The Hunt

by William Diehl

  The people of Drew City seemed frozen in time, staring with disbelief at Tyler Oglesby who lay spread-eagled in the middle of Broadway, staring up at the rain. Dempsey was the first to get to him. He ran from inside the bank and dropped on his knees beside him.

  “Tyler!” he cried. He turned and yelled up at Dr. Kimberly’s window over the Dairy Foods.

  “Doc, hey Doc, come quick! Tyler Oglesby’s been shot.”

  Oglesby looked up but did not recognize him. A moment later his eyes lost their focus and glazed over. Dempsey heard his deep sigh and knew he was dead. He looked up at the crowd gathering around and shook his head as Oglesby’s young deputy spun around the corner in the city Ford.

  “After ‘em, Luther,” Ben Scoby yelled from the bank door. “It’s the Dillinger gang!”

  As the getaway car roared down Broadway, Nelson thrust his tommygun out the window and fired a long burst at the hardware store. The bullets shattered the plate window, splintered ax handles and kerosene cans and snapped harnesses like twigs as they hung from hooks in the ceiling. The people inside dove to the floor as the bullets raked the store above their heads, showering them with debris.

  “What the hell’d you do that for?” Dillinger yelled.

  “Give ‘em something else to talk about,” Nelson yelled back. “Hey, looks like a patrol car swingin’ in behind us.”

  “That must be the other copper. Step on it, Russell.”

  “I’m goin’ almost seventy now!”

  “I’ll just slow that son-bitch down,” said Nelson.

  “No mere killing, Lester!” Dillinger yelled.

  “Right,” Nelson said. He smashed out the back window of the Packard with his tommygun and waited as the patrol car drew closer. When it was in range he fired one burst, then another.

  In the patrol car, Luther Conklin saw the window smash out but could not see clearly because of the rain. Then he saw the flash of the machine gun and heard the bullets ripping into the radiator, heard the steam hissing from it. The radiator cap exploded off and steam poured out. Conklin swerved in the road as another burst tore into both front tires. They burst under him and the car veered, skidded wildly on the wet pavement. He frantically fought the steering wheel, trying to gain control, felt the car skid into the shoulder and saw the tree rush toward him, felt it tear into the far side of the car. He smashed against the steering wheel, his breath rushing from his lungs.

  Nelson settled back in the seat with a grin. “Cooked that little bastard’s goose for him,” he said.

  “Christ, we killed another cop, maybe two,” Dillinger said, shaking his head.

  Conklin staggered Out of the car, clutching his sprained ribs and fell back against the ruined police car. Rain poured down his face. He stared with frustration and disappointment as the most famous bank gang in history disappeared down the rain-swept highway. Dillinger, Pierpont, Clark, Nelson and Van Meter. He had no way of knowing that within six months all of them would be dead, tracked down by the man they feared most, the C-man Melvin Purvis. Dillinger would be the first to die, exactly two months later. On the twenty-second day of July.

  What rotten luck, what bloody, stupid rotten luck.

  What was it Vierhaus had said to him once, it’s usually the unexpected that gets you. He was on the spot because it had never occurred to him that he might be trapped in this town, certainly not by the FBI. But that was exactly what was happening.

  Dempsey sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the raindrops making thin tracks down the window. He had been sitting without moving for ten minutes. He looked at the clock: three twenty.

  When Ben Scoby contacted the Chicago FBI office, Purvis himself got on the line. He was coming dawn personally with a team of FBI agents and had ordered Scoby to lock up the bank and send everyone home until they arrived. Scoby had called a meeting at seven P.M. in front of the bank.

  Dempsey had to leave before the FBI got to Drew City. He could not risk an interview with the G-men. Nor could he risk taking the bus or hitchhiking; everybody in town knew him. There was only one way out: he had to hop a freight. And even that was risky. If his failure to show up at the bank started a search, they might check the train when it arrived in Lafayette. But it was a risk he had to take.

