CHAPTER THREE

“…Once I built a tower up to the sun, brick and rivet and lime…”

“I’m not happy with you, Bierce,” said J. Edgar Hoover in a voice that barely carried across his large desk. “Not happy at all.” His subordinates at the Bureau were well aware that his angry, loud blustering was reserved for small offenses, and when he was truly enraged, his voice sank to nearly a whisper.

On the other side of the desk sat Harry Bierce, his double-breasted suit neatly pressed, legs crossed in a relaxed manner.

“Director, I do not understand the cause of your concern. In addition to the Long matter, you sent me to investigate the wave of murderous crime sweeping the Midwest. Bonnie and Clyde are dead, Methvin and Hamilton back in prison. What more could you ask?”

“Cut the crap, Bierce. The newspapers are giving all the credit to those Texas crackers Hamer and Hinton, when you and I both know that you were the one who lured Bonnie and Clyde in. You’re not stupid, so don’t pretend to be. You know that I need a record, a public record of Bureau successes to assure our budget on the Hill, and to keep the politicians off our backs.”

“There would be precious little glory for the Bureau in what happened in Louisiana. As I have said, it was a lynch mob, nothing more, nothing less. I do not care that Parker and Barrow are dead; they well deserve to be. I believe some effort should have been made to bring them to trial, prove their guilt before a jury, and then send them to the chair. You follow what Hitler did in Germany just recently? They are now calling it ‘The Night of Long Knives’. Officially, only a few score died over what was supposedly a thwarted coup, but I have it on good authority the real total was over a thousand. Not just brown-shirted street thugs, but politicians, generals, university professors, journalists. Director, I was under the impression you did not want to see the United States become a country of force and violence, of lawlessness and injustice.”

“Damn it, Bierce, you know I don’t want that! The Nazis are as big a threat to civilization as the Bolsheviks, perhaps bigger. It’s just that I’m under a lot a pressure from the Hill to show results for the Bureau.”

“Not from the President?” asked Bierce perceptively.

Hoover looked for a long moment at his subordinate, then said, “No” in a tone of voice that indicated further questions on the subject would be extremely unwelcome. He then made an obvious change of subject.

“That Chicago bastard you overheard talking to Barrow and Parker. He didn’t say it out loud, but you must have drawn the same conclusion I did about the job they wanted him to do.”

Bierce smiled thinly. “You mean aside from my murder?”

Hoover laughed. “I’m not worried about that. Somehow, I’m sure you can take care of a Chicago torpedo who’s fool enough to try to take you on personally. No, I mean the other job.”

The expression on Bierce’s face became unreadable. “The President must be the target.”

“Yes, the President. Of course we would have a hell of a time proving it in a court of law, as names were not used, but you and I both know who was meant. I want you to drop everything else. Forget Long. Forget the Midwest bank robbers. I want this bastard in Alcatraz or dead. Don’t care which.”

“Of course, Director.” Bierce hesitated and then added, “Would not it be better to flood Chicago with a team, twenty or even thirty agents?”

“Think about it, Agent Bierce. Baton Rouge may be the most corrupt town in America, but Chicago runs a close second. We may have put Capone away, but his subordinate, Frank Nitti is still running a pretty effective vice ring, and has half the local officials on his payroll. We stomp in there with a score of agents flashing badges, and the town will close up tighter than a clam. Find out who this guy is and where he is, and you’ll have all the agents you want for the takedown.”

Bierce nodded, then stood up. “I will be on the night train to Chicago. By the way, I’d like to review the evidence from the Zangara case. There might be something of use in running down this assassin.”

The Director shrugged. “Everything’s in the basement. Ask the archivist to help you locate what you need. “Thank you, Director.” Bierce stood, bowed slightly to Hoover, and left the office.

What a strange man, thought Hoover. That curious old fashioned bow. It’s like he’s from the last century. Could be the devil himself for all I care, so long as he gets the job done.

“You’re in luck, Agent Bierce,” wheezed the archivist, plopping a box down in front of the agent. “It was covered up by some of those damnable red X files the Director keeps sending down here. Nothing but lies and tall tales of strange happenings and beasties in the night. Been fixated on some town up in Massachusetts, folks doing who knows what. Should burn the lot of them, but he’s obsessed with keeping every quotidian bit of information just in case. In case of what, I couldn’t tell you. But I’d welcome not having to go up and down the stacks all day long.”

