squeezing out his mop in the bucket, an expression of astonishment on his face. His stillness passed through the others like a wave. There was silence.

'Everyone inside.'

Dillinger motioned with the pistol and stood back as they filed past him into the cell. There was no trouble, but with men like these, he didn't expect any.

He said to Youngblood. 'You stay here. I'll be back.' He nodded to Cahoon. 'Let's go.'

When Deputy Sheriff Ernest Blunk on duty on the first floor heard Cahoon call to him, he went up the stairs without hesitation to find Dillinger waiting for him, gun in hand.

'Oh, my God,' Blunk said, more frightened than he had ever been in his life before.

Dillinger relieved him of the pistol he carried on his right hip and slipped the gun into his pocket. 'Is anyone else down there on your landing?'

Blunk, a prudent man, saw no reason to argue. 'Nobody, Mr Dillinger.'

'And the warden?'

'Mr Baker's in his office on the ground floor.'

'OK, then we go down and get him.' He pushed Cahoon along the corridor towards Youngblood who was standing outside the locked door of their cell, holding the key. 'Put him in with the others and wait here.'

As Blunk had said, the corridor below was deserted and they moved along it and paused at the top of the stairs leading to the ground floor.

Dillinger said, 'Go on, you know what to do.'

Blunk sighed and called, 'Hey, Lou, you're wanted up here.'

'What the hell for?' a voice called back and Warden Lou Baker appeared at the bottom of the stairs and started up briskly. He was almost at the top when he looked up and saw Dillinger standing there, gun in hand.

He stopped dead in his tracks and in the circumstances stayed surprisingly cool.

'Johnny, what in the hell do you think you're playing at? You ain't going anywhere. You got at least ten National Guardsmen at the front entrance armed with machine guns.'

'Well, that should make things interesting,' Dillinger said calmly. 'Now upstairs, both of you.'

A few moments later and Youngblood was putting the Warden and Blunk in the cell with the others. He locked the door. 'OK, what happens now?'

'Stay here,' Dillinger told him. I'll be back.'

Youngblood said, 'You wouldn't leave me, Mr Dillinger?'

'The most important thing you should know about me,' Dillinger said. 'I never ran out on anyone in my whole life,' and he turned and moved away along the corridor.

The man on duty that morning at the barred gate which gave access to the jail offices at the front of the building was a trustie, who was sitting at his desk, reading a newspaper. The headline said: 'Public Enemy Number One Finally Caged'. There was a photo of Dillinger to go with it. A slight tapping sound caused the trustie to look up and he saw the man himself peering through the bars just above him, a gun in his hand.

Dillinger said softly, 'Open up!'

The trustie almost dropped his keys in his eagerness to comply, but, a moment later, had the gate open. The office door stood partly ajar and someone was whistling in there.

'Who is it?' Dillinger inquired softly.

'National Guardsman.'

'Just the one?' The man nodded and Dillinger said, 'Call him out.'

The trustie did as he was told and a second later the door opened and a young National Guardsman in uniform appeared. There was instant horror in his eyes and he got his hands up fast.

Behind him on the table were two loaded Thompson sub-machine guns. Dillinger moved past him and stared down at them for a monent. 'Well, I'll be damned,' he said. 'Thank you.'

He slipped the pistol into his other pocket, picked up a machine gun in each hand and turned to the two men. 'OK, now we're going to go upstairs, all the way up to the top landing in the new wing. You fellas see any problems in that?'

'No, Mr Dillinger,' they assured him eagerly and the trustie turned and led the way.

A few minutes later, Youngblood, clutching one of the machine guns, was shepherding them into the cell on the top landing with the others. Dillinger said, 'Let's have Blunk out here again.'

Youngblood pulled the deputy sheriff out and closed and locked the door. 'Now what?' he demanded.

'We're clear, all the way down to the jail office and the front entrance, only that's too public by far.'

'So what do we do?'

'Walk right out of the back door and this is the man who's going to show us the way, isn't that so, Mr Blunk?'

Ernest Blunk sighed heavily yet again. 'If you say so, Mr Dillinger.'

'Oh, but I do,' Dillinger said. 'In fact, I insist,' and he pushed him along the corridor.

It was raining when they emerged from the door at the rear of the prison ten minutes later and moved along the alley. Dillinger and Youngblood wore raincoats taken from three local farmers they had found eating in the kitchen. The farmers were now locked in a washroom.

'The garage?' Dillinger said to Blunk. 'How far?'

'Right down there a hundred and fifty yards,' the deputy told him.

'OK,' Dillinger said. 'You lead the way and just remember what I'm holding under this raincoat if you feel like calling out.'

He raised the machine gun slightly, the muzzle poking through, and Blunk said hastily, 'No trouble, Mr Dillinger, not from me. We got this far, haven't we? All I want is to see you off my hands.'

