Jack Higgins - Dillinger

by Dillinger [lit]

  "Sure," Fallon muttered.

  The cell door opened and Rivera entered. He glared down at Fallon.

  Hernandez said, "Senor Rivera has some ques­tions to put to you. You will answer them. You understand?"

  "Yes," Fallon moaned.

  "Excellent," Rivera said and sat on the bunk. "Let's start again then. This man, Harry Jordan. Who is he?"

  . . .

  A slight wind lifted the edge of the dingy lace curtains in Dillinger's room. The place had that strange, derelict air common to rooms in cheap hotels the world over. It was as if no one had ever really lived there. As Dillinger lay on the bed, he heard the great bell of the church toll, and it reminded him of Sunday mornings in Indiana when he was twelve. He'd led his neighborhood gang-all sixth-grade boys-in a foray to steal coal from the Pennsylvania Rail­road and sell it to the women in town. He remembered the happy days in Gebhardt's pool hall, and the even happier times playing base­ball. He loved baseball because it was two games being played at the same time, winning against the other team, and being watched by the girls, who after the game always went after the boys who played best. Some of those older girls had terrific figures, not like these Mexican women. Jesus, was he getting homesick so soon?

  He had to wait it out till the hunt for him cooled off. He had to be steel, like the time in prison he found strength to pour acid on his heel so he could get transferred to yard duty. They owed him nine years! He remembered how good he felt-like he was flying-when he got out of jail that first time. He wasn't going to spend any more time ever behind bars.

  The knock on the door stopped his reverie. He hoped it was the damn bellboy with the bottled water he'd asked for more than an hour ago. God, things moved slow in Mexico!

  "Come in," he yelled. "The door's open."

  What came in wasn't the bellhop but a small, wiry man in uniform with a pockmarked face.

  "Police, senior," pockmarks said. "I am Ser­geant Hernandez. May I see your passport?"

  Dillinger looked across the room to the dresser where his Colt automatic lay in its holster. The sergeant followed his eyes.

  Dillinger swung his feet off the bed, went to his jacket, took out the Harry Jordan passport, and handed it to Hernandez, who went through it page by page, his face expressionless.

  "How much did you pay for this passport, Senor Jordan?" Hernandez asked.

  "Same as anyone else," Dillinger said.

  "I must have you accompany us to head­quarters, senor."

  "Would you mind explaining what this is all about?"

  Hernandez straightened, his jacket falling open, and drew a revolver from the holster on his left hip. "Please, senor, let's be sensible about this. No fuss, eh? We must think of the reputation of the hotel." He pulled Dillinger's Colt automatic from its holster and pocketed it. "We can drive to police headquarters in my car, or my driver can follow us in your car in case you do not wish to leave that beautiful automobile unattended in front of the hotel. You see, the man who was watching it, he is no longer watching it because he is in jail. Like you, Mr. Dillinger, he doesn't want to be turned over to the Federalistas on your side of the border."

  Four

  In the courtyard, a troop of Mexican Federal cavalry was exercising. Dillinger, with Hernan­dez beside him, waited till he could drive the convertible into the courtyard. He wasn't about to leave it in the street.

  When they parked, Hernandez held his hand out for the keys.

  Dillinger started to separate the trunk key from the ignition key on the ring.

  "Both keys, Senor Jordan," Hernandez said. "If you please."

  Dillinger decided not to make a fuss about the trunk key. Considering what was in the trunk, he'd just as soon not call attention to it.

  Inside, Dillinger was told to sit down on a tough wooden bench in the whitewashed corri­dor, watched over by Hernandez's Indian.

  Through the open window, he could hear the shouted commands to the cavalry. If he had to shake loose of this place, he wasn't going to leave the convertible behind, which meant he'd have to be able to get it out of the courtyard. He'd get his keys back, or he'd wire the ignition. Getting into the trunk would be a bitch. He was beginning to be sorry he hadn't left the car in the street and got a second set of keys made to keep under the bumper as he used to do back home.

  He stood up to make sure nobody was bother­ing the car, but the Indian put a heavy hand on his shoulder and made him sit back down.

  "Nobody does that to me," Dillinger said, uselessly. The Indian didn't understand him. "You're going to be sorry you were born."

  Finally he heard a murmur of voices from down the hall, and Hernandez beckoned to him. They passed many doors, Hernandez leading, the Indian behind, until they came to a door that was open, as if they were expected. Her­nandez gestured, and Dillinger went in.

  The office was sparsely furnished with two chairs and a desk. There was a rush mat on the floor. The one luxury was the ancient fan which revolved listlessly in the ceiling.

  The man behind the desk wore a rumpled khaki uniform. He was middle-aged and balding, a small black mustache brushing his upper lip. He smiled, and Dillinger saw that most of his teeth had been capped in gold.

  "I am Fidel Santos, Chief of Police," he said in English. "Please sit down, Senor Jordan."

  On the desk before him he had Dillinger's wallet and the false passport.