  He made his decision. First, he thought, shave off the mustache and wash the dark dye out of his hair. Dress warmly, it was still quite cold at night. Wool socks and the heavy-soled walking shoes Louise had given him for his birthday. Money was not a problem. I’m not unprepared, he thought, just caught short.

  He got a pair of heavy corduroy trousers and a thick plaid jacket from the closet, dug out socks and shoes. He was on his way to the attic when the doorbell rang. Dempsey fell back against the wall. It couldn’t be the government men. It had to be Louise. He stood motionless for a full minute while the bell rang a second, then a third time. As he stood there, a plan began to form in his mind. He thought about it as he slowly descended the stairs.

  It was perfect, he thought. Even if they saw through it later it would give him time. Once he was in Chicago, he didn’t care what they thought, he would no longer be Fred Dempsey.

  He opened the door and Louise rushed into his arms. “Oh God, my heart stopped when I heard,” she said, hugging him to her. “Thank God you’re all right. I was afraid they shot you.”

  “It was Tyler Oglesby.”

  “I know, I just left Dad. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Of course. All I did was sit on the floor for five minutes and listen to John Dillinger brag about what a good guy he is.”

  “I can’t believe it! All the times we’ve joked about the bank being held up. And Roger and his cards

  “Easy,” he said. “It’s over. It’s even over for poor old Tyler. C’mon, let’s go upstairs.”

  “Upstairs?”

  “We’ve got three hours before the FBI gets here.”

  “Fred!”

  He leaned over and kissed her throat.

  “But.

  “All the excitement, it. . . it excited me.” He kissed the back of her neck and she twisted her head and shivered.

  “Gives me goose pimples.”

  “You always give me goose pimples.”

  He drew her slowly up the stairs, kissing her and caressing her cheek as they mounted the stairs. He led her into the bedroom, eased her onto the bed. She lay down beside the pants and flannel jacket.

  “What’s that?” She asked.

  He was leaning over her on stiff arms, staring down at her.

  “It’s going to be chilly and wet tonight. I thought I’d change before I went back to the bank. You can take my clothes off for me, Louise. You can undress me.”

  “Oh, Demps,” she whispered. “I love you so.”

  It was the first time either of them had mentioned the word. He lowered himself slowly down on top of her.

  “And I love you,” he said softly in her ear.

  She rolled him over and unbuttoned his vest, took off his tie, unbuttoned his shirt as he removed her blouse. She toyed with the hair on his chest then kissed his nipples, her tongue circling first one, then moving to the other. He unbuttoned her skirt at the back and when it was loose, slid his hand down the front of it, feeling her cotton panties, then her hair.

  “Oh God, yes,” she said. He moved his hand lower, felt her grow hard under his touch, began stroking her, lubricating her with her own juices. Finally he put his other hand under the band of the skirt and slipped it off. She unbuttoned his fly and her movements were frantic, her breathing quickening as she tugged at his trousers, then reached up and pulled off his shirt. When they were naked they lay on their sides facing each, each stroking the other and finally she rolled n top of him, rose up on her arms, squirming until he slipped inside her. She sighed, rising up and down on him, slowly at first, then faster.

  “Oh yes,” she said, “it comes so quickly now. So easy. Oh

  · · · faster, faster · . . God, faster .

&nb
sp; Her own passion stimulated his climax. He could feel her tightening on him and he reached up and began stroking her shoulders. Her moves grew faster and faster and her words began to blur together and then suddenly she cried opt and as she did, he came too. Thrusting deep into her, he moved one hand quickly under her chin and the other to the back of her head and with one hard snap of his wrists, he broke her neck.

  Her cry of joy turned to a gasp. The sound of her spine snapping drowned out her cries. Her mouth fell open and she stared down at him in horror and disbelief for just an instant before her bulging eyes went dead. She fell forward on top of him.

  He rolled her off on her back and lay for two or three minutes taking deep breaths. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would break his ribs. Finally he turned on his side, his back to her, and rising up on one elbow, reached for his cigarette makings.

  The phone interrupted his smoke. The phone was on the wall in the kitchen. He wrapped a towel around his waist and took the stairs two at a time.