He led the way, following a route which took them past the Criminal Courts building and, a few moments later, entered the side door of a large garage. There was a single mechanic in oil-stained overalls working on his own.

He glanced up. 'Hello there, Mr Blunk.'

It was apparent that he didn't recognize Dillinger and Blunk said, 'Ed Saager, the best mechanic in town, Mr Dillinger.'

Saager looked shocked and Dillinger produced the machine gun from under his raincoat. 'Which car here's in the best shape?'

'Why, that would be the Ford here,' Saager told him. 'Mrs Holley's car.'

'Engine tuned?'

'Like a watch.'

'Fan belt OK?'

'Replaced last month.'

'Pick-up?'

'Best in the lot.'

'Then that's what we'll take. You get in the rear with my friend and you, Mr Blunk, can take the wheel.'

Saager opened his mouth as if to protest, thought better of it and got into the rear seat with Youngblood. Blunk took the wheel and started the motor as Dillinger got in beside him.

'Nice and easy, Mr Blunk,' he said as they turned into the main street. 'No need to hurry.'

He leaned back and lit a cigarette calmly.

Mike Jarvis and Martha Ryan were sitting in a booth at the rear of the hotel lounge enjoying a late breakfast when there was a sudden excited murmur and a voice called, 'Dillinger's escaped.'

Jarvis jumped to his feet and moved out and Martha Ryan sat there, suddenly cold, aware of the excited hubbub of voices outside.

Jarvis came back a moment later and sat down. 'My God, would you believe it. That place was supposed to be escape-proof. Not only did he walk right out, he's used the sheriff's car for his getaway.' He threw back his head and laughed. 'Jesus, will Lillian be mad.'

But Martha Ryan simply sat there, the coldness growing within her, aware only of Dillinger's final words to her. That he knew the road he was taking. That he knew what lay at the end of it.

It was still raining and they were over the border into Illinois when Blunk, on Dillinger's orders, pulled up at the side of the dirt road they had been following.

'OK,' Dillinger said. 'This is where you two get off.'

They got out of the car reluctantly, uncertain as to his intentions, but Dillinger just drove away, the wheels of the big Ford churning mud, and Dillinger hoping some of it would land on Blunk's suit.

Youngblood started to sing loudly in the rear seat. A few miles further on, Dillinger stopped the car to light a cigarette, then he took a few crumpled bills from his pocket and counted them.

'Fourteen dollars isn't going to get us very far.'

'And that's a fact,' Youngblood said. 'I guess there's only one thing to do. You'll just have to rob a bank, Mr Dillinger.'

He started to laugh and Dillinger, loving the feel of being behind the wheel of a fast-moving car, feeling as exhilarated as a kid, tossed him the cigarette pack and drove away through the rain, wondering what the newspaper headlines would be saying in the morning.

2

Doc Floyd came up out of the hollow and followed the overgrown path through the trees, pausing at the edge of the swamp to light his pipe. He was seventy years of age, with a worn and wrinkled face, the grey moustache stained with nicotine. His straw hat was frayed at the edges and the old alpaca coat hung from bony shoulders.

The garden on the other side of the track was overgrown, the fences broken and the clapboard farmhouse beyond was dilapidated, shingles missing in places from the roof. There was an atmosphere of decay to everything.

An old hound dog nosed out of the undergrowth and limped towards him and Doc Floyd leaned down and fondled its ears.

'All wore out, Sam, just like you.'

He straightened at the sound of a car approaching and said softly, 'Looks like they're here, Sam. Let's go.' And he went up through the broken fence towards the house, the dog trailing him.

When he went round to the front, a de Soto sedan was parked there. The man in the dark suit who leaned against it, wiping sweat from his face, fanning himself with his hat at the same time, was middle-aged and overweight. His name was George Harvey and he was manager of the Huntsville National Bank. The man beside him could have been any one of a hundred local farmers to judge by his faded jeans and sweat-stained felt hat. The only difference was the deputy's badge on his chest and the pistol in the holster on his left hip.

Harvey said, 'Ah, there you are Doc. You know Larry Schultz?'

'Sure I do,' Doc said. 'Mary OK now, Larry? I heard she was under the weather.'

'It was nothing. She's fine now.' Schultz was embarrassed and it showed.

'OK, let's get down to business,' Harvey said. 'The bank's been very patient, Doc, but enough is enough. I have to ask you formally now. Are you in a position to settle?'

'You know damn well I'm not,' Doc told him flatly.

Harvey turned to Schultz. 'Serve your papers.'

Schultz produced a folded document from his shirt pocket and held it out to the old man who took it from him. 'Sorry Doc,' he said.

Doc shrugged. 'Not your fault, Larry, we all got to eat.'

Harvey got behind the wheel of the de Soto and switched on the motor. 'OK, Larry, let's go. I'm a busy man.'

