DILLINGER
by Harry Patterson
Copyright © 1983 by Harry Patterson
aka Jack Higgins
One
Dillinger lay on his bunk in one corner of the cell, his head pillowed on a hand, staring up at the ceiling. His cell mate in the "escapeproof" new section of Lake County's three-story brick jail, Herbert Youngblood, a big black man, stood at the window gazing out through the bars down into the street in front of the jail.
Dillinger said, "What's it like out there?"
"Must be two, maybe three hundred people," Youngblood said. "Hell, it's worse than the State Fair. They got National Guard out there in uniform, like they were going to war." He turned, smiling. "Maybe they think you're planning on taking a trip?"
"It's a thought," Dillinger said calmly.
There was the rattle of a key in the lock of the sliding cell door, a row of vertical bars. They turned to see an old man wearing faded denims, holding a tray, Sam Cahoon, the attendant.
"Coffee, Mr. Dillinger?"
"Why not?"
Dillinger sat up, and the old man placed two tin cups on the small table and filled them, the pot shaking a little in his hand so that some coffee spilled.
"You been across to the hotel this morning?" Dillinger asked as Cahoon passed him his cup.
"I sure have, Mr. Dillinger," Cahoon said. "They're sleeping on the floors. More folks coming in all the time. They've got reporters, radio people, a newsreel cameraman. You should get a commission from the hotel, Mr. Dillinger."
He smiled in a strained, anxious way as if conscious that he might have gone too far. Dillinger sipped his coffee thoughtfully, and it was Youngblood who answered for him.
"A great idea, Pops. Next time you're over there, you tell the guy who runs the joint Mr. Dillinger was asking about his cut."
"I sure will," Cahoon said eagerly. "More coffee, Mr. Dillinger?"
"No thanks, Sam. This is just fine," Dillinger told him.
The old man picked up the tray. On the other side of the bars was one of the trusties with a mop stuck in a bucket.
"I was told to bring this here," the trusty said.
Cahoon slid the bars to the side just enough to let the man squeeze by and put the bucket and mop down next to where Dillinger was sitting. Quickly Youngblood said, "I'll do that."
The trusty, who looked very nervous, said, "I was told to give it to Mr. Dillinger." He scurried out, followed by Sam, who locked the sliding bars behind him.
"Idiots," Youngblood said. "What good's a mop and bucket without water?"
Dillinger held a finger up to his lips. He went over to the bars and checked right and left, and, then, with his back to the bars in case anyone came along unexpectedly, he squatted down and carefully lifted the mop end from the bottom of the bucket and took out something wrapped in flannel.
"Stand next to me," he whispered to Youngblood.
Their backs making a screen in case anyone happened along, Dillinger unwrapped the flannel. In its center was a blue-black.32 caliber Colt Automatic. Quickly, Dillinger checked the clip, saw that it had all eight rounds, and jammed it back into the handle.
"Let's have your knife," Dillinger said.
Youngblood produced a bone-handled pocket knife from the top of his right boot and handed it across. Dillinger sprung the blade, instinctively tested it on his thumb, and told Youngblood, "Stand by the bars. Anyone comes, you tell me fast."
As Youngblood leaned backward against the bars, Dillinger reached under the mattress on his bunk, slit it, and shoved the Colt into the slit. He tested to see if the gun was far enough away from the cut not to fall out accidentally. Only then did Dillinger look up at Youngblood with a smile.
There was amazement in Youngblood's eyes. "Jesus, Mr. Dillinger," was all he said.
The lounge of the hotel was crowded, with reporters three deep at the bar, and the noise made it necessary to shout to be heard. The young woman sitting alone at the bamboo table by the window where she could view the street looked out of place in the neat two-piece black suit and cream oyster-satin blouse, her blonde hair framed by a close-fitting black velvet hat.
The man who approached her, glass in hand, was perhaps thirty-five, with a world-weary, sardonic face. A gray fedora was pushed to the back of his head.
"Hello," he said. "Mike Jarvis, A.P. I hear you're with the Denver Press."