  “Fred, Ben here. Did Weezie come by?”

  “She’s here now. She’s pretty upset, Ben.”

  “Everybody in town is. Poor Liz Oglesby is in shock. Doc’s with her now. Reason I’m calling, the FBI called back. Weather’s given them fits. Better make the meeting for seven-thirty. I’ll call everybody else.”

  “Fine. Listen, I might drive Louise over to Shorty’s Steak House in Delphi, get her mind off things. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Good idea,” he said. “You always seem to know just the right thing to do, Fred. Don’t know what we’d do without you.”

  “Well, it’s a terrible time, Ben, terrible.”

  “Sure is. I’ll have Mrs. Ramsey come over and keep an eye on the boy till after the meeting.”

  “Good. See you at seven-thirty then.”

  He went back upstairs, finished rolling the cigarette and lay on his back beside the body of Louise Scoby, smoking. Then almost as an afterthought, he reached over and with a thumb and forefinger closed her eyes.

  When he finished his cigarette he went into the bathroom, shaved his mustache and took a shower, using heavy tar soap to wash the dye out of his hair. He toweled off, went back in the bedroom, opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and reaching back, pulled loose the dagger which was taped to the rear of the cabinet. He went back in the bathroom and fixed the Nazi weapon to his calf with adhesive tape. He went to the attic and retrieved the lockbox, emptied it of its contents; the cash, a new passport and birth certificate, bank books from the New York account. He parted his hair in the middle, sweeping it forward over the areas he had kept shaved to add to his age. He put the cash in an envelope and taped it to his stomach. Then he methodically checked every inch of the house. There was nothing else he needed, nothing to reveal his real identity.

  He dressed in long johns, cord pants, a heavy sweatshirt and the flannel shirt over it and got his rain slicker. He Went back to the bedroom, dressed Louise Scoby’s corpse, carried it down to the car and put it in the trunk with the empty lockbox.

  Heavy clouds and rain brought darkness early that Friday. Dempsey parked under a bay of trees near the park. The body of Louise Scoby was propped behind the steering wheel, the stiffened fingers of one hand wrapped around the steering wheel, the other arm rested on the seat. He had pried open that hand and wrapped the fingers around the suit coat he was wearing during the robbery. He had torn the sleeve at the shoulder so it would appear that his body had literally been torn from her grasp. When he was sure nobody was watching, he threw the heavy lockbox and glasses into the river. He checked his watch:

  five forty-five.

  It was time. He started the car and sitting close to the body, he shifted into low and pulled out onto Highway 25. There were no cars in sight. He drove toward the bridge over the river. Just before the bridge there was a steep embankment that dropped straightaway into the raging river. He picked up speed until he was fifty feet from the bank. Then he slain med on the brakes and twisted the wheel. The car skidded onto the shoulder, veered back on the road, leaving heavy black skid marks. Then he steered the car toward the embankment, braking it down to ten miles per hour, opened his door, and as. the car rumbled onto the shoulder above the river, he jammed his foot on the gas and dove out of the car door.

  He rolled as he hit the muddy shoulder of the road, felt the elbow of his jacket tear out and the sharp sting of pebbles burning the skin. As he rolled over on his back, he jammed both heels into the mud and slid to a stop.

  The thrust of gas was enough to send the Buick over the bank. It rolled on its side, rocks and small trees tearing at fenders and doors, then hit the bottom of the bank, hung for a moment, and slipped front end first into the turbulent stream. The racing river carried it downstream, bobbing like a fishing cork, and then it twisted a half turn and vanished under the broiling, muddy water.

  Dempsey jumped to his feet and swiftly erased his muddy tracks with his hands. He ran back to the train tracks and trotted toward the railroad bridge. The six o’clock freight would slow down as it crossed the span into the west end of town, a perfect place to jump aboard. When he got to the bridge he ducked down beneath the ties and waited. The train was five minutes late. It slowed down as it always did and headed over the bridge. As it rumbled overhead, the engineer blew a single, mournful blast on his whistle. Dempsey clambered up the bank and ran beside the train. He had to gauge his steps so his feet would land on the ties. He was gasping for breath as a boxcar clattered out of the darkness behind him, its door half open. As it passed, he reached inside, feeling desperately for something to grab hold of. As he did, his foot slipped on the wet ties. He gave one desperate shove with his other foot as he began to founder, grabbed the edge of the open door and twisted himself into the car.