  "What's all this about?" Dillinger asked.

  "As with most things in life it is a question of money, senor." Santos nodded. Hernandez placed a small black suitcase on the desk and flipped it open, revealing the neat rows of bank notes. "Just over fourteen thousand American dollars to be precise. We found it in the trunk of your car."

  Bastards, Dillinger thought.

  "How have you earned this money, senor?"

  "My father died three months ago and left me a small farm in Kansas, which I sold."

  Hernandez stood by the window cleaning his nails with a knife. He paused and looked across. Dillinger was aware of the Indian behind his chair, of the faint creaking of the fan in the silence.

  Santos said, "You know that there is a gov­ernment tax on foreign currency brought into this country?"

  "No, I didn't know that."

  "Strange. According to your passport, you crossed our border at Solernas. One would have thought the customs officials there would have made this plain to you when you declared the money."

  There was another slight silence. Hernandez finished cleaning his nails, snapped the blade shut, and slipped the knife into his pocket. Outside, a bugle sounded, and the cavalry clat­tered across the cobbles into the plaza.

  They seemed to be waiting for him to make the next move. Dillinger said, "No one is sorry about this little misunderstanding more than I am. I'll be glad to pay the necessary tax to the proper authorities."

  "Unfortunately there is the question of the fine," Santos said.

  "All right, I'll pay the fine and put it down to experience."

  "I'm afraid that won't be possible, senor," Santos said patiently. "In such cases it is usual for the entire sum involved to be forfeited and then, of course, there is the question of a fine."

  Dillinger thought, these guys are thieves in uniform. He could feel the blood rising to his face. He had to keep his control.

  "And how much would the fine be?" Dillinger asked.

  "A difficult question in your case, senor. You see, there is also the matter of certain firearms discovered under the rear seat of your automo­bile. Another serious infringement of our laws, almost certainly leading to their confiscation and also of the vehicle itself."

  That hit Dillinger between his eyes.

  He managed to keep control of his voice as he said, "Folks, we have a saying in the States. You can take everything away from a cowboy except his horse. That automobile is my horse."

  There was a pause.

  Then Santos said, "Perhaps you don't realize the position you are in. A prisoner at present in cu
stody here, an American just like you, insists that your name isn't Jordan at all. Does that surprise you?"

  Dillinger managed to look astonished. "You've got my passport, haven't you?"

  "Passports, senor, may be bought. Oh, I'm sure this is a nonsense, of course. The man concerned is an old drunk. He insists that you are the bank robber, John Dillinger, who recently escaped from prison in Indiana."

  Dillinger worked his way from an expression of total bewilderment to one of outraged laugh­ter. "Jesus, this guy must be out of his head."

  Santos laughed sympathetically. "A drunken old fool, as I said. I forsee no problem in clear­ing the matter up, but you will, of course, have to remain in custody until we have an opportu­nity to check with our compadres to the North."

  There was silence. Santos lit a cigar and nod­ded to the Indian. The Indian touched Dillinger on the shoulder and motioned him toward the door.

  The Indian took Dillinger out and along the corridor and down a flight of stone steps to an iron door outside which a guard was sitting reading a newspaper. He unlocked the door.

  The room was about forty feet square, with only one small window high in the opposite wall, and contained twenty or thirty other prisoners. Through the door came the strong odor of urine, human excrement, and stale sweat. The Indian pushed Dillinger inside and shut the door with a clang.

  Most of the prisoners were Mexicans in rag­ged trousers, shirts, and straw sandals. Several of them came crowding around to look at the strange new prisoner. Someone touched his jacket. He felt a hand slide into his pocket. Dillinger grabbed for the wrist and twisted it with an easy strength that sent the man stagger­ing across the cell. The others moved back to a respectful distance. He pulled a drunk from a bench against the wall, sat down, and lit a cigarette, hoping it would counter the stench around him.

  There was more to this situation than met the eye, he thought, more even than Santos confiscating the money to keep for himself. If Santos had simply wanted to do that, it would have made more sense to let him go.

  A man got up to relieve himself in an over­flowing bucket in the corner. The stink was terrible.

  "Spare a butt, Mr. Dillinger?"

  Fallon eased on to the bench beside him. A livid bruise stretched from the corner of one eye to the edge of the jaw.

  Dillinger shook a cigarette out for him. "What did they use, a sledgehammer?"

  "Sergeant Hernandez has an Indian sidekick called Valdez." He rubbed his jaw. "Built like the side of a house."

  "You told them I was John Dillinger." It was a statement of fact, not a question. Dillinger sat there staring at Fallon calmly, and the old man said, "They made me tell them, Mr. Dillinger, beat it out of me."

  Suddenly there was a scuffle between two prisoners on the bench next to theirs. Dillinger stood, and with a voice that cut through the commotion like a sword shouted, "Shut up!" Nobody needed to know what the words meant. The two scuffling prisoners returned to their places. The others stared at the gringo who spoke with an authority not even the chief of police had. Now, when they talked, it was in whispers.

