Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

by Jack Martin

  Waving cheerfully, he called out, “Come in, Mrs. Cumpanas, come in.”

  She entered the room, keeping her eyes carefully on the floor. “I don’t want to disturb you while you discuss police things.”

  The haggard-looking Purvis, tie loosened, jacket slung across his shoulder to imperfectly conceal his large Colt automatic, rose wearily to his feet. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve been sweeping every street, nightclub, and whorehouse for your boyfriend—nothing. Coming up with jack.”

  Cumpanas continued to look at the floor. She would have much preferred to tell her news to Bierce alone. “Mr. Agent Purvis, I think I know how you can capture Johnnie alive tonight.”

  Immediately Purvis’ exhausted eyes came alive. Cumpanas continued. “He called me. Johnnie wants to leave town, but not for two days. He says the big job must take place in the next two days, so that we have money to live like royalty overseas. He wants us to stay apart until we leave, except for tonight. He says he needs to relax, so he and I should meet at Biograph Theater. It’s air conditioned, and he says we will be able to relax most of night there.”

  Purvis looked inquisitively at Bierce, who said, “This could work much better than trying to intercept Dillinger at Mrs. Cumpanas’. He will be especially careful now, and will just disappear if he so much as smells a Federal agent. It would be almost impossible to hide our presence from him around an apartment building with relatively few people coming and going. Whereas, on a crowded street filled with theater goers, we should have an excellent chance.”

  Bierce turned his attention to Cumpanas. “Will you do it? Will you lead Johnnie into our trap?”

  She hesitated slightly before she nodded. “Yes, if you keep them from sending me to Roumania. I cannot go back there. I cannot.”

  Purvis shrugged. “Wear that red number tonight. It’ll make it easier for my boys to see you.”

  “It’s orange, Mr. Purvis.”

  “Whatever. Stands out like a drunk at a society ball. Anyway, what film will be playing?”

  “Manhattan Melodrama. It’s a Clark Gable movie.”

  “I’ve seen it, not bad. That Gable guy has a future in front of him in the movies.” Purvis narrowed his eyes and gave Cumpanas a cold sneer. “Don’t try to rabbit on us tonight. Bierce needs Dillinger alive. You, he doesn’t.” With a nod to Bierce, Purvis strode purposively out of the room.

  After a moment, Cumpanas spoke in a low voice, “I am scared, Mr. Bierce. I think without you there, that man will kill me tonight.”

  “Then I better be there tonight.” With only the slightest of groans, Bierce sat up and twisted his legs so that his feet rested on the floor.

  “Mr. Bierce! You cannot get out of bed! It will be weeks, many weeks before your wound heals.”

  “I heal quickly, Mrs. Cumpanas,” Bierce replied as he tentatively stretched his arms. He slowly stood up. “Now, let us try on the clothes you were kind enough to buy for me.”

  Slowly, with help of a rather intimate nature from Cumpanas, he put on his new clothing. Walking slowly, Bierce approached the small mirror over the sink, looked at himself, and grimaced.

  “Not a very good fit. Nothing off the rack seems to be exactly the right size for me. Well, it will have to do.”

  “Nonsense,” replied Cumpanas. “Take off coat and pants. I fix.” To Bierce’s amazement, Cumpanas took out of one of the shopping bags what appeared to be a complete set of tailoring implements. Amazement turning to amusement, he took off the suit and handed it to Cumpanas. He sat at the foot of the bed, watching Cumpanas work with amazing speed, stopping only occasionally to whip out a tape measure and hold it steadily against some part of Bierce’s anatomy. In less than an hour she was done.

  “Here. This is much better. Try it on.”

  Bierce did as he was instructed. Inspecting himself in the mirror, he was astonished. The fit was perfect, as good as any Brooks Brothers he had ever owned.

  “Marvelous, Miss Cumpanas. You will make some lucky man a happy husband someday.”

  Her features clouded. “I had husband once. He drank away all the money then sold me to whorehouse.”

  Instantly, Bierce stepped forward and took her hands into his. “I apologize deeply, Mrs. Cumpanas. It was wrong for me to jest about your personal life when it is obvious it has not been a happy one. May I ask your forgiveness?”