Schultz went round to the other side and got into the passenger seat. Doc ran a finger over the gleaming paintwork. 'Some car, Mr Harvey. I suppose a car like this must cost a heap of money?'

'Seven days, that's what you've got,' Harvey said. 'Then the bank forecloses and that means everything, Doc, so don't you move a damn thing out of here.'

He drove away very fast, spraying dirt, and disappeared along the track through the trees towards the main road. Doc Floyd stood there for a long moment, then turned and mounted the steps to the porch and went inside, the dog following him.

He found a half-f bottle of whisky and a glass and sat at the table in the untidy, shabby room, drinking slowly, savouring it as if it might be the last drink he was likely to have.

His eyes roamed around the room, taking in the sagging furniture, the worn carpet, and finally came to rest on the photo of his wife in the old silver frame.

'Not much to show for forty years of living, old girl,' he said softly.

He toasted her, emptied the glass in a quick swallow and poured another.

It was perhaps an hour later that he became aware of the sound of a car approaching up the track outside and by then he was drunk enough to be angry.

'The bastard, Sam,' he said softly to the dog. 'Back already.'

He stood up, took an old double-barrelled shotgun down from the wall, found some cartridges in a drawer, and loaded it as he went to the door. The hound dog whined anxiously and followed.

Doc stood on the porch outside, the gun ready in his hand, only the car which had stopped in the middle of the yard wasn't the de Soto. It was a Ford coupe and the man in the black felt hat and neat dark suit who slid out from behind the wheel was definitely not George Harvey.

'Hello, Doc,' he called softly. 'That's a hell of a welcome.'

Doc lowered the shotgun in astonishment. 'Jesus Christ,' he said. 'Johnny Dillinger. You shouldn't be here. They come looking for you just day before yesterday.'

'Who's they?'

'A bunch of lawmen. Come in two cars. Fellow who asked about you stutters. Tall, wiry, big fellow.'

Dillinger laughed. 'That must be Matt Leach. He runs the Indiana State Police.'

'I wouldn't laugh, Johnny. He said he'd break my ass if I was lying to him about your being here. He said he'd break your ass when he caught you.'

'Somebody sent him a dime book called
How To Be a Detective',
Dillinger said. 'He thinks it was me.'

'Was it you, Johnny?'

Dillinger rolled his eyes like Al Jolson. A picture of innocence.

'Oh you're a terrible man, Johnny.'

Somewhere thunder rumbled and there was that sudden quiet moment before a storm when everything seemed poised for a terrible downpour.

Dillinger said, 'Mind if I come in? I think it's going to rain.'

'Sure, sure, Johnny, but what if Leach comes back,'

'I'll just bring my insurance policy into the house with me if you don't mind.' Dillinger went back to the Ford. Doc watched him bring in the machine guns as if death was being carried into the house under both of Johnny's arms.

And then the rains came, a heavy relentless downpour that churned the yard to mud as Dillinger sat on the porch, drinking Doc's coffee and cleaning his tommy guns to perfection. The old man's plaint was getting to him, making his eyelid tic.

'Three thousand lousy bucks by next Monday,' Doc was saying, 'or they take over - even the furniture.'

'Can't you sell some of your land off and settle up your debt to the bank?' Dillinger asked.

'Not possible,' Doc said. 'Not under the terms of the mortgage. And there isn't enough time That bastard George Harvey is collecting as many small farms as he can and hoarding them for resale when times get better.'

The old man poured another drink. 'Anyway, enough about me. What about you? That break from Lake View prison the other month must have been really something, wasn't it, Johnny?'

'For them, not for me,' Dillinger said. 'It was a breeze.'

'You're really number one, Johnny,' Doc said. 'I've known them all one time or t'other. None like you. I heard you was in California. The radio said you robbed a bank in Los Angeles last week.'

'Sure wish I did. I heard I was in Houston and New Orleans doing the same thing on the same day. It's OK with me. Just keeps the cops confused. What about your wife, Doc, she leave you on account of your drinking, the way she always swore she would?'

'She left me all right, Johnny. Died last year. Top of that, my girl Carrie, who married a guy from Miami, well he got himself killed asleep at the wheel last year, and Carrie took the baby with her to the Florida Keys. She runs a cafe down there.'

'Why don't you join her?'

'I couldn't do that to her. I'd just be a burden. A dried-up old man with no money.'

Dillinger said, 'I remember when this was the best hideout in Kansas. A man could get anything here. A night's sleep, a change of car.'

Doc chuckled. 'Remember the night I took that bullet out of your arm after the Fort Harris job?'

Dillinger smiled faintly. 'You were a pretty damn good doctor for a country vet.'

'Oh, I had my moments.' He poured another whisky. 'It's funny, Johnny, but when you reach my age, you get to thinking what it's all supposed to be about.'

'Any answers?'

