Читать книгу Dillinger - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 6

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, the grey moustache stained with nicotine. His straw hat was frayed at the edges and the old alpaca coat hung from bony shoulders.

The garden on the other side of the track was overgrown, the fences broken and the clapboard farmhouse beyond was dilapidated, shingles missing in places from the roof. There was an atmosphere of decay to everything.

An old hound dog nosed out of the undergrowth and limped towards him and Doc Floyd leaned down and fondled its ears.

‘All wore out, Sam, just like you.’

He straightened at the sound of a car approaching and said softly, ‘Looks like they’re here, Sam. Let’s go.’ And he went up through the broken fence towards the house, the dog trailing him.

When he went round to the front, a de Soto sedan was parked there. The man in the dark suit who leaned against it, wiping sweat from his face, fanning himself with his hat at the same time, was middle-aged and overweight. His name was George Harvey and he was manager of the Huntsville National Bank. The man beside him could have been any one of a hundred local farmers to judge by his faded jeans and sweat-stained felt hat. The only difference was the deputy’s badge on his chest and the pistol in the holster on his left hip.

Harvey said, ‘Ah, there you are Doc. You know Larry Schultz?’

‘Sure I do,’ Doc said. ‘Mary OK now, Larry? I heard she was under the weather.’

‘It was nothing. She’s fine now.’ Schultz was embarrassed and it showed.

‘OK, let’s get down to business,’ Harvey said. ‘The bank’s been very patient, Doc, but enough is enough. I have to ask you formally now. Are you in a position to settle?’

‘You know damn well I’m not,’ Doc told him flatly.

Harvey turned to Schultz. ‘Serve your papers.’

Schultz produced a folded document from his shirt pocket and held it out to the old man who took it from him. ‘Sorry Doc,’ he said.

Doc shrugged. ‘Not your fault, Larry, we all got to eat.’

Harvey got behind the wheel of the de Soto and switched on the motor. ‘OK, Larry, let’s go. I’m a busy man.’

Schultz went round to the other side and got into the passenger seat. Doc ran a finger over the gleaming paintwork. ‘Some car, Mr Harvey. I suppose a car like this must cost a heap of money?’

‘Seven days, that’s what you’ve got,’ Harvey said. ‘Then the bank forecloses and that means everything, Doc, so don’t you move a damn thing out of here.’

He drove away very fast, spraying dirt, and disappeared along the track through the trees towards the main road. Doc Floyd stood there for a long moment, then turned and mounted the steps to the porch and went inside, the dog following him.

He found a half-full bottle of whisky and a glass and sat at the table in the untidy, shabby room, drinking slowly, savouring it as if it might be the last drink he was likely to have.

His eyes roamed around the room, taking in the sagging furniture, the worn carpet, and finally came to rest on the photo of his wife in the old silver frame.

‘Not much to show for forty years of living, old girl,’ he said softly.

He toasted her, emptied the glass in a quick swallow and poured another.

It was perhaps an hour later that he became aware of the sound of a car approaching up the track outside and by then he was drunk enough to be angry.

‘The bastard, Sam,’ he said softly to the dog. ‘Back already.’

He stood up, took an old double-barrelled shotgun down from the wall, found some cartridges in a drawer, and loaded it as he went to the door. The hound dog whined anxiously and followed.

Doc stood on the porch outside, the gun ready in his hand, only the car which had stopped in the middle of the yard wasn’t the de Soto. It was a Ford coupé and the man in the black felt hat and neat dark suit who slid out from behind the wheel was definitely not George Harvey.

‘Hello, Doc,’ he called softly. ‘That’s a hell of a welcome.’

Doc lowered the shotgun in astonishment. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘Johnny Dillinger. You shouldn’t be here. They come looking for you just day before yesterday.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘A bunch of lawmen. Come in two cars. Fellow who asked about you stutters. Tall, wiry, big fellow.’

Dillinger laughed. ‘That must be Matt Leach. He runs the Indiana State Police.’

‘I wouldn’t laugh, Johnny. He said he’d break my ass if I was lying to him about your being here. He said he’d break your ass when he caught you.’

‘Somebody sent him a dime book called How To Be a Detective’, Dillinger said. ‘He thinks it was me.’

‘Was it you, Johnny?’

Dillinger rolled his eyes like Al Jolson. A picture of innocence.

‘Oh you’re a terrible man, Johnny.’

Somewhere thunder rumbled and there was that sudden quiet moment before a storm when everything seemed poised for a terrible down- pour.

Dillinger said, ‘Mind if I come in? I think it’s going to rain.’

