by Jack Higgins
'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.'
'Too good an opportunity to miss,' Dillinger put in.
Powell withdrew and Harvey took his briefcase from under the desk, emptied it and started to stack the cash inside. He looked up. 'Now what?'
'Get your coat,' Dillinger said patiently. 'It's raining outside or hadn't you noticed? We walk right out the front door and cross the street to the Ford coupe.
'You're going to shoot me?' Harvey said urgently.
'Only if you make me. If you behave yourself, I'll drop you outside town. You can have a nice long walk back in the rain to think about it all.'
Harvey got his coat from the washroom and put it on, then he picked up the briefcase and moved to the door. 'Now smile,' Dillinger said. 'Look happy. Here, I'll tell you something funny. You know what guys in your position always say to guys like me in the movies? They say, "You'll never get away with it." '
And Harvey, nerves stretched as tight as they would go, started to laugh helplessly, was still laughing when they went out to Marion's office and picked up Dillinger's oilskin slicker and felt hat.
Sitting at the table, the screen door open, Doc Floyd heard the car drive up outside. He straightened, glass in hand, the other on Dillinger's case and waited fearfully. Dillinger appeared in the doorway, the briefcase in one hand. The dog whined and moved to his side and he reached down to scratch its ears.
He tossed the briefcase on to the table. 'Three thousand in there plus a little interest. Twelve thousand in all. That seem fair to you, Doc?'
The old man placed a hand on the briefcase and whispered, 'You kill anyone, Johnny?'
'No. I found your friend Harvey a real cooperative fellow. Left him ten miles out of town on a dirt road to walk back in the rain.' He unfolded the paper from around a stick of chewing gun. 'You can pay what you owe on this dump now, Doc, or take the money and run all the way down to the Florida Keys and that daughter of yours.' Dillinger popped the gum into his mouth. 'Want some?'
'What about you, Johnny? That fellow Leach ...'
'To hell with him.'
Doc wrung his hands. Just then they both heard the car in the distance.
'That coming this way?' Dillinger asked.
'Any car you hear ain't on the main road. Get in the back room, Johnny, quick. Take the briefcase. Take the guns. Anything else around here yours?'
Doc turned clear around, spied the coffee cups, put them in the sink. The only thing he saw in the room that frightened him was the look that came into Dillinger's eyes.
'Please go into the back room. If you shoot it out with someone here, win or lose, I'll never get to see my grand-child in Florida, Johnny. Please?'
Dillinger went into the back room, taking the briefcase and guns. As soon as he slammed the door, Doc rushed out of the house. Thank heaven, the rain had stopped, he thought. He wanted to meet the car as far from the house as he could.
He could see it was a Model A, black as they all were, spewing a cloud of mud behind it. The man driving didn't look familiar. Then Doc saw that a woman was sitting beside him.
The man turned the engine off and got out. 'Evening,' he said.
Doc nodded. He'd seen traps before, man and woman in the front, three men hiding behind the seat.
The man said, 'Me and the Mrs kind of got lost.'
'Where you headed?'
'Moline.'
'You got a long ways to go.'
'Know that. We figured to stop in a hotel some place tonight. Or thought maybe we could pay someone to stay over.'
'You don't want to stay here,' Doc said. 'My woman has black fever.'
The man didn't know what black fever was any more than Doc did, but he took a step backward.
'I can get you some water,' Doc said.
'No, thanks,' the man said. 'We'll be shoving off. When I get to the road, I turn left or right?'
'Left's the only way that'll head you toward Moline. There's a town an hour down the road got rooms above the general store.'
'Thank you kindly. You want us to tell the sheriff or anybody to send a doctor for your wife?'
'I'm a doctor.'
The man got back into his car. He didn't believe Doc was a doctor any more than he believed in the man in the moon.
'She's dying,' Doc said, 'and we want to be left alone for what time's left.'
'I appreciate that,' the man said, got in the car, and drove off slowly so as not to scatter too much mud in Doc's direction. Doc hurried to the house, opened the door of the back room, said, 'It's OK, Johnny. Travellers. Sent them on their way.'
'I hate this.'
'Hate what, Johnny?'
'Hiding like a rat. I wasn't made for it. I want to walk around like a free man.'
'You'll sure be able to do that,' Doc said, 'soon's the heat's off. Johnny, I'm old enough to be your father. You been real good to me so I'm going to chance saying something.' He wished Dillinger wasn't looking at him with those stony eyes.
'Say it!'
That man was sure on edge, Doc thought. 'You take too many chances. You've got to head south, I don't mean Texas, I mean all the way to Mexico, where they can't catch you, Johnny.'
