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Dillinger
For Geoff and Irene – not forgetting Sarah, Kate and Rebecca
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About the Author
Also by Jack Higgins
About the Publisher
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 ‘escape-proof’ new section of Lake County’s three-storey brick jail, Herbert Youngblood, a big Negro, 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 he spilled some.
‘You been across to the hotel this morning?’ Dillinger asked as Cahoon passed him his coffee.
‘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 trustie 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 trustie, 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, 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 a screen in case anyone approached, Dillinger unwrapped the flannel. In its centre was a blue-black 32 calibre 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 backwards 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 it 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, 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 grey fedora was pushed to the back of his head.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Mike Jarvis, AP. I hear you’re with the Denver Press.’
That’s
