Dillinger. Jack Higgins

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