‘Sure, sure, Johnny, but what if Leach comes back,’

‘I’ll just bring my insurance policy into the house with me if you don’t mind.’ Dillinger went back to the Ford. Doc watched him bring in the machine guns as if death was being carried into the house under both of Johnny’s arms.

And then the rains came, a heavy relentless downpour that churned the yard to mud as Dillinger sat on the porch, drinking Doc’s coffee and cleaning his tommy guns to perfection. The old man’s plaint was getting to him, making his eyelid tic.

‘Three thousand lousy bucks by next Monday,’ Doc was saying, ‘or they take over – even the furniture.’

‘Can’t you sell some of your land off and settle up your debt to the bank?’ Dillinger asked.

‘Not possible,’ Doc said. ‘Not under the terms of the mortgage. And there isn’t enough time. That bastard George Harvey is collecting as many small farms as he can and hoarding them for resale when times get better.’

The old man poured another drink. ‘Anyway, enough about me. What about you? That break from Lake View prison the other month must have been really something, wasn’t it, Johnny?’

‘For them, not for me,’ Dillinger said. ‘It was a breeze.’

‘You’re really number one, Johnny,’ Doc said. ‘I’ve known them all one time or t’other. None like you. I heard you was in California. The radio said you robbed a bank in Los Angeles last week.’

‘Sure wish I did. I heard I was in Houston and New Orleans doing the same thing on the same day. It’s OK with me. Just keeps the cops confused. What about your wife, Doc, she leave you on account of your drinking, the way she always swore she would?’

‘She left me all right, Johnny. Died last year. Top of that, my girl Carrie, who married a guy from Miami, well he got himself killed asleep at the wheel last year, and Carrie took the baby with her to the Florida Keys. She runs a café down there.’

‘Why don’t you join her?’

‘I couldn’t do that to her. I’d just be a burden. A dried-up old man with no money.’

Dillinger said, ‘I remember when this was the best hideout in Kansas. A man could get anything here. A night’s sleep, a change of car.’

Doc chuckled. ‘Remember the night I took that bullet out of your arm after the Fort Harris job?’

Dillinger smiled faintly. ‘You were a pretty damn good doctor for a country vet.’

‘Oh, I had my moments.’ He poured another whisky, ‘It’s funny, Johnny, but when you reach my age, you get to thinking what it’s all supposed to be about.’

‘Any answers?’

‘Oh, sure – three thousand dollars, that’s what my whole life adds up to, only I ain’t got it which means my life adds up to nothing. That’s a hell of a thing to contemplate.’

Dillinger sat there staring at him for a moment, then he stood up, picked up the old man’s yellow oilskin slicker, pulled it on and went down the steps to the Ford.

‘Where you going in the rain, you damn fool?’ Doc yelled after him.

When Dillinger came back, he was carrying a small case which he carried inside and placed on the table. He opened it carefully. Inside, there was a stack of money, each bundle neatly banded in a bank wrapper.

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 2.30 and it occurred to him that an early finish might make sense today. The relentless rain which had cleared the streets of Huntsville outside 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.’

‘OK. 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 con-servative 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 on 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, and tell Mr Powell I want twelve thousand dollars in here.’ He glanced at Dillinger. ‘Will fifties be OK?’

‘Just fine,’ Dillinger said amiably.

The woman went out. Dillinger put the Colt in his right-hand pocket, stood up and walked round the desk behind Harvey. ‘You got a briefcase handy?’

‘Yes,’ Harvey said hoarsely.

‘When he comes, put the money in that. Then we leave.’

The door opened a moment later and the chief cashier, Sam Powell, entered, carrying a cash tray on which the money was stacked. ‘You did say twelve thousand, Mr Harvey?’

‘That’s right, Sam, just leave it on the desk. I’ll clear it tomorrow.’ He improvised fast. ‘I’m into a situation that requires instant cash.’

‘Too good an opportunity to miss,’ Dillinger put in.

Powell withdrew and Harvey took his briefcase from under the desk, emptied it and started to stack the cash inside. He looked up. ‘Now what?’

‘Get your coat,’ Dillinger said patiently, ‘It’s raining outside or hadn’t you noticed? We walk right out the front door and cross the street to the Ford coupé.’

‘You’re going to shoot me?’ Harvey said urgently.

‘Only if you make me. If you behave yourself, I’ll drop you outside town. You can have a nice long walk back in the rain to think about it all.’

Harvey got his coat from the washroom and put it on, then he picked up the briefcase and moved to the door. ‘Now smile,’ Dillinger said. ‘Look happy. Here, I’ll tell you something funny. You know what guys in your position always say to guys like me in the movies? They say, “You’ll never get away with it.” ’

And Harvey, nerves stretched as tight as they would go, started to laugh helplessly, was still laughing when they went out to Marion’s office and picked up Dillinger’s oilskin slicker and felt hat.

