Dillinger

Dillinger
Jack Higgins

The dramatic final moments of the legendary outlaw’s career - retold by the world’s master storyteller, Jack Higgins.Early March 1934, America’s most notorious criminal makes his spectacular escape from Lake County Jail, Indiana. Three months later, John Dillinger, the last American outlaw, is gunned down by FBI agents outside a movie theatre in Chicago.But what really happened during Dillinger’s final months of liberty?As the fugitive makes a desperate break for the Mexican border, master thriller writer Jack Higgins takes up the story, following Dillinger into the savage hands of his new captors. Where love is as elusive as a pardon. And the price paid for freedom is blood…

Dillinger

For Geoff and Irene – not forgetting Sarah, Kate and Rebecca

Contents

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Dedication (#uc2b3db51-b9e9-50f1-921b-4f5a32028af3)

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About the Author

Also by Jack Higgins

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher

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Dillinger lay on his bunk in one corner of the cell, his head pillowed on a hand, staring up at the ceiling. His cell mate in the ‘escape-proof’ new section of Lake County’s three-storey brick jail, Herbert Youngblood, a big Negro, stood at the window gazing out through the bars down into the street in front of the jail.

Dillinger said, ‘What’s it like out there?’

‘Must be two, maybe three hundred people,’ Youngblood said. ‘Hell, it’s worse than the State Fair. They got National Guard out there in uniform, like they were going to war.’ He turned, smiling. ‘Maybe they think you’re planning on taking a trip?’

‘It’s a thought,’ Dillinger said calmly.

There was the rattle of a key in the lock of the sliding cell door, a row of vertical bars. They turned to see an old man wearing faded denims, holding a tray, Sam Cahoon, the attendant.

‘Coffee, Mr Dillinger?’

‘Why not?’

Dillinger sat up and the old man placed two tin cups on the small table and filled them, the pot shaking a little in his hand so that he spilled some.

‘You been across to the hotel this morning?’ Dillinger asked as Cahoon passed him his coffee.

‘I sure have, Mr Dillinger,’ Cahoon said. ‘They’re sleeping on the floors. More folks coming in all the time.

They’ve got reporters, radio people, a newsreel cameraman. You should get a commission from the hotel, Mr Dillinger.’

He smiled in a strained, anxious way as if conscious that he might have gone too far. Dillinger sipped his coffee thoughtfully and it was Youngblood who answered for him.

‘A great idea, Pops. Next time you’re over there, you tell the guy who runs the joint Mr Dillinger was asking about his cut.’

‘I sure will,’ Cahoon said eagerly. ‘More coffee, Mr Dillinger?’

‘No thanks, Sam. This is just fine,’ Dillinger told him.

The old man picked up the tray. On the other side of the bars was one of the trusties with a mop stuck in a bucket.

‘I was told to bring this here,’ the trustie said.

Cahoon slid the bars to the side just enough to let the man squeeze by and put the bucket and mop down next to where Dillinger was sitting. Quickly Youngblood said, ‘I’ll do that.’

The trustie, who looked very nervous, said, ‘I was told to give it to Mr Dillinger.’ He scurried out, followed by Sam, who locked the sliding bars behind him.