“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.”