Dillinger. Jack Higgins

editorial writers she’d met. Lillian Holley said, ‘OK, angel, that’s 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 wouldn’t put that in your article if I were you. They mightn’t understand.’ And then he smiled gently. ‘Don’t worry about me, Miss Ryan. I know the road I’m taking, I know what’s at the end of it. My choice! No one else’s.’

      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 moment. ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said. Thank you.’

      He