Dillinger
For Geoff and Irene not forgetting Sarah, Kate and Rebecca
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
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18
About the Author
Also by Jack Higgins
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
Dillinger lay on his bunk in one corner of the cell, his head pillowed on a hand, staring up at the ceiling. His cell mate in the escape-proof new section of Lake Countys three-storey brick jail, Herbert Youngblood, a big Negro, stood at the window gazing out through the bars down into the street in front of the jail.
Dillinger said, Whats it like out there?
Must be two, maybe three hundred people, Youngblood said. Hell, its worse than the State Fair. They got National Guard out there in uniform, like they were going to war. He turned, smiling. Maybe they think youre planning on taking a trip?
Its a thought, Dillinger said calmly.
There was the rattle of a key in the lock of the sliding cell door, a row of vertical bars. They turned to see an old man wearing faded denims, holding a tray, Sam Cahoon, the attendant.
Coffee, Mr Dillinger?
Why not?
Dillinger sat up and the old man placed two tin cups on the small table and filled them, the pot shaking a little in his hand so that he spilled some.
You been across to the hotel this morning? Dillinger asked as Cahoon passed him his coffee.
I sure have, Mr Dillinger, Cahoon said. Theyre sleeping on the floors. More folks coming in all the time.
Theyve got reporters, radio people, a newsreel cameraman. You should get a commission from the hotel, Mr Dillinger.
He smiled in a strained, anxious way as if conscious that he might have gone too far. Dillinger sipped his coffee thoughtfully and it was Youngblood who answered for him.
A great idea, Pops. Next time youre over there, you tell the guy who runs the joint Mr Dillinger was asking about his cut.
I sure will, Cahoon said eagerly. More coffee, Mr Dillinger?
No thanks, Sam. This is just fine, Dillinger told him.
The old man picked up the tray. On the other side of the bars was one of the trusties with a mop stuck in a bucket.
I was told to bring this here, the trustie said.
Cahoon slid the bars to the side just enough to let the man squeeze by and put the bucket and mop down next to where Dillinger was sitting. Quickly Youngblood said, Ill do that.
The trustie, who looked very nervous, said, I was told to give it to Mr Dillinger. He scurried out, followed by Sam, who locked the sliding bars behind him.
Idiots, Youngblood said. What goods a mop and bucket without water?
Dillinger held a finger up to his lips. He went over to the bars and checked right and left, then with his back to the bars in case anyone came along unexpectedly, he squatted down and carefully lifted the mop end from the bottom of the bucket and took out something wrapped in flannel.
Stand next to me, he whispered to Youngblood.
Their backs a screen in case anyone approached, Dillinger unwrapped the flannel. In its centre was a blue-black 32 calibre Colt automatic. Quickly, Dillinger checked the clip, saw that it had all eight rounds, and jammed it back into the handle.
Lets have your knife, Dillinger said.
Youngblood produced a bone-handled pocket knife from the top of his right boot and handed it across. Dillinger sprung the blade, instinctively tested it on his thumb, and told Youngblood, Stand by the bars. Anyone comes, you tell me fast.
As Youngblood leaned backwards against the bars, Dillinger reached under the mattress on his bunk, slit it, and shoved the Colt into the slit. He tested to see if it was far enough away from the cut not to fall out accidentally. Only then did Dillinger look up at Youngblood with a smile.
There was amazement in Youngbloods eyes. Jesus, Mr Dillinger, was all he said.
The lounge of the hotel was crowded, reporters three deep at the bar, and the noise made it necessary to shout to be heard. The young woman, sitting alone at the bamboo table by the window where she could view the street, looked out of place in the neat two-piece black suit and cream oyster-satin blouse, her blonde hair framed by a close-fitting black velvet hat.
The man who approached her, glass in hand, was perhaps thirty-five, with a world-weary, sardonic face. A grey fedora was pushed to the back of his head.
Hello, he said. Mike Jarvis, AP. I hear youre with the Denver Press.