  “It’s all right. You meant no harm.” Then, acting oddly shy for one in her profession, she asked, “You have wife, Mr. Bierce?”

  He gently released her hands. “I did. She died of a cancer of the uterus some years ago. I was with her to the end. Never had I seen such bravery, in man or woman.” He paused, then voice lowered almost to a whisper said, “She looked much like you, at least at a distance. For a moment—just a moment—when I first saw you, I thought you were her.”

  Cumpanas was not used to the relations between man and woman being about anything but animal sex. “I see that you loved her very much.”

  With a catch in his voice, he replied, “I loved her more than my life.” His eyes seemed to glisten. Then shaking his head he said, “You should go and meet up with Dillinger. I promise I will be there tonight to make sure Mr. Purvis behaves himself.”

  She nodded and left the room. Bierce went to the room’s small closet and retrieved his Colt .45 and its holster. Having secured the holster, he removed the magazine—seven in the mag, one in the barrel—enough to deal with anything he was likely to meet. He slammed the magazine into the butt of the weapon and holstered it. He then removed his white Panama hat from the shelf within the closet and placed it levelly on his head. He stepped over to the mirror above the sink. An utterly expressionless face peered back at him.

  Despite the heat and mugginess in the corridor that made his bald head glisten with moisture, Dr. Stein bustled along toward Agent Bierce’s room in a state of immense happiness. By pure good luck, a fortuitous opportunity had fallen into his hands when Harry Bierce had been brought to his hospital. It was not that his body’s defenses were unusual, they were absolutely unprecedented! The man healed at an inconceivable rate from what should have been a fatal injury. There was not the slightest sign of infection that almost always accompanied serious gunshot wounds. There was something unique in the man’s immune system, something, that if he could discover what it was, would save millions of lives—and most notably—win him the Nobel Prize. No more struggling endless hours in obscurity with a procession of routine injuries and illnesses. He would be famous, a guest of honor at countless conferences, a tenured professor at an Ivy League university. The whole world would open up to him. All he needed were additional X-rays and blood tests to help unlock the secret hiding within the body of Agent Harry Bierce!

  The doctor paraded into Bierce’s room, only to see a young nurse changing the sheets on the bed.

  “Where is patient Bierce?” he yelled at the young woman.

  Eyes wide with concern, she replied, “Why, he checked himself out not thirty minutes ago, Dr. Stein. I thought you knew.”

  Without another word, Stein spun on his heels and started running for the elevator. He prayed Bierce was being delayed in settling his bill at the front desk. But as he reached the elevator, he pulled up short, nostrils flaring. Smoke, he thought. Fire? Then the fire alarms began to clang, the sound seeming to come from the corridor leading to his office. Stein ran for all he was worth. As he came within sight of his office, the alarm stopped. Without immediately understanding its significance, Stein noticed that the door to his office was ajar, although he could have sworn he had locked it. One orderly was holding an emergency hose, spraying it into a metal waste can that was spewing black smoke and ash. Another orderly had been engaged in stopping the blaring alarm. He turned and saw Dr. Stein.

  “Sorry, sir, seems it was some kind of nasty prank. That trash bin was filled with files, records, X-ray plates. Someone placed it in the middle of the room here and set it alight. At least they seem to have taken care to prevent the
fire from spreading, since the can was metal, and where it was placed, the fire was unlikely to spread any further.”

  The other orderly turned off his hose. Most of the contents in the can were utterly destroyed, all script unreadable—except one plate. Dr. Stein bent over to get a closer look at the Xray. Scrawled along the edge—Bierce, H.

  Cumpanas waited uneasily outside the Biograph Theater, all too aware there were armed Federal agents scattered in the crowds of the street. Half of her worried that Dillinger would not show up, the other half feared he would.

  Then, from behind her she heard a voice call to her, “Hey, Ana!” With a mixture of emotions she whirled around, only to receive an unexpected shock. It was indeed Johnnie, waiving at her with his right hand, but his left hand firmly encircled the waist of a young, bleached-blonde woman.

  A wave of iciness rushed over Cumpanas. “Who is your … friend?”