  BOOK THREE

  “The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.”

  Joseph Conrad

  Bert Rudman liked to write in a small reading room off the lobby of the Bristol Hotel, preferring it to his apartment, which was much too quiet and secluded, and his office, which was frenetic and intrusive. The room was subdued and quiet, its floor-to- ceiling brass lamps flared at the top and mounted against the walls, casting soft indirect light off the ceiling on scarlet-and- black-striped silk wallpaper. There were fringed lamps and brass ink wells on the half-dozen mahogany writing desks in the room. The sofas and chairs were leather and the people who sat in them usually whispered as they would in a library.

  If he felt the urge for a drink, across the narrow lobby was the hotel bar, a subdued, intimate watering hole with a twenty- foot-long slate bar running the length of one wall, charcoal carpeting, glass-topped pedestal tables and deep-piled chairs. The bartender, Romey, played his favorite records on a Gramophone hidden in a storage closet, his eclectic taste ranging from opera and classics to the latest jazz recordings. Romey was perhaps the rudest bartender in Paris, greeting occasional musical requests from customers with a dour grunt, followed by ‘non.” He refused to indulge in casual conversation and muttered obscenities to himself when asked to make a drink he personally did not like. But if Romey was less than radiant he made up for it with phenomenal recall, remembering the drink preference of guests he sometimes had not seen for six months or longer.

  For two years, Rudman had been keeping a daily journal o his activities, his viewpoints and impressions of the escalating crisis in Europe, a chronicle of his innermost thoughts and fear an evaluation of the gathering storm.

  On this night he was writing an essay about the élan of the French who seemed, on the surface, to ignore the threat to the north and east of them. After all, they had the Maginot Line, a string of vertical, concrete buttresses backed up by bunkers that stretched the entire length of the border. That, with the French Army, was supposed to hold back Hitler’s Wehrmacht. Rudman thought it was a joke and had so stated in several of his columns, an observation which had hardl
y endeared him to the French government or the military.

  Each night he sat in the writing room with a glass of absinthe and let his thoughts ramble, stretching his subjective viewpoint, adding unproven rumors and predictions on the future of the continent he could not use in his newspaper articles. He had been using the free time before going to work for the Times to update the journal, which he called Overture to Disaster, and trying to ignore a persistent inner voice that told him he was actually writing a book. Rudman was not ready yet to accept that responsibility as a reality.

  The Bristol Hotel was a small but exclusive hotel catering to steady customers and celebrities who sought the kind of anonymity they would not find at the larger and more famous Ritz. Keegan always stayed at the Bristol. It was a comfortable hotel and because he was known there, he was treated especially well by the managers. The lobby was a long, narrow corridor leading to a small registration desk and an elevator, an open brass and ebony cage. The lobby was bracketed by the reading room on the left and the bar on the right. Keegan and Jenny always came by the reading room when they returned from their nightly forays in search of entertainment. That was Rudman’s sign to quit for the night. They always had a nightcap together.

  But tonight they were running late. As Rudman, tired of his own nitpicking rewriting, decided to have another drink, he looked up to see von Meister, the German Embassy attaché, standing across the lobby in the doorway of the bar. Silhouetted by the back-lit glass shelves of liquor behind the bar, he was an intimidating figure, tall and erect, an almost satanic personification of the Third Reich. Von Meister was wearing a dark blue double-breasted suit instead of his uniform, yet Rudman still felt a sudden chill, as if he had walked past an open refrigerator.

  “Bon soir, Monsieur Rudman,” he said. Then, nodding at the journal, “Letting your imagination run rampant as usual?”

  Rudman smiled. “I prefer to call it truth.”