Bierce noted the aging man had a prosthetic left leg, and thought it likely the man had lost the original serving his country in the Great War. Only this kept him from being short with the grudgingly helpful clerk.

“I can’t let you take anything out of the basement, but you can use the desk over there for as long as we’re open.”

“Thank you,” replied Bierce, who took the box to the indicated desk, sat himself at the lone chair, and began to go through its contents. They were sparse, and for the most part uninteresting. A cheap edition of Das Kapital by Karl Marx, who Bierce considered a poorly educated neurotic whose whimsical political theories had already caused the world more grief than Kaiser Wilhelm. Some letters from family members. A few stubs of pencils. Then, the only truly interesting thing in the box: a Colt .32 automatic. He held it in his hands, and actually shivered. This small weapon, firing an underpowered bullet, came close to having changed the course of American history. He closed his eyes for a few moments, remembering a long-ago time when he rushed up a flight of stairs and heard a muffled gunshot. Too late, forever too late.

He opened his eyes and glanced into the window set in the door to the archives. He saw reflected in that window that the crippled clerk was busy with something on the worktable behind him. With no noise whatsoever, he swiftly pocketed the easily concealed Colt, then added an identical pistol he had purchased the previous day. With an audible sigh, Bierce rose from the chair, took the box over to the clerk’s window, and said, “I’m done.”

The crippled veteran turned around clumsily and took the box. “Find anything useful?”’

“Not really,” replied Bierce, who tipped his hat to the man and left the archive.

As Bierce left the Justice Building and entered the brutal sunlight of summertime Washington, he shook his head ruefully. He was not by nature, a thief. Far from it. But some deep-seeded instinct told him that this gun might be crucial at some time in the future. He fully intended to return it to the archive when the case was over. A thoughtful look on his face, he began walking toward his apartment building on DuPont Circle. He needed to pack quickly if he was to make the night train to Chicago.

Francesco Raffaele Nitti—“Frank” to those outside the Organization, “Mr. Nitti” to those inside it—sprawled on his office sofa, rubbing his stomach through his vest, silently cursing the reappearance of his goddamn ulcer. He looked at the enormous, solid-looking capo who stood before him, and did not answer the question that had just been asked. The man asked the question again.

“Mr. Nitti, I want permission to take out one or two of those bastard Micks. They know the south side is our territory, but they have been moving in, block by block. Dominic tried to explain the matter to them, and one of the bogtrotters put a bullet in him. We need to send a message.”

“Like Al sent the north side boys on St. Valentine’s Day?” growled Nitti. “We both know that’s when Al’s slide began, the slide that put him in Alcatraz. Up to then, we were sitting pretty. Local government bought off, beat cops on the payroll, the public that wanted its booze, not caring who provided it, or how. And then Al greased seven of Moran’s boys at the garage. Yeah, that scared the Mick off our territory, but it made Al too hot to handle. City Hall wouldn’t cover us, the Feds stormed in like Pershing in France, judges, too afraid to take our bribes, backed off. And when the dust settles, Al is sitting in the middle of San Francisco Bay, leaving me to pick up the pieces!”

“Mr. Nitti, we can’t do nothing about Dominic.”

Nitti absently massaged the spot over his ulcer. “Dominic going to pull through?”

“The docs say so, but they also say he’ll never be completely well again.”

Nitti chewed his lip. “All right. You go to the hospital and tell Dominic we’re taking care of all costs and his family. Then you go see his wife, and tell her when she needs money come to me. Then I want you to gather the boys and organize them into teams. We’re going to hit all the Mick whorehouses, number joints, and nightclubs on the south side. Make sure that there’s a guy with a chopper at each place to keep the Mick torpedoes from getting frisky, while the rest of them bust up the place—and a few heads with baseball bats. No shooting unless shot at! We’ll send a message to the Irish bastards all right, but with no killings if it can be helped. No headlines, no pictures of corpses lined up on the sidewalks. Quiet as can be. You understand?”

The expression on the huge man’s face was unhappy, but he had been trained to absolute obedience by Capone himself. “I understand, Mr. Nitti.”