  "That's better," Dillinger said.

  Fallon coughed. "I saw you with that man Rivera. Do you know who he is?"

  "He offered me a job at his mine."

  "He's the original walking bastard, that guy. When I first skedaddled into Mexico one step ahead of the cops, I went to work for Rivera."

  "You told him who I was."

  "I kind of let it slip that there was more to you than the name Jordan, but I wouldn't tell him no more than that."

  "Then the cops picked you up?"

  "They sure did. Beat the hell out of me, then Rivera came in the cell, and Hernandez said I'd better start talking or else. I had to agree to go back on the payroll at Hermosa, too. I didn't have a choice.

  "That's okay, old-timer." There was one more cigarette in the pack. Dillinger broke it in two and offered him half.

  Fallon put his half in his wallet.

  "Saving it for later?"

  "Saving it forever. What a souvenir, half a cigarette given me by Johnny Dillinger."

  "What's that?" Dillinger asked, pointing to a picture postcard that came part way out of Fallon's wallet as he put the half-cigarette away for safekeeping.

  Fallon unfolded the card. It was an advertise­ment in Spanish for a hotel in Hermosa. Stand­ing in front of it was the most exotically beautiful woman Dillinger had ever seen.

  "Who's that?"

  "That's Rose. Runs the hotel now that her mother and father are both gone."

  "What makes her look that way?" Dillinger asked.

  "You mean the eyes? She's half Chinese, half Spanish."

  "Is she as good-looking in person as on that card?"

  "Better. And a nicer woman you never met. It's hard to believe she's Rivera's niece. Her father and Rivera never got on. Rivera didn't want his kid brother marrying a Chinese woman. If he hadn't, there wouldn't have been Rose. Last year when her father died, Rivera wouldn't go to the funeral. You know what she did, just to rub his nose in things? She had a new sign painted. Had them hang it above the front door of the hotel."

  "What's it say?"

  "Shanghai Rose."

  Dillinger laughed out loud.

  "Every time Rivera goes into town he sees that sign. Oh, that Rose, she's something special."

  "You're not sweet on her, are you now?"

  "Me?" Fallon said. "She's a lady. 'Sides, she wouldn't look at anyone's as decrepit as me. In Hermosa, she's like a princess waiting for a prince to come along.

  Dillinger thought they'd have come for him by now. Fallon had dozed off, but was waking up. Dillinger asked him, "Why does Rivera have such trouble getting help for the Hermosa place?"

  "The mine's a death trap. Least five cave-ins I know of. Christ knows how many dead Indians. He uses Apaches up there."

  "Apaches? I thought they went out with the old West."

  "Not in Sierra Madre. That was their original stronghold. Still plenty around up there."

  "If it's that bad, why'd you agree to go back? Why not cut and run when they let you out?"

  Fallon shrugged. "I don't have a centavo more than the change for the five dollars you gave me. In this country a gringo without money in his boot..." He shrugged.

  The door opened, and Hernandez looked in. "Senor Jordan, will you come this way, please."

  Dillinger picked his way between the Mexi­cans and followed Hernandez. They mounted the stone steps, passed along the whitewashed corridor, and paused outside the office. Her­nandez knocked and motioned Dillinger inside.

  The air was heavy with the aroma of good cigars. Santos had one clamped firmly between his teeth. He took it out and grinned cheerfully. "Ah, Senor Jordan. Sit down. I am happy to tell you that your troubles are over."

  Dillinger hardly noticed Santos. He had eyes only for Don Jose Manuel de Rivera as he turned slowly from the window and smiled. "We meet again, Senor Jordan."

  "Seems so."

  "I am pleased Don Jose has employment to offer you," Santos said, smiling. "He has agreed to pay the balance of your fine out of his own pocket."

  "I came the moment I heard at the hotel that you'd been arrested," Rivera said.

  "That was real kind of you."

  "After speaking with Senor Santos it occurs to me that you may now review my earlier offer of employment in a somewhat different light."

  "I think you could say that."

  "Then you will be prepared to accompany me to Hermosa on the evening train?"

  "What about my car?"

  Rivera turned to Santos. "It is his pride."

  "Mexico," Santos said, "has a generous heart. Senor Jordan may have his beautiful white automobile, without its arsenal, of course."

  Rivera picked up the passport. "I will see that this is returned to Senor Jordan at a more suitable time."

  "Of course, Don Jose. I regret, however, that in the matter of the confiscated money, the law must take its
course. However, in the circum­stances, and as Senor Jordan is now, as it were, in your custody, we will say no more about the fine."

  "How will I get my car to Hermosa if I go with you?" Dillinger asked.

  "As I do with mine," Rivera said. "It travels on the flatbed railroad car reserved for auto­mobiles. You are then prepared?"

  Dillinger thought, I am prepared to see if Shanghai Rose is as beautiful as her picture. If she hates this son-of-a-bitch as much as I do, we ought to get along real fine.