Jack Higgins - Dillinger Page 2

  "Everyone inside."

  Dillinger motioned with the pistol to his own cell and stood back as they filed past him into the cell. There was no trouble, but then 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."

  "Okay, then we go down and get him." He pushed Cahoon along the corridor toward 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. 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. 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 Youngblood was put­ting the warden and Blunk in the cell with the others. He locked the door. "Okay, 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 trusty who sat 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 trusty 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 trusty 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 trusty 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 submachine guns. Dillinger moved past him and stared down at them for a moment. "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. "Okay, 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 trusty 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 asked Dillinger.

  "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 Young-blood wore raincoats taken from two local farm­ers whom they'd 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.

  "Okay," 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 the men 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. Blunk said, "Ed Saager, the best me­chanic in town, Mr. Dillinger."

  Saager looked shocked as 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 okay?"

  "Replaced last month."

  "Pickup?"

  "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. 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.

  "Okay," 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 and then 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.

  Two

  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, his gray mustache 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 also overgrown, the fences broken, and the clap­board farmhouse beyond dilapidated, shingles missing in places from the roof. There was an atmosphere of decay about everything.

  An old hound dog nosed out of the under­growth and limped toward Doc Floyd, who 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." He went up through the broken fence toward the house, the dog trailing him.

  When he went around to the front, a DeSoto 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 okay now, Larry? I heard she was under the weather."

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

  "Okay, 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 DeSoto and switched on the motor. "Okay, Larry, let's go. I'm a busy man."

  Schultz went around 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 toward 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-full bottle of whiskey and a glass and sat at the table in the untidy, shabby room, drinking slowly, savoring 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 and 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. 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-barreled 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 that had stopped in the middle of the yard wasn't the DeSoto. It was a Ford coupe, and the man in the black felt hat and neat dark blue 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. The 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 you 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 out to the Ford. Doc watched him bring in the machine guns as if death were being carried into the house under both of Johnny's arms.

  And then the rain 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 okay 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 whiskey. "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 who
le 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.