The old man’s eyes widened.
“Fifteen grand there, all I have to show for a misspent life,” Dillinger smiled. “Keep it for me. If I don’t come back, use it any way you see fit.”
“No, Johnny, I couldn’t,” Doc whispered. “God, where are you going?” the old man demanded.
“To see a man about a bank loan,” Dillinger said, his back to the old man as he went down the steps to the Ford, got behind the wheel, and drove away.
George Harvey glanced at his watch. It was just after two-thirty, and it occurred to him that an early finish might make sense today. The relentless rain that had cleared the streets of Huntsville hammered ceaselessly against the window of his office and filled him with acute depression. He was about to get up when the door opened and Marion, his secretary, looked in.
“Someone to see you.”
Harvey showed his irritation. “I don’t have any appointments.”
“No, he knows that. A Mr. Jackson of the Chicago and District Land Company. Says he’s only in town by chance and wonders if you could spare him a few minutes.”
“Does he look like money?”
“I’d say so.”
“Okay. Bring him in, give it five minutes, and then come in to remind me I’ve got another appointment.”
She went out and returned a moment later to usher Dillinger in. He held the yellow slicker over one arm, and Marion took it from him.
“I’ll hang it up for you.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
She felt an unaccountable thrill as she went out, closing the door behind her, and Dillinger turned to face Harvey.
“It’s good of you to see me, Mr. Harvey.”
Harvey took in the excellent suit, the conservative tie, the soft-collared shirt in the very latest style, and got to his feet.
“That’s what we’re here for, Mr. Jackson. Take a seat and tell me what I can do for you. You’re in the property business?”
“That’s right. Chicago District Land Company. We’re in the market for farm properties in this area-suitable farm properties. Our clients, the people we represent in this instance, intend to farm in a much more modern way. To make that pay, they need lots of acreage. Know what I mean?”
“Exactly,” Harvey said, opened a box on his desk and offered him a cigar. “I think you’ll find you’ve come to the right place, Mr. Jackson.”
“Good.” Dillinger took the cigar and leaned forward for a light. Harvey frowned. “You know, I could swear I’ve met you some place before.”
“That could be,” Dillinger said. “I get around. But let’s get down to business. I need a bank down here.”
“No problem.”
“Good, then I’d like to make a withdrawal now.”
“A withdrawal?” Harvey looked bewildered. “I don’t understand.”
“Yes,” Dillinger said. “Twelve thousand dollars should do it, what with my expenses and all.”
“But Mr. Jackson, you can’t make a withdrawal when you haven’t put anything in yet,” Harvey explained patiently.
“Oh, yes I can.” Dillinger took a Colt.45 automatic from his pocket and placed it on the table between them.
Harvey’s whole face sagged. “Oh, God,” he whispered. He looked at the man’s face, and it came to him. “You’re John Dillinger.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Dillinger said. “Now we’ve got that over with, you get twelve grand in here fast, and then you and me will take a little ride together.”
Dillinger walked over very close to Harvey so that the banker could feel Dillinger’s breath on him.
Harvey was not a religious man. He went to church Sundays because his customers went to church. But he found himself hoping that his Maker was looking down right now to protect him.
“Are you going to kill me?” Harvey asked.
“You’re going to kill yourself, Mr. Harvey, if you keep shaking that way.”
They both heard the door open. Quickly, Dillinger pulled his gun arm in and turned so that it wouldn’t be seen from the door. It was Harvey’s secretary, saying “Your next appointment is here, Mr. Harvey.”
There was a slight pause. Dillinger waited, and Harvey took a deep breath. “Cancel it. They’ll have to come in tomorrow. Tell Mr. Powell I want twelve thousand dollars in here.” He glanced at Dillinger. “Will fifties be okay?”