Sitting at the table, the screen door open, Doc Floyd heard the car drive up outside. He straightened, glass in hand, the other on Dillinger’s case and waited fearfully. Dillinger appeared in the doorway, the briefcase in one hand. The dog whined and moved to his side and he reached down to scratch its ears.

He tossed the briefcase on to the table. ‘Three thousand in there plus a little interest. Twelve thousand in all. That seem fair to you, Doc?’

The old man placed a hand on the briefcase and whispered, ‘You kill anyone, Johnny?’

‘No. I found your friend Harvey a real cooperative fellow. Left him ten miles out of town on a dirt road to walk back in the rain.’ He unfolded the paper from around a stick of chewing gum. ‘You can pay what you owe on this dump now, Doc, or take the money and run all the way down to the Florida Keys and that daughter of yours.’ Dillinger popped the gum into his mouth. ‘Want some?’

‘What about you, Johnny? That fellow Leach ...’

‘To hell with him.’

Doc wrung his hands. Just then they both heard the car in the distance.

‘That coming this way?’ Dillinger asked.

‘Any car you hear ain’t on the main road. Get in the back room, Johnny, quick. Take the briefcase. Take the guns. Anything else around here yours?’

Doc turned clear around, spied the coffee cups, put them in the sink. The only thing he saw in the room that frightened him was the look that came into Dillinger’s eyes.

‘Please go into the back room. If you shoot it out with someone here, win or lose, I’ll never get to see my grandchild in Florida, Johnny. Please?’

Dillinger went into the back room, taking the briefcase and guns. As soon as he slammed the door, Doc rushed out of the house. Thank heaven, the rain had stopped, he thought. He wanted to meet the car as far from the house as he could.

He could see it was a Model A, black as they all were, spewing a cloud of mud behind it. The man driving didn’t look familiar. Then Doc saw that a woman was sitting beside him.

The man turned the engine off and got out. ‘Evening,’ he said.

Doc nodded. He’d seen traps before, man and woman in the front, three men hiding behind the seat.

The man said, ‘Me and the Mrs kind of got lost.’

‘Where you headed?’

‘Moline.’

‘You got a long ways to go.’

‘Know that. We figured to stop in a hotel some place tonight. Or thought maybe we could pay someone to stay over.’

‘You don’t want to stay here,’ Doc said. ‘My woman has black fever.’

The man didn’t know what black fever was any more than Doc did, but he took a step backward.

‘I can get you some water,’ Doc said.

‘No, thanks,’ the man said. ‘We’ll be shoving off. When I get to the road, I turn left or right?’

‘Left’s the only way that’ll head you toward Moline. There’s a town an hour down the road got rooms above the general store.’

‘Thank you kindly. You want us to tell the sheriff or anybody to send a doctor for your wife?’

‘I’m a doctor.’

The man got back into his car. He didn’t believe Doc was a doctor any more than he believed in the man in the moon.

‘She’s dying,’ Doc said, ‘and we want to be left alone for what time’s left.’

‘I appreciate that,’ the man said, got in the car, and drove off slowly so as not to scatter too much mud in Doc’s direction. Doc hurried to the house, opened the door of the back room, said, ‘It’s OK, Johnny. Travellers. Sent them on their way.’

‘I hate this.’

‘Hate what, Johnny?’

‘Hiding like a rat. I wasn’t made for it. I want to walk around like a free man.’

‘You’ll sure be able to do that,’ Doc said, ‘soon’s the heat’s off. Johnny, I’m old enough to be your father. You been real good to me so I’m going to chance saying something.’ He wished Dillinger wasn’t looking at him with those stony eyes.

‘Say it!’

That man was sure on edge, Doc thought. ‘You take too many chances. You’ve got to head south, I don’t mean Texas, I mean all the way to Mexico, where they can’t catch you, Johnny.’

‘That means getting across the border.’

Doc poured whisky into a spare glass and pushed it across to him. ‘Listen, Johnny, a few years back I had dealings with a guy who ran people into the country from Mexico illegally. European refugees, people like that.’

‘So?’

‘West of El Paso, there’s a small town called Sutter’s Well. Used to be a silver mine. It’s a ghost town now. The back trail out of that town crosses the Mexican border. No border post, no customs, no police. That’s the way we used to bring them in.’

‘Will it take a car?’

‘Oh, sure. Dirt road, but sound enough. You need to carry plenty of spare gas. Six or seven five-gallon cans in the trunk should cover you. Couple of spare fan belts. I can let you have a set of tools. Know your way around an engine, Johnny?’

‘I know my way around a car, Doc, the way a cowboy knows his horse.’