Thats right, Martha Ryan.
Can I get you a drink?
She lifted her cup. Coffees just fine, thank you.
He sat down and offered her a cigarette. They sent you up here to get the womans angle, I suppose?
Thats right. Only it doesnt look as if anyones getting in to see him she shrugged.
Well, theres the sheriff, Jarvis said, nodding toward the large window.
Oh, where is he? Martha Ryan said, standing.
Jarvis laughed. Hes a she, he said, pointing to where a middle-aged woman flanked by two male deputies was crossing the street. Her husband was the sheriff of Lake County. When he got himself killed, she took over for the rest of his term, like they did in the olden days.
The door opened and Lillian Holley entered and was immediately surrounded by excited newsmen, all talking at once. The two brawny deputies started to push a way through the crowd for her and she called in exasperation, Cant a girl get a cup of coffee in peace round here.
Jarvis, watching her speculatively, turned suddenly to Martha Ryan. She wont let any one of the guys see Dillinger at the moment, but what if I persuaded her to let you in?
Martha Ryan stared at him sceptically. You think theres a chance?
Maybe, only one thing. You share your story with me and no one else. Is it a deal?
She reached across and pressed his hand. A deal, Mr Jarvis.
He stood up as Lillian Holley pressed forward. Hey, Lillian! Over here!
She paused, glancing towards him. Mike Jarvis, you still here? You dont give up, do you?
Her eyes considered the young woman and she came forward and Jarvis held his seat for her. Here, take this.
She sat down and the two deputies stood guard, backs towards her, arms folded, and the crowd of reporters retreated to the bar.
Introduce me, Mike, she said.
Miss Martha Ryan of the Denver Press.
Mrs Holley frowned. Your editor must be crazy, expecting a kid like you to hold her own with a bunch of villains like these guys. Just out of college?
Thats right, Mrs Holley.
A waiter appeared with fresh coffee. Lillian Holley said, I get it, he wants a fresh angle. Why thousands of red-blooded American women have the hots for Johnny Dillinger.
Martha Ryan blushed and Jarvis said, Its the little ladys first big assignment, Lillian.
Next thing, youll be telling me her ageing mothers in the hospital and she needs the money.
Jarvis grinned and turned to Martha. Hey, you didnt tell me.
Martha Ryan smiled. I wont lie to you, Mrs Holley. Any kind of story from here would get me a byline and could make my career.
Lillian Holley looked her over calmly. Well, she said, its nice to see a woman ambitious for a change, instead of all these hustling men.
Martha Ryan said, Just five minutes with him? Please Mrs Holley, it could be my break.
Jarvis patted Martha Ryans hand. Too much to expect, angel. I mean all these guys here have been hanging around for days trying to see John Dillinger. Theyd go crazy. No, it cant be done.
Lillian Holley noticed how Martha Ryan gently moved her hand away from Jarviss condescending pat. You men, she said to Jarvis, taking his bait, think you know everything. Who the hell do you think is in charge around here? If I say this girl sees Dillinger, she sees him and theres nothing those creeps can do about it.
Sorry, Lillian, no offence meant, Jarvis said hastily.
Lillian Holley leaned across the table to Martha Ryan. Ill give you five minutes, thats all, you understand?
The girl stared at her in amazement. You mean it? You really mean it? Five minutes with Dillinger.
Hey, you got a great title for your feature there, Jarvis told her.
Lillian Holley said, Im leaving now. Give me a couple of minutes, then report to the back entrance of the jail. Youll be expected. And keep it to yourself for now.
Oh, I will, Mrs Holley, Martha Ryan said.
Lillian Holley stood up and turned to Jarvis. And that goes for you, too. Keep your mouth shut on this one, Mike, or dont come back.
She nodded to the two deputies and followed them to the door.
Martha Ryan said, I cant believe it. She turned to Jarvis as he sat down again. Have you any idea what this could mean to me, Mr Jarvis?