"That's right. Martha Ryan."
"Can I get you a drink?"
She lifted her cup. "Coffee's just fine, thank you."
He sat down and offered her a cigarette. "They sent you up here to get the woman's angle, I suppose?"
"That's right. Only it doesn't look as if anyone's getting in to see him," she shrugged.
"Well, there's the sheriff," Jarvis said, nodding toward the large window.
"Oh, where is he?" Martha Ryan said, standing.
Jarvis laughed. "He's a she," he said, pointing to where a middle-aged woman flanked by two male deputies was crossing the street. "Her husband was the sheriff of Lake County. When he got himself killed, she took over for the rest of his term, like they did in the olden days."
The door opened. Lillian Holley entered and was immediately surrounded by excited newsmen, all talking at once. The two brawny deputies started to push a way through the crowd for her and she called in exasperation, "Can't a girl get a cup of coffee in peace round here?"
Jarvis, watching the sheriff speculatively, turned suddenly to Martha Ryan. "She won't let any of the guys see Dillinger at the moment, but what if I persuaded her to let you in?"
Martha Ryan stared at him skeptically. "You think there's a chance?"
"Maybe, only one thing. You share your story with me and no one else. Is it a deal?"
She reached across and pressed his hand. "A deal, Mr. Jarvis."
He stood up as Lillian Holley pressed forward. "Hey, Lillian! Over here!"
She paused, glancing toward him. "Mike Jarvis, you still here? You don't give up, do you?"
Her eyes considered the young woman. She came forward, and Jarvis held his seat for her. "Here, take this."
She sat down. The two deputies stood guard, backs toward her, arms folded, and the crowd of reporters retreated to the bar.
"Introduce me, Mike," she said.
"Miss Martha Ryan of the Denver Press."
Mrs. Holley frowned. "Your editor must be crazy, expecting a kid like you to hold her own with a bunch of villains like these guys. Just out of college?"
"That's right, Mrs. Holley."
A waiter appeared with fresh coffee. Lillian Holley said, "I get it, he wants a fresh angle. Why, thousands of red-blooded American women have the hots for Johnny Dillinger."
Martha Ryan blushed, and Jarvis said, "It's the little lady's first big assignment, Lillian."
"Next thing, you'll be telling me her aging mother's in the hospital and she needs the money."
Jarvis grinned and turned to Martha. "Hey, you didn't tell me."
Martha Ryan smiled. "I won't lie to you, Mrs. Holley. Any kind of story from here would get me a byline and could make my career."
Lillian Holley looked her over calmly. "Well," she said, "it's nice to see a woman ambitious for a change, instead of all these hustling men."
Martha Ryan said, "Just five minutes with him? Please, Mrs. Holley, it could be my break."
Jarvis patted Martha Ryan's hand. "Too much to expect, angel. I mean all these guys here have been hanging around for days trying to see John Dillinger. They'd go crazy. No, it can't be done.
Lillian Holley noticed how Martha Ryan gently moved her hand away from Jarvis' condescending pat. "You men," she said to Jarvis, taking his bait, "think you
know everything. Who the hell do you think is in charge around here? If I say this girl sees Dillinger, she sees him, and there's nothing those creeps can do about it."
"Sorry, Lillian, no offense meant," Jarvis said hastily.
Lillian Holley leaned across the table to Martha Ryan. "I'll give you five minutes, that's all, you understand?"
The girl stared at her in amazement. "You mean it? You really mean it? Five minutes with Dillinger."
"Hey, you got a great title for your feature there," Jarvis told her.
Lillian Holley said, "I'm leaving now. Give me a couple of minutes, then report to the back entrance of the jail. You'll be expected. And keep it to yourself for now."
"Oh, I will, Mrs. Holley," Martha Ryan said.
Lillian Holley stood up and turned to Jarvis. "And that goes for you, too. Keep your mouth shut on this one, Mike, or don't come back."
She nodded to the two deputies and followed them to the door.