'That means getting across the border.'
Doc poured whisky into a spare glass and pushed it across to him. 'Listen, Johnny, a few years back I had dealings with a guy who ran people into the country from Mexico illegally. European refugees, people like that.'
'So?'
'West of El Paso, there's a small town called Sutter's Well. Used to be a silver
mine. It's a ghost town now. The back trail out of that town crosses the Mexican border. No border post, no customs, no police. That's the way we used to bring them in.'
'Will it take a car?'
'Oh, sure. Dirt road, but sound enough. You need to carry plenty of spare gas. Six or seven five-gallon cans in the trunk should cover you. Couple of spare fan belts. I can let you have a set of tools. Know your way around an engine, Johnny?'
'I know my way around a car, Doc, the way a cowboy knows his horse.'
'Good. I can give you the address of a Mexican in El Paso, big fat fellow called Charlie, can get you a passport that looks better than the real thing, just to cover you in case you get picked up.'
'I'm not planning to get picked up.'
'I know you're not planning to get a bullet hole in your radiator either, Johnny, but be damn careful.'
'That Ford out there is going to be hotter than hell when Harvey gets back to town. I'll need to switch cars.'
'I can help you there,' Doc said eagerly. 'You take me down to the south barn in the woods. I'll surprise you. Here, better take your twelve thousand back. And take your hardware. You might need both in Mexico.'
He carried the case for Dillinger, who carried the machine guns. They went out, got into the Ford, and Dillinger drove round to the rear of the farm and followed the track down through the trees beside the swamp, following the old man's directions, finally braking to a halt beside an old dilapidated barn in the trees.
They got out and Doc unbarred the double doors, Dillinger helping him and pulled them back. A white Chevrolet convertible stood there. It looked brand new.
'And where in the hell did you get that?' Dillinger wanted to know.
'Kid called in here about six months ago named Leo Fettamen. You heard of him?'
'I don't think so.'
'Strictly small stuff, but as car crazy as you claim to be, Johnny. Fettaman robbed a bank in Carlsberg. Bought this and an old Ford with the cash. Went into Huntsville in the Ford with a guy who called himself Gruber. They intended to take the bank, come back here and use the Chevvy as their getaway car. The kid had a theory that the more imposing you looked, the less the cops were likely to stop you.'
'What happened?'
'Killed in a gun battle with the sheriff and his deputies. Hell, I think half the town put a bullet in them before they were finished. The righteous are terrible in their wrath, Johnny.'
'So I've noticed,' Dillinger said.
'Obviously I couldn't start riding around in it. That would have caused talk. Seeing's you got eyes for it, Johnny, I'll make a deal with you. It's yours for twelve thousand dollars.'
Dillinger smiled and slapped his hand. 'Doggone, you got it.'
'One thing you'll need from that Ford is the battery. The one in the Chevvy couldn't be flatter.'
Dillinger drove the Ford into the barn beside the Chevrolet, then got a wrench from the tool kit and removed the battery. It was only five minutes' work to substitute it for the battery in the other car, then he slid behind the wheel, pulled the choke and applied the starter. The Chevrolet's engine started instantly, purred like music.
As he got out, the old man was already transferring his belongings from the Ford. 'Anything I've forgotten?'
'You could say that.'
Dillinger lifted the rear seat of the Ford, revealing a shot-gun and two automatic pistols.
'You going to war, Johnny?' Doc asked.
They stowed the shotgun and pistols along with the rest of the arsenal under the rear seat of the Chevrolet. 'That's it,' Dillinger said.
The old man shook his head. 'No, the Ford, Johnny. That's got to go.' He nodded across the track to the swamp. 'In there.' He slapped the car on the roof with the flat of his hand. 'Seems like a waste, but when a man gets too greedy, he can end up on the end of a rope.'
Dillinger reached in and released the handbrake, then went round to the rear, and they got their shoulders down and pushed. The Ford bounced across the track, gathered momentum and ran away from them down the slope, plunging into the dark waters below. They stood there watching it disappear, Dillinger lighting a cigarette and offering the old man one. Doc shook his head and put his empty pipe in his mouth, chewing on it until the roof of the Ford had disappeared under the surface.
'That's it.'
They went back to the barn and got into the Chevrolet, and Dillinger drove back to the farm, braking to a halt at the foot of the porch steps. He started to open his door and Doc shook his head.
'You've got to get moving, Johnny. Let's cut it now.'
'Whatever you say, Doc.' Dillinger held out his hand.
Doc said, 'I want you to know I'm going to take your advice. I'm going south to the Florida Keys with money in my pants and it's all thanks to you.' He got out of the car and closed the door, leaning down to the window. 'I'm going to get some warmth into my old bones before I die and that's thanks to you as well, Johnny.'