  “Polly Hamilton,” replied Dillinger easily. “I’m surprised you two haven’t met before, being in the same business. Anyway, it’s her place where I’ve been hiding out since your place seemed too hot. The bulls know I have a connection with you and might be watching your place, but they know nothing of dear Polly and me.”

  “Pleased ta meetcha,” responded Polly, chomping a wad of gum. A woman of indeterminate years, and a few pounds heavier than she should have been, she wrapped her right arm around Dillinger’s waist possessively. She smiled, but coldly surveyed Cumpanas.

  “Thought I’d give her a treat as well, for taking such good care of me,” said Dillinger charmingly. He came up to Cumpanas, pecked her on the cheek, and confidently slid his free arm around her waist. “Let’s go in.”

  Across the street in the entrance to an alley, Melvin Purvis stood, twiddling a cigar in his fingers. He briefly considered lighting it, which would signal his deputy Charles Winstead and the other agents to move in. Instead, Purvis decided to wait. If he gave the signal now, Dillinger would likely retreat into the darkened theater full of innocent bystanders. Best to wait until he emerged. Purvis placed the cigar back in his coat pocket. The movie wouldn’t be that long.

  “Buck-fifty, mac,” said the cigar-chewing cabbie. Harry Bierce, eyes already locked on the garish lights of the Biograph, handed him two dollars and muttered, “Keep the change.” He walked slowly toward the theater, the pains in his chest telling him that he needed more time to recuperate. Determined, he locked the pain away into a small compartment in the back of his mind. Something he had learned how to do many years before. Tomorrow, Bierce thought, the President would be arriving by train, and over the next few days Roosevelt would be attending a number of very public events. Dillinger must be apprehended, and he must give the evidence that would bring Huey Long to justice.

  Bierce caught sight of a narrow alley just to the left of Biograph’s box office and slowly made his way to its entrance. As he settled into position, he noticed a wide-eyed Purvis staring at him from across the street, obviously shocked to see the wounded Bierce present for this dangerous takedown. Bierce smiled, gave Purvis a military salute, and sank back into the shadows.

  The wait was less than ninety minutes, but of course seemed much, much longer to the keyed up Federal agents—except for Harry Bierce, who had patiently endured far longer lookouts in his varied career. Then the wait was over, a thickening crowd of happily chatting moviegoers poured out of the cooled recesses of the Biograph into the hot mugginess of a Chicago summer night.

  Across the street, Purvis saw a tall man exit, each arm around a woman. Purvis could not quite recognize Dillinger, but he could definitely recognize Cumpanas’s dress. Muttering “Don’t give a damn what she says, it’s red, not orange,” he jammed the cigar into his mouth, ignited a wooden match with his thumb, and lit the stogie. His keyed-up agents had been watching, and moved into action.

  Dillinger was puzzled by Ana’s mood. The movie had been excellent, the air-conditioning a heavenly relief from the sticky hot air of Chicago. Yet in contrast to Polly’s happy chattering, Ana was as silent as a stone. He would have to shake her out of her mood because he had plans for the three of them when they got back to Polly’s place.

  Like the flick of a switch, Dillinger’s sixth sense for danger kicked in. He looked around wildly until he saw several men hurrying across the street toward him. Flinging his escorts aside, he rabbited to the alley on the left of the Biograph. Surprised, he skidded to a stop before a small man holding a big Colt .45 automatic. In an instant he recognized him as the G-man he had shot at Wrigley Field. The man who shouldn’t be alive, much less holding a gun on him.

  “Federal agent. Raise your hands, Mr. Dillinger. You are under arrest.”

  Instantly Dillinger realized from the sheen of sweat on the man’s forehead, the slight shakiness of the gun that he held, and the stiff way that he positioned his body, the man was sick from the wound he’d inflicted upon him, and would unlikely be able to respond quickly. Swift as a mongoose, Dillinger reached under his loose white shirt and produced an automatic. Three shots rang out.

  Bierce stepped back, astonished by the speed of the criminal’s draw, along with the flecks of blood and bits of brain matter spattered on his gun and hand. Staring at the crater of an exit wound just under Dillinger’s left eye, Bierce watched, as if in slow motion, the criminal’s nerveless hand dropped the pistol to the ground. A moment later, the gangster’s body collapsed on top of the gun, and remained there. Unmoving. Bierce, still motionless, heard rapidly approaching footsteps.