'Oh, sure - three thousand dollars, that's what my whole life adds up to, only I ain't got it which means my life adds up to nothing. That's a hell of a thing to contemplate.'

Dillinger sat there staring at him for a moment, then he stood up, picked up the old man's yellow oilskin slicker, pulled it on and went down the steps to the Ford.

'Where you going in the rain, you damn fool?' Doc yelled after him.

When Dillinger came back, he was carrying a small case which he carried inside and placed on the table. He opened it carefully. Inside, there was a stack of money, each bundle neatly banded in a bank wrapper.

The old man's eyes widened.

'Fifteen grand there, all I have to show for a misspent life,' Dillinger smiled. 'Keep it for me. If I don't come back, use it any way you see fit.'

'No, Johnny, I couldn't,' Doc whispered. 'God, where are you going?' the old man demanded.

'To see a man about a bank loan,' Dillinger said, his back to the old man as he went down the steps to the Ford, got behind the wheel, and drove away.

George Harvey glanced at his watch. It was just after 2.30 and it occurred to him that an early finish might make sense today. The relentless rain which had cleared the streets of Huntsville outside hammered ceaselessly against the window of his office and filled him with acute depression. He was about to get up, when the door opened and Marion, his secretary, looked in.

'Someone to see you.'

Harvey showed his irritation. 'I don't have any appointments.'

'No, he knows that. A Mr Jackson of the Chicago District Land Company. Says he's only in town by chance and wonders if you could spare him a few minutes.'

'Does he look like money?'

'I'd say so.'

'OK. Bring him in, give it five minutes and then come in to remind me I've got another appointment.'

She went out and returned a moment later to usher Dillinger in. He held the yellow slicker over one arm and Marion took it from him.

'I'll hang it up for you.'

'That's very kind of you.'

She felt an unaccountable thrill as she went out, closing the door behind her, and Dillinger turned to face Harvey.

'It's good of you to see me, Mr Harvey.'

Harvey took in the excellent suit, the conservative tie, the soft-collared shirt in the very latest style, and got to his feet.

'That's what we're here for, Mr Jackson. Take a seat and tell me what I can do for you. You're in the property business?'

'That's right. Chicago District Land Company. We're in the market for farm properties in this area - suitable farm properties. Our clients, the people we represent in this instance, intend to farm in a much more modern way. To make that pay, they need lots of acreage. Know what I mean?'

'Exactly,' Harvey said, opened a box on his desk and offered him a cigar. 'I think you'll find you've come to the right place, Mr Jackson.'

'Good.' Dillinger took the cigar and leaned forward for a light. Harvey frowned. 'You know, I could swear I've met you some place before.'

'That could be,' Dillinger said. 'I get around. But let's get down to business. I need a bank down here.'

'No problem.'

'Good, then I'd like to make a withdrawal now.'

'A withdrawal?' Harvey looked bewildered. 'I don't understand.'

'Yes,' Dillinger said. 'Twelve thousand dollars should do it, what with my expenses and all.'

'But, Mr Jackson, you can't make a withdrawal when you haven't put anything in yet,' Harvey explained patiently.

'Oh, yes I can.' Dillinger took a Colt .45 automatic from his pocket and placed it on the table between them.

Harvey's whole face sagged. 'Oh, God,' he whispered. He looked at the man's face and it came to him. 'You're John Dillinger.'

'Pleased to meet you,' Dillinger said. 'Now we've got that over with, you get twelve grand in here fast and then you and me will take a little ride together.'

Dillinger walked over very close to Harvey so that the banker could feel Dillinger's breath on him.

Harvey was not a religious man. He went to church on Sundays because his customers went to church. But he found himself hoping that his Maker was looking down right now to protect him.

'Are you going to kill me?' Harvey asked.

'You're going to kill yourself, Mr Harvey, if you keep shaking that way.'

They both heard the door open. Quickly, Dillinger pulled his gun arm in and turned so that it wouldn't be seen from the door. It was Harvey's secretary, saying, 'Your next appointment is here, Mr Harvey.'

There was a slight pause. Dillinger waited and Harvey took a deep breath. 'Cancel it. They'll have to come in tomorrow, and tell Mr Powell I want twelve thousand dollars in here.' He glanced at Dillinger. 'Will fifties be OK?'

'Just fine,' Dillinger said amiably.

The woman went out. Dillinger put the Colt in his right-hand pocket, stood up and walked round the desk behind Harvey. 'You got a briefcase handy?'

'Yes,' Harvey said hoarsely.

'When he comes, put the money in that. Then we leave.'

The door opened a moment later and the chief cashier, Sam Powell, entered, carrying a cash tray on which the money was stacked. 'You did say twelve thousand, Mr Harvey?'

'That's right, Sam, just leave it on the desk. I'll clear it tomorrow.' He improvised fast. 'I'm into a situation that requires instant cash.'