Dillinger smiled. 'Good luck, Doc.'
He drove away through the rain and the old man stood there listening to the Chevrolet's sweet sound fade into the distance. Then he trudged across the muddy yard to the barn and opened the doors. An old Ford truck stood inside. He started it with the handle and drove it across to the front of the farm and went inside.
When he reappeared, he was carrying a suitcase and the briefcase, no more. He put them into the cab and went back up the steps into the living room. The hound dog moved restlessly beside him. It was very quiet, only the rain humming on the roof.
'Quiet, Sam,' he said gently. 'We're leaving now.'
He took out his pipe, filled it methodically from his worn tobacco pouch. Then he picked up the photo of his wife in the silver frame and slipped it into his pocket.
He struck a match on the side of his shoe and put it to the bowl of his pipe, then took the cowl of the oil lamp on the table and touched the match to the wick. It flared up and he reached forward and very gently turned it on its side. It rolled, coal oil spilling across the table and dripping to the floor, tongues of flame leaping up.
'Why, damn me, Sam,' Doc said to the hound. 'We appear to have a fire on our hands. Time to leave, I'd say.'
He went out and down the steps, holding open the door so that the old dog could climb up on the passenger seat. He went round to the front, swung the crank, then got behind the wheel and moved into gear. As he drove away, he started to sing softly:
'John Dillinger was the man for me,
He robbed the Glendale train,
Took from the banks, gave to the poor,
Shan't see his like again.'
Behind him, flames burst through the shingle roof and black smoke billowed into the air. Doc hadn't been happier in years. Then he remembered the man who'd come calling, Leach. The son-of-a-bitch had the whole of the Indiana State Police to catch one man. He hoped Johnny would be across the state line by now. Or real soon.
In his Washington office, J. Edgar Hoover had seven grown men standing around his desk as if they were page boys instead of high-ranking G-men. Hoover's voice was calm, but the men who had worked with him knew that he was furious.
'He phoned me,' Hoover said.
Of course they knew already. It was the scuttlebutt of headquarters.
'He phoned me collect. He said I should tell the President not to close any more banks.'
The men standing there kept straight faces because they knew what Hoover's fury would be like if they so much as smiled.
'He's made more headlines than movie stars. I don't want the kids in this country growing up emulating that man. Understand?'
They all nodded.
'The local boobs can't catch him, and when they do, they can't hold onto him. I want John Dillinger taken by the Bureau. Dead or alive.'
It was the man standing next to Purvis from Chicago who said, 'Any preference?'
Hoover laughed so they all thought it was OK to laugh too.
Hoover stood up for the first time. 'Here's my plan
.'
3
In Texas he'd driven with the top of the white convertible down, hoping the breeze would help. Maybe not feeling safe yet was adding to his discomfort. But once he was across the border he felt safe, and the hot sun seemed to bear down on him even more, and he finally pulled over to the side of the dusty road, and raised the top to keep the sun off his head. He put the turned down panama hat beside him on the seat to let the sweat band dry out a bit, damn glad he'd bought it and thrown the straw hat away. He didn't want to look like an American from a mile away.
With his fingertips he felt the moustache he'd started to grow on the ride down. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. It was coming in black. All he needed was a better suntan.
Above the town the Sierras floated in a purple haze. He bet it was cooler up there, but he had to find a decent hotel, if there was such a place. Across the Plaza Civica that fronted the church, he saw it: the Hotel Balcon, a squat pink building with a crumbling facade. It had been used as a strongpoint during the revolution and the walls were pitted with bullet holes.
He pulled the white Chevrolet up in front of it, aware of the eyes watching him from the park. Maybe from windows up there too. Should he have stuck to a black car like most other people drove, not a white convertible that called attention to himself? He loved the goddamn car and didn't care about anything except that it was now covered in dust and grime. These people sure had lousy roads compared to the States.
Dillinger put on his linen jacket, took the one suitcase. Everything else was safely stowed in the trunk.
He noticed but didn't pay any attention to the older man who sat on the bench in front of the hotel, smoking the stub of a cigarette the way people who can't afford cigarettes did, dragging smoke out of the last half inch.
As Dillinger passed, the man said, 'Hi.'
Dillinger stopped. He certainly didn't recognize the old fellow in the crumpled linen suit. He had the face of a man who'd lived hard all his life. A grizzled beard framed his wide mouth.
Dillinger'd been worried about knowing only a few phrases in Spanish and here was this guy saying, 'Hi.' Then, 'Can you spare two bits?'