The Hunt

been on the force for eight months and everyone in town was proud of him.

“How are you today, Luther?” Dempsey asked, scribbling his initials on the green slip of paper.

“Just fine, sir. Hear about the fire up in Delphi?”

“No. When was this, last night?”

“Goin’ on right now,” Luther said earnestly. “They called down for help. Sheriff Billings’s on his way up there to check things out. That new Five and Ten they got is burnin’ up.”

“Well, I hope nobody gets hurt,” Dempsey said.

The bank teller honored Conklin’s script and counted out his twenty-five dollars. He walked out f the bank counting it. Dempsey looked at the clock over the door. Ten more minutes and he’d be through for the weekend and on his way to Chicago. His mouth started to get dry thinking about the trip.

Clark guided the Packard slowly down Broadway, turned right, went down a block and turned back the way they had come. They drove past the police station as a young cop entered the front door. The police car was parked in the driveway.

“Well, guess we know where the laws are,” Dillinger chuckled. “Swing back around up at the corner, Russ. We’ll let Homer and Lester out.”

The two men got out of the car and walked casually toward the bank as Russell drove through the intersection one more time. He went down half a block and let Harry Pierpont and Dillinger out. They walked back past the harness shop toward the bank, their guns muzzle-down under their raincoats. When they got to the bank, Van Meter and Nelson were crossing the street toward them.

“Okay, let’s do it,” Dillinger said and they entered the bank. A moment later, their partners came in behind them.

Dempsey, as he always did, looked up as the men entered the bank. Strangers, he thought. Then he took a second look. The one in glasses looked vaguely familiar

Dillinger swung his shotgun out from under his coat. The man behind him twisted the “Open” sign in the doorway over to “Closed” and pulled the shade on the front door.

“All right, everybody.” The man with the shotgun yelled a loud, harsh, no-nonsense command. “Shut up and listen to me. I’m John Dillinger and we’re here to rob this bank. Don’t you scream, lady, just swallow it, I know a screamer when I see one. All of you just shut up and sit down on the floor. Make yourselves comfortable and don’t ring no alarms or yell or make a sound, otherwise some folks could get hurt. That there’s Baby Face Nelson and he has a very itchy trigger finger. Four minutes, Homer! Now we don’t mean to hurt nobody, you understand. We’re just here to make a withdrawal.”

He laughed as he peered through the window, pointing the shotgun at the ceiling. There were six employees and four customers in the bank. Van Meter, Clark and Pierpont all dropped to their knees and Nelson ran up their backs and sprang over the teller’s window. He shoved one of the two women back and opened the door. As Dillinger stared at his stopwatch, the other three got up and went into the business compartment. The vault was open.

Dillinger stared through the window and saw a police officer walk down the opposite side of Broadway.

“Christ,” he said under his breath, ‘a copper.”

Tyler Oglesby had left Luther Conklin to handle the phone while he did his three o’clock rounds, he had planned to go to the bank but the shades were drawn and the closed sign was out. He checked his watch. Either he was slow or Ben Scoby was fast. He went into the barber shop.

“Hey, what’s this we hear about a fire over in Delphi?” Nick Constantine said as he entered.

“Yeah,” Tyler answered. “Big fire. Still out of control. Lester went on up to help

Probably gone to get a haircut, Dillinger thought as Oglesby entered the barber shop. He turned back to his hostages, strolling past them, his shotgun butt resting on his hip. He took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth, lit a wooden match with his thumb.

“One thing I want to make clear,” Dillinger said as he lit the cigarette. “I ain’t no gangster, I am a bank robber. Gangsters are scum, they work for the likes of Capone and that bunch and they get paid for bumping people off. You know what they say about John Dillinger, he’s got the fastest brains and the slowest guns in the country. I ain’t no killer, regardless of what you might’ve read in the papers. Three minutes, Homer! We rob banks because the banks rob you! Take your homes, charge you to use your own money, act like they’s holier than God. They don’t deserve no better than what we give ‘em.”

Back in the vault, Baby Face Nelson was throwing money in a bag held open by Homer Van Meter.

“Why the hell does he have to walk around jawin’ like that,” Nelson snarled, stuffing packets of twenties in the bag. “Makin’ a damn fool of all of us.”

“Keeps their minds off things, Lester,” Van Meter answered. “Just do your job there and let Johnny do things his way. This’s gonna be one hell of a haul.” He grinned broadly as he shook the bag and let the loot settle iii the bottom.

“Lookin’ good, Johnny,” Van Meter yelled.

Dillinger checked the front door again. No sign of the copper. He reached in his coat pocket, took. out a pistol and waved it toward the ten people sitting on the floor.

“See this? This is my good luck charm. This is a wooden gun. That’s right, wood! Carved it out of the top off a washboard and colored it with bootblack. Walked out of the Crown City jail with it, right past the National Guard and everybody else and drove off in the sheriff’s car. Ain’t a jail made can hold John Herbert Dillinger, folks.”

Dempsey sat on the floor, holding his knees, and he thought about the situation and could not help smiling. Dillinger saw the smile. He walked across the bank floor and leaned over Dempsey.

“You think this is funny, pal?”

“No, Mr. Dillinger,” Dempsey answered.