Martha Ryan said, "I can't believe it." She turned to Jarvis as he sat down again. "Have you any idea what this could mean to me. Mr. Jarvis?"
"Sure I do," he said. "New York, next stop." He lit another cigarette. "And what I said about sharing the story. Forget it. This one's yours. Who knows, maybe you could get a Pulitzer."
She was almost in tears. "But why are you doing this for me? I don't understand?"
"Simple," he said. "I work out of A. P.'s New York office myself. Maybe if you get there, you'll let me buy you a cup of coffee some time." He smiled and reached across to pat her hand.
Instead, Martha Ryan took his hand and pumped it. "Thank you, Mr. Jarvis," she said.
"Call me Mike."
"Thank you, Mike."
Jarvis smiled. "Now get the hell out of here and get your story."
Youngblood, leaning against the door, watching, now made a quick gesture. "Someone's coming."
Dillinger quickly lay on the bed. As he lit a cigarette, the key rattled in the lock, the sliding bars opened, and a guard stood to one side as Lillian Holley entered, followed by a young woman.
"On your feet, Johnny," Mrs. Holley said. "I'd like you to meet a lady. This is Miss Martha Ryan of the Denver Press, and I've told her she can have five minutes with you."
"Hell, Mrs. Holley," Youngblood said, "I could do with five minutes there myself.
As Youngblood spoke, there was the most extraordinary change in Dillinger. He was on his feet in an instant, his face pale, his eyes very dark, so that Youngblood recoiled as from a blow in the face.
"Sorry, Mr. Dillinger," he whispered.
Dillinger turned to Martha Ryan, his charming half-smile on view again. "Miss Ryan, what can I do for you?"
She was, for a moment, almost overcome. He was not what she thought he'd be. Though he was shorter than she'd expected, his shoulders were those of a bigger man. His restless, intelligent face and pleasant, courteous voice carried a curious authority.
Her throat was dry, but she managed to speak. "Well, I know your background, Mr. Dillinger, everyone does. Your family, that kind of stuff. I just wanted to ask you some other kinds of questions."
He pulled a chair forward. "Fire away."
She took a pad and pencil from her purse. "They say you intend to escape from here. Is that true?"
The question was so naive that Lillian Holley laughed harshly and answered it for him. "This section of the jail, honey, the new section, is escape-proof. That's the way the architect designed it. Even if he got through that door he'd have to pass through God knows how many gates and armed guards."
Dillinger turned to the girl. "Satisfied?"
"But they say your friends are coming to get you out."
"What friends? If I had friends, they wouldn't be stupid enough to try to crash Mrs. Holley's Indiana Alcatraz, would they?"
The half-smile was still firmly in place, as if he was laughing at the world and everyone in it. "However, if an attractive honey like you'd come along for the ride, I might decide to try for the outside." He winked at Mrs. Holley. "'Course, Mrs. Holley could come along as chaperone."
Martha Ryan wasn't sure whether he was making a pass or a joke or both at the same time. She tried again. "Have you any interest in politics, Mr. Dillinger?"
"Not until Mr. Roosevelt came along. You can say I'm for him all the way, and for the NRA-particularly for banking, only he'll have to hurry."
She looked genuinely bewildered. "I don't understand, you're a..." She hesitated.
"A thief?" he said helpfully. "True. I rob the banks, if that's what you mean, but who do they rob, Miss Ryan? Indiana, Kansas, Iowa, Texas-take your choice. People thrown off their farms wholesale while the banks foreclose, then sell out at a huge profit to the big wheat combines."
"Business, Johnny," Lillian Holley said dryly. "Just business."
"Oh, sure, the kind that makes me feel clean," Dillinger said. "Six million unemployed out there, Miss Ryan. You ask them what kind of a thief John Dillinger is."
Martha Ryan sat there staring up at him. He didn't sound that much different from some of the editorial writers she'd met. Lillian Holley said, "O.K., 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 that he put down by the wall.
"Okay, 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, which had 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 among 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.
Jack Higgins - Dillinger Page 1
