It was raining when they emerged from the door at the rear of the prison ten minutes later and moved along the alley. Dillinger and Young-blood wore raincoats taken from two local farmers whom they’d found eating in the kitchen. The farmers were now locked in a washroom.
“The garage?” Dillinger said to Blunk. “How far?”
“Right down there, a hundred and fifty yards,” the deputy told him.
“Okay,” Dillinger said. “You lead the way and just remember what I’m holding under this raincoat if you feel like calling out.”
He raised the machine gun slightly, the muzzle poking through, and Blunk said hastily, “No trouble, Mr. Dillinger, not from me. We got this far, haven’t we? All I want is to see you off my hands.”
He led the way, following a route which took them past the Criminal Courts building, and a few moments later the men entered the side door of a large garage. There was a single mechanic in oil-stained overalls working on his own.
He glanced up. “Hello there, Mr. Blunk.”
It was apparent that he didn’t recognize Dillinger. Blunk said, “Ed Saager, the best mechanic in town, Mr. Dillinger.”
Saager looked shocked as Dillinger produced the machine gun from under his raincoat. “Which car here’s in the best shape?”
“Why, that would be the Ford here,” Saager told him. “Mrs. Holley’s car.”
“Engine tuned?”
“Like a watch.”
“Fan belt okay?”
“Replaced last month.”
“Pickup?”
“Best in the lot.”
“Then that’s what we’ll take. You get in the rear with my friend and you, Mr. Blunk, can take the wheel.”
Saager opened his mouth as if to protest, thought better of it, and got into the rear seat with Youngblood. Blunk took the wheel and started the motor as Dillinger got in beside him.
“Nice and easy, Mr. Blunk,” he said as they turned into the main street. “No need to hurry.”
He leaned back and lit a cigarette calmly.
Mike Jarvis and Martha Ryan were sitting in a booth at the rear of the hotel lounge enjoying a late breakfast when there was a sudden excited murmur and a voice called, “Dillinger’s escaped.”
Jarvis jumped to his feet and moved out. Martha Ryan sat there, suddenly cold, aware of the excited hubbub of voices outside.
Jarvis came back a moment later and sat down. “My God, would you believe it. That place was supposed to be escape-proof. Not only did he walk right out, he’s used the sheriff’s car for his getaway.” He threw back his head and laughed. “Jesus, will Lillian be mad.”
But Martha Ryan simply sat there, the coldness growing within her, aware only of Dillinger’s final words to her. That he knew the road he was taking. That he knew what lay at the end of it.
It was still raining, and they were over the border into Illinois when Blunk, on Dillinger’s orders, pulled up at the side of the dirt road they had been following.
“Okay,” Dillinger said. “This is where you two get off.”
They got out of the car reluctantly, uncertain as to his intentions, but Dillinger just drove away, the wheels of the big Ford churning mud, and Dillinger hoping some of it would land on Blunk’s suit.
Youngblood started to sing loudly in the rear seat. A few miles further on, Dillinger stopped the car to light a cigarette and then took a few crumpled bills from his pocket and counted them.
“Fourteen dollars isn’t going to get us very far.”
“And that’s a fact,” Youngblood said. “I guess there’s only one thing to do. You’ll just have to rob a bank, Mr. Dillinger.”
He started to laugh, and Dillinger, loving the feel of being behind the wheel of a fast-moving car, feeling as exhilarated as a kid, tossed him the cigarette pack and drove away through the rain, wondering what the newspaper headlines would be saying in the morning.
Two
Doc Floyd came up out of the hollow and followed the overgrown path through the trees, pausing at the edge of the swamp to light his pipe. He was seventy years of age with a worn and wrinkled face, his gray mustache stained with nicotine. His straw hat was frayed at the edges, and the old alpaca coat hung from bony shoulders.