‘Good. I can give you the address of a Mexican in El Paso, big fat fellow called Charlie, can get you a passport that looks better than the real thing, just to cover you in case you get picked up.’

‘I’m not planning to get picked up.’

‘I know you’re not planning to get a bullet hole in your radiator either, Johnny, but be damn careful.’

‘That Ford out there is going to be hotter than hell when Harvey gets back to town. I’ll need to switch cars.’

‘I can help you there,’ Doc said eagerly. ‘You take me down to the south barn in the woods. I’ll surprise you. Here, better take your twelve thousand back. And take your hardware. You might need both in Mexico.’

He carried the case for Dillinger, who carried the machine guns. They went out, got into the Ford, and Dillinger drove round to the rear of the farm and followed the track down through the trees beside the swamp, following the old man’s directions, finally braking to a halt beside an old dilapidated barn in the trees.

They got out and Doc unbarred the double doors, Dillinger helping him and pulled them back. A white Chevrolet convertible stood there. It looked brand new.

‘And where in the hell did you get that?’ Dillinger wanted to know.

‘Kid called in here about six months ago named Leo Fettamen. You heard of him?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Strictly small stuff, but as car crazy as you claim to be, Johnny. Fettaman robbed a bank in Carlsberg. Bought this and an old Ford with the cash. Went into Huntsville in the Ford with a guy who called himself Gruber. They intended to take the bank, come back here and use the Chevvy as their getaway car. The kid had a theory that the more imposing you looked, the less the cops were likely to stop you.’

‘What happened?’

‘Killed in a gun battle with the sheriff and his deputies. Hell, I think half the town put a bullet in them before they were finished. The righteous are terrible in their wrath, Johnny.’

‘So I’ve noticed,’ Dillinger said.

‘Obviously I couldn’t start riding around in it. That would have caused talk. Seeing’s you got eyes for it, Johnny, I’ll make a deal with you. It’s yours for twelve thousand dollars.’

Dillinger smiled and slapped his hand. ‘Doggone, you got it.’

‘One thing you’ll need from that Ford is the battery. The one in the Chevvy couldn’t be flatter.’

Dillinger drove the Ford into the barn beside the Chevrolet, then got a wrench from the tool kit and removed the battery. It was only five minutes’ work to substitute it for the battery in the other car, then he slid behind the wheel, pulled the choke and applied the starter. The Chevrolet’s engine started instantly, purred like music.

As he got out, the old man was already transferring his belongings from the Ford. ‘Anything I’ve forgotten?’

‘You could say that.’

Dillinger lifted the rear seat of the Ford, revealing a shot-gun and two automatic pistols.

‘You going to war, Johnny?’ Doc asked.

They stowed the shotgun and pistols along with the rest of the arsenal under the rear seat of the Chevrolet. ‘That’s it,’ Dillinger said.

The old man shook his head. ‘No, the Ford, Johnny. That’s got to go.’ He nodded across the track to the swamp. ‘In there.’ He slapped the car on the roof with the flat of his hand. ‘Seems like a waste, but when a man gets too greedy, he can end up on the end of a rope.’

Dillinger reached in and released the handbrake, then went round to the rear, and they got their shoulders down and pushed. The Ford bounced across the track, gathered momentum and ran away from them down the slope, plunging into the dark waters below. They stood there watching it disappear, Dillinger lighting a cigarette and offering the old man one. Doc shook his head and put his empty pipe in his mouth, chewing on it until the roof of the Ford had disappeared under the surface.

‘That’s it.’

They went back to the barn and got into the Chevrolet, and Dillinger drove back to the farm, braking to a halt at the foot of the porch steps. He started to open his door and Doc shook his head.

‘You’ve got to get moving, Johnny. Let’s cut it now.’

‘Whatever you say, Doc.’ Dillinger held out his hand.

Doc said, ‘I want you to know I’m going to take your advice. I’m going south to the Florida Keys with money in my pants and it’s all thanks to you.’ He got out of the car and closed the door, leaning down to the window, I’m going to get some warmth into my old bones before I die and that’s thanks to you as well, Johnny.’

Dillinger smiled. ‘Good luck, Doc.’

He drove away through the rain and the old man stood there listening to the Chevrolet’s sweet sound fade into the distance. Then he trudged across the muddy yard to the barn and opened the doors. An old Ford truck stood inside. He started it with the handle and drove it across to the front of the farm and went inside.

When he reappeared, he was carrying a suitcase and the briefcase, no more. He put them into the cab and went back up the steps into the living room. The hound dog moved restlessly beside him. It was very quiet, only the rain humming on the roof.

‘Quiet, Sam,’ he said gently. ‘We’re leaving now.’

He took out 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.’