  “Agent Bierce, are you all right?” Bierce now focused his attention on Agent Charles Winstead, who rushed toward him, a look of concern on his face. In his hand, the agent held a smoking Smith & Wesson revolver.

  Bierce regained his composure. “Yes, I’m quite uninjured,” Bierce replied, removing a large handkerchief from his pocket. “This,” he said as he wiped the gore from his face, “compliments of the late Mr. Dillinger.”

  Purvis ran up, followed by several other agents. “You idiot, Winstead! We needed him alive!”

  Bierce looked at the gory handkerchief in his hand, and impulsively put a corner in his mouth, tasting Dillinger’s blood, a look of obscene pleasure crossing his face. Before anyone could notice, his expression changed to one of self-loathing and guilt. He looked with disgust at the cloth in his hand, suddenly throwing it on the ground.

  “It is not Agent Winstead’s fault. In fact, I owe him my life. I had intended to confront Dillinger, and if he resisted, shoot to wound. Unbelievably, he was quicker than I had imagined, and my reflexes were slowed by my injury more than I supposed. If we could not take him, we had to kill him. I am just sorry I played such an inadequate role tonight.”

  “Inadequate!” exclaimed Purvis. “I didn’t expect you at all. And if you hadn’t been here, he might have made an escape down this narrow little alley, which was the only one I hadn’t blocked. I’m a goddamn idiot! We only got this murdering bastard because of you.”

  Police sirens wailed in the distance. A crowd had gathered at the entrance to the alley. In some mystic kind of osmosis, they seemed to all know that the body was that of John Dillinger. Several of the more ghoulish were darting forward to dip their handkerchiefs in the growing pool of blood surrounding Dillinger’s head. This stopped for the moment when Purvis impulsively kicked one of the souvenir seekers in the head. Bierce glanced at the alley entrance. Polly Hamilton was wailing uncontrollably, tears smearing her thick makeup. Ana Cumpanas stared stonily at Bierce, her eyes completely dry.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “And so I followed the mob …”

  Harry Bierce peered out the small window of the unused, back-up radio broadcast room onto Wrigley Field. The President was long gone, probably on his train back to Washington already. A surprising number of people milled about the stands and field, still excited by the soaring speech FDR gave after the game, still unwilling to return to the drab misery of their homes. Melvin Purvis walked up beside Bierce, and for a minute the two G-
men watched in silence as workmen set out to disassemble the platform on which the President, his entourage, and tons of movie and camera equipment had rested less than an hour ago.

  Finally Purvis broke the silence. “Say what you will about that crippled socialist bastard, he can sure stir a crowd. Never saw anything like it in my life.”

  “He may indeed be a socialist,” responded Bierce quietly, “but, he knows, as you and I know, that this country is teetering on the edge of revolution. His policies are designed to give hope to a desperate, suffering people, and turn them away from both the fascists and the true communists. He may very well be the only one at this time who can save our republic, and keep us from the chaos sweeping Europe.”

  Purvis shrugged. “Be that as it may, America came goddamn close to losing him, and you deserve the credit for preventing that.” Purvis walked over and picked up the rifle that had been discovered in this small room.

  “A Springfield 30-06, fitted with a military-standard telescopic scope. From that window, it was less than one hundred yards to where Roosevelt was speaking. For a marksman like Dillinger, it would have been almost impossible to miss. Do you think he could have gotten away?”

  Bierce shrugged slightly. “Hard to say with certainty, but he would have stood a good chance. We already know that he was a fanatical follower of the Chicago Cubs. As such, he had over the years learned every nook and cranny of this—let’s be blunt—mazelike stadium. You remember how easily he eluded you and slipped away after I was shot? I think he planned to do the same after murdering the President. He would wipe down the rifle to remove his fingerprints, and slip out the door of this disused room into a mass of hysterical people. Bold to the point of arrogance, but it just might have worked. No one could have proved who fired the shot. The President’s followers would be frantically looking for the murderer in any group that had ever dared to oppose FDR; law enforcement would be paralyzed, riots in the streets would erupt, and, just perhaps, a revolution would be set in motion.”