“Oh, my God,” Blunk said, more frightened than he had ever been in his life before.
Dillinger relieved him of the pistol he carried on his right hip and slipped the gun into his pocket. “Is anyone else down there on your landing?”
Blunk, a prudent man, saw no reason to argue. “Nobody, Mr. Dillinger.”
“And the warden?”
“Mr. Baker’s in his office on the ground floor.”
“Okay, then we go down and get him.” He pushed Cahoon along the corridor toward Youngblood, who was standing outside the locked door of their cell, holding the key. “Put him in with the others and wait here.”
As Blunk had said, the corridor below was deserted. They moved along it and paused at the top of the stairs leading to the ground floor.
Dillinger said, “Go on, you know what to do.”
Blunk sighed and called. “Hey, Lou, you’re wanted up here.”
“What the hell for?” a voice called back. Warden Lou Baker appeared at the bottom of the stairs and started up briskly. He was almost at the top when he looked up and saw Dillinger standing there, gun in hand.
He stopped dead in his tracks and, in the circumstances, stayed surprisingly cool.
“Johnny, what in the hell do you think you’re playing at? You ain’t going anywhere. You got at least ten National Guardsmen at the front entrance armed with machine guns.”
“Well, that should make things interesting,” Dillinger said calmly. “Now upstairs, both of you.”
A few moments later Youngblood was putting the warden and Blunk in the cell with the others. He locked the door. “Okay, what happens now?”
“Stay here,” Dillinger told him. “I’ll be back.”
Youngblood said, “You wouldn’t leave me, Mr. Dillinger?”
“The most important thing you should know about me,” Dillinger said, “I never ran out on anyone in my whole life,” and he turned and moved away along the corridor.
The man on duty that morning at the barred gate, which gave access to the jail offices at the front of the building, was a trusty who sat at his desk, reading a newspaper. The headline said: Public Enemy Number One Finally Caged. There was a photo of Dillinger to go with it. A slight tapping sound caused the trusty to look up, and he saw the man himself peering through the bars just above him, a gun in his hand.
Dillinger said softly, “Open up!”
The trusty almost dropped his keys in his eagerness to comply but a moment later had the gate open. The office door stood partly ajar, and someone was whistling in there.
“Who is it?” Dillinger inquired softly.
“National Guardsman.”
“Just the one?” The man nodded and Dillinger said, “Call him out.”
The trusty did as he was told, and a second later the door opened and a young National Guardsman in uniform appeared. There was instant horror in his eyes, and he got his hands up fast.
Behind him on the table were two loaded Thompson submachine guns. Dillinger moved past him and stared down at them for a moment. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Thank you.”
He slipped the pistol into his other pocket, picked up a machine gun in each hand, and turned to the two men. “Okay, now we’re Going to go upstairs, all the way up to the top landing in the new wing. You fellas see any problems in that?”
“No, Mr. Dillinger,” they assured him eagerly, and the trusty turned and led the way.
A few minutes later, Youngblood, clutching one of the machine guns, was shepherding them into the cell on the top landing with the others. Dillinger said, “Let’s have Blunk out here again.”
Youngblood pulled the deputy sheriff out and closed and locked the door. “Now what?” he asked Dillinger.
“We’re clear, all the way down to the jail office and the front entrance, only that’s too public by far.”
“So what do we do?”
“Walk right out of the back door, and this is the man who’s going to show us the way, isn’t that so, Mr. Blunk?”
Ernest Blunk sighed heavily yet again. “If you say so, Mr. Dillinger.”
“Oh, but I do,” Dillinger said. “In fact, I insist,” and he pushed him along the corridor.