Sure I do, he said. New York, next stop. He lit another cigarette. And what I said about sharing the story. Forget it. This ones yours. Who knows, maybe you could get a Pulitzer.
She was almost in tears. But why are you doing this for me? I dont understand?
Simple, he said. I work out of APs New York office myself. Maybe if you get there, youll let me buy you a cup of coffee some time. He smiled, reached across to pat her hand.
Instead, Martha Ryan took his hand and pumped it. Thank you, Mr Jarvis, she said.
Call me Mike.
Thank you, Mike.
Jarvis smiled. Now get the hell out of here and get your story.
Youngblood, leaning against the door, watching, now made a quick gesture. Someones coming.
Dillinger quickly lay on the bed. As he lit a cigarette the key rattled in the lock, the sliding bars opened and a guard stood to one side as Lillian Holley entered followed by the young woman.
On your feet, Johnny, Mrs Holley said. Id like you to meet a lady. This is Miss Martha Ryan of the Denver Press and Ive told her she can have five minutes with you.
Hell, Mrs Holley, Youngblood said, I could do with five minutes there myself.
As Youngblood spoke, there was the most extraordinary change in Dillinger. He was on his feet in an instant, his face pale, his eyes very dark so that Youngblood recoiled as from a blow in the face.
Sorry, Mr Dillinger, he whispered.
Dillinger turned to Martha Ryan, his charming half smile on view again. Miss Ryan, what can I do for you?
She was, for a moment, almost overcome. He was not what she thought hed be. Though he was shorter than shed expected, his shoulders were those of a bigger man. His restless, intelligent face and pleasant, courteous voice carried a curious authority.
Her throat was dry, but she managed to speak. Well, I know your background, Mr Dillinger, everyone does. Your family, that kind of stuff. I just wanted to ask you some other kinds of questions.
He pulled a chair forward. Fire away.
She took a pad and pencil from her purse. They say you intend to escape from here. Is that true?
The question was so naive that Lillian Holley laughed harshly and answered it for him. This section of the jail, honey, the new section, is escape-proof. Thats the way the architect designed it. Even if he got through that door hed have to pass through God knows how many gates and armed guards.
Dillinger turned to the girl. Satisfied?
But they say your friends are coming to get you out.
What friends? If I had friends, they wouldnt be stupid enough to try to crash Mrs Holleys Indiana Alcatraz, would they?
The half smile was still firmly in place, as if he was laughing at the world and everyone in it. However, if an attractive honey like youd come along for the ride, I might decide to try for the outside. He winked at Mrs Holley. Course, Mrs Holley could come along as chaperone.
Martha Ryan wasnt sure whether he was making a pass or a joke or both at the same time. She tried again. Have you any interest in politics, Mr Dillinger?
Not until Mr Roosevelt came along. You can say Im for him all the way, and for the NRA particularly for banking, only hell have to hurry.
She looked genuinely bewildered. I dont understand, youre a ... She hesitated.
A thief? He said helpfully. True. I rob the banks, if thats what you mean, but who do they rob, Miss Ryan? Indiana, Kansas, Iowa, Texas take your choice. People thrown off their farms wholesale while the banks foreclose, then sell out at a huge profit to the big wheat combines.
Business, Johnny, Lillian Holley said dryly. Just business.
Oh, sure, the kind that makes me feel clean, Dillinger said. Six millions unemployed out there, Miss Ryan. You ask them what kind of a thief John Dillinger is.
She sat there staring up at him. He didnt sound that much different from some of the editorial writers shed met. Lillian Holley said, OK, angel, thats it, and pulled her up, a hand under her elbow.
Martha Ryan held out her hand. Thank you, Mr Dillinger and good ... She swallowed the words, blushing.
Dillinger laughed. I wouldnt put that in your article if I were you. They mightnt understand. And then he smiled gently. Dont worry about me, Miss Ryan. I know the road Im taking, I know whats at the end of it. My choice! No one elses.
Martha recoiled instinctively. Dillingers 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.