Dillinger. Jack Higgins
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his pipe, filled it methodically from his worn tobacco pouch. Then he picked up the photo of his wife in the silver frame and slipped it into his pocket.
He struck a match on the side of his shoe and put it to the bowl of his pipe, then took the cowl of the oil lamp on the table and touched the match to the wick. It flared up and he reached forward and very gently turned it on its side. It rolled, coal oil spilling across the table and dripping to the floor, tongues of flame leaping up.
‘Why, damn me, Sam,’ Doc said to the hound. ‘We appear to have a fire on our hands. Time to leave, I’d say.’
He went out and down the steps, holding open the door so that the old dog could climb up on the passenger seat. He went round to the front, swung the crank, then got behind the wheel and moved into gear. As he drove away, he started to sing softly:
‘John Dillinger was the man for me,
He robbed the Glendale train,
Took from the banks, gave to the poor,
Shan’t see his like again.’
Behind him, flames burst through the shingle roof and black smoke billowed into the air. Doc hadn’t been happier in years. Then he remembered the man who’d come calling, Leach. The son-of-a-bitch had the whole of the Indiana State Police to catch one man. He hoped Johnny would be across the state line by now. Or real soon.
In his Washington office, J. Edgar Hoover had seven grown men standing around his desk as if they were page boys instead of high-ranking G-men. Hoover’s voice was calm, but the men who had worked with him knew that he was furious.
‘He phoned me,’ Hoover said.
Of course they knew already. It was the scuttlebutt of headquarters.
‘He phoned me collect. He said I should tell the President not to close any more banks.’
The men standing there kept straight faces because they knew what Hoover’s fury would be like if they so much as smiled.
‘He’s made more headlines than movie stars. I don’t want the kids in this country growing up emulating that man. Understand?’
They all nodded.
‘The local boobs can’t catch him, and when they do, they can’t hold onto him. I want John Dillinger taken by the Bureau. Dead or alive.’
It was the man standing next to Purvis from Chicago who said, ‘Any preference?’
Hoover laughed so they all thought it was OK to laugh too.
Hoover stood up for the first time. ‘Here’s my plan.’
In Texas he’d driven with the top of the white convertible down, hoping the breeze would help. Maybe not feeling safe yet was adding to his discomfort. But once he was across the border he felt safe, and the hot sun seemed to bear down on him even more, and he finally pulled over to the side of the dusty road, and raised the top to keep the sun off his head. He put the turned down panama hat beside him on the seat to let the sweat band dry out a bit, damn glad he’d bought it and thrown the straw hat away. He didn’t want to look like an American from a mile away.
With his fingertips he felt the moustache he’d started to grow on the ride down. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. It was coming in black. All he needed was a better suntan.
Above the town the Sierras floated in a purple haze. He bet it was cooler up there, but he had to find a decent hotel, if there was such a place. Across the Plaza Civica that fronted the church, he saw it: the Hotel Balcon, a squat pink building with a crumbling façade. It had been used as a strongpoint during the revolution and the walls were pitted with bullet holes.
He pulled the white Chevrolet up in front of it, aware of the eyes watching him from the park. Maybe from windows up there too. Should he have stuck to a black car like most other people drove, not a white convertible that called attention to himself? He loved the goddamn car and didn’t care about anything except that it was now covered in dust and grime. These people sure had lousy roads compared to the States.
Dillinger put on his linen jacket, took the one suitcase. Everything else was safely stowed in the trunk.
He noticed but didn’t pay any attention to the older man who sat on the bench in front of the hotel, smoking the stub of a cigarette the way people who can’t afford cigarettes did, dragging smoke out of the last half inch.
As Dillinger passed, the man said, ‘Hi.’
Dillinger stopped. He certainly didn’t recognize the old fellow in the crumpled linen suit. He had the face of a man who’d lived hard all his life. A grizzled beard framed his wide mouth.
Dillinger’d been worried about knowing only a few phrases in Spanish and here was this guy saying, ‘Hi.’ Then, ‘Can you spare two bits?’
Dillinger put his suitcase down. ‘How’d you know I spoke English?’
‘You walk like an American. And I never saw anybody down here drive a job like that.’ He pointed at the convertible. ‘Besides,’ he said with a small-time laugh, ‘Illinois plates don’t grow on cars down here. Two bits and I’ll watch your fancy job while you check in.’
‘What’s it need watching for?’
‘The kids around here’ll be down, on it three seconds after you walk in that front door. I’m cleaned out. Two bits and nobody gets near your car.’
Dillinger took out his wallet and extracted a five dollar bill. ‘Watch it real good.’
The man examined the bill, his face lit up as if he’d just won a jackpot. ‘Thank you,’ he said, stretching the ‘you’ out.
Dillinger picked up his suitcase again when he heard the man say, ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere, mister? You been in Laredo?’
‘No.’
‘San Antone?’
‘No,’ Dillinger said, and headed up the steps to the hotel entrance.
‘Hey, I know who you look like,’ the old man said. ‘You look like John Dillinger.’
Dillinger looked around to see if anyone was standing within earshot. The only person close enough to have heard was a fat Mexican woman carrying a basket on her head. No chance she’d know the name even if she’d heard.
‘I seen your picture,’ the man said. ‘You’re him, ain’t you?’
Dillinger turned slowly and moved back to face him. ‘You’re mistaken, friend. The name’s Jordan – Harry Jordan.’ He parted his jacket slightly so the old man could see the butt of the Colt pistol holstered under his left arm. ‘You should be more careful, old timer. Americans should stick together in a place like this.’
The old man said, ‘I guess I made a mistake. I’m sorry.’
‘Make them myself every day,’ Dillinger said and went into the hotel.
On the balcony above the hotel entrance, sitting well back out of the sun, the man who’d rented the best room in the hotel had listened to the exchange with interest. Although he hadn’t heard the actual words, the new gringo spoke with an authority he liked. He picked up his Malacca cane, and straightening his wide-brimmed hat, he headed down to the lobby, walking with the confident gait of a man who knew what he wanted.
Dillinger, waiting at the desk for his key, saw him coming in the mirror. He was tall, with good shoulders, his temples brushed with grey, and the broken nose looked out of place in the aquiline face. There was an elegance about him, a touch of the hidalgo in the way he carried himself. He was a breed the revolution had almost destroyed. The proud ones who never gave in. Who had to be broken.
He removed the long cigarillo