“Now get on it! I need to get some fresh air in the park. This goddamn ulcer is killing me.”

“Want me to get one of the boys to go with you?”

“I’m not a coward,” snarled Nitti. “I can spend an hour in the park without a gunsel at my side.”

Frank Nitti ate the last bit of his hot dog, drank the last of his Coke, and threw both wrapper and bottle into the wastebasket at the end of the park bench on which he lounged. He began to rub his stomach again, and knew he would pay for not sticking to a mild diet. To hell with it, he thought, if I can’t enjoy an occasional red hot and soft drink, I might as well be dead.

A small man nattily dressed in a trim suit and neat Panama hat, eased himself down at the other end of Nitti’s bench. “Good afternoon,” the man said. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me at such short notice, and alone.”

“Yeah, well, didn’t have much choice, did I, Bierce?” replied Nitti, scowling. “I know you can order the Bureau down on my operation, and pretty much shut me down.”

“I certainly could, Mr. Nitti. But afterwards, people would still be demanding prostitutes, gambling, alcohol. Someone else would inevitably replace you to meet those needs, someone who would not show your … restraint in business practices. Chicago could not stand another Alphonse Capone, the streets literally running with blood.

Nitti grunted and nodded in agreement.

“Oh, make no mistake, Mr. Nitti, I regard you as an amoral criminal. Nevertheless, as things stand now, you are the lesser of a number of evils. Besides, I saw for myself fifteen years ago that there is more to you than a two-bit hoodlum.”

Nitti hesitated, then spoke. “Captain Bierce, I run several flower shops, and no one can prove otherwise. I pay my taxes in full, unlike Al. So, let’s play a pretend game, if you like. Let’s pretend that what you accuse me of is true; that I picked up the pieces of Al’s organization. Does Washington really have a bone to pick with me? No more machine-gunning like the one on St. Valentine’s Day. No more protection schemes on respectable businessmen. Certain services desired by the good old American public are provided to them, and no one gets hurt. The little operators are even allowed their cut, so long as they don’t get greedy. My imaginary organization stays out of the cocaine and heroin shit—what’s sold in Chicago is sold by low-life punks who have nothing to do with my organization. Now, continuing to talk pretend, what do you think would happen to Chicago if me and my organization was busted up by the G-men?”

“I would hope that honesty and good government would return to this fair city.” Bierce sighed. “But we both know that won’t happen. Anton Cermak was the last chance this city would have for decades.”

“Didn’t cry no tears when he caught that bullet meant for FDR,” snarled Nitti.

Bierce’s mild features took on a strange, almost enraged look. Nitti involuntarily leaned backward, immediately afraid. As quick as the threatening expression had come to Bierce’s face, it was gone.

“Yes, Mr. Nitti, you have no respect for Chicago officials. To be fair, why should you, when you regularly buy and sell them like cabbages in the marketplace? Nonetheless, I think you have some concern for the people of Chicago, despite your illicit activities.”

“You mean that business in the winter of 1919?”

“People want to forget about the Spanish influenza. Only fifteen years ago, it killed over half a million Americans. Bodies literally lined the streets—this very town had mass burials because of the lack of coffins. Yet today, no one talks of it. No one wants to think of it. That’s understandable. Who wants to think on the overflowing hospitals, the stink of rotting flesh, the brave doctors and nurses who worked selflessly until they caught the disease themselves and died?”

“Never had much use for the Government men. But I gotta admit that the Army doctors, nurses, and officers came in and did what they could.” Nitti looked appraisingly at Bierce. “I remember you coming in with that field hospital group, walking up and down among the sick, giving them antitoxins and experimental drugs, even cleaning the soiled bedclothes when there was a shortage of nurses. Rumor was you were a hero in France, but I had never seen anything braver than how you acted in those months.”

“You give me too much credit, Mr. Nitti. I appear to be immune to the influenza. Although, I do remember seeing you when we worked Little Italy. Of course, you were not the important man you are now. A skinny young punk working numbers for the Capone organization—already a professional criminal—and yet there you were, going into tenements to bring out the sick, stacking the dead for disposal, running the risk of death every day, for no monetary gain I could see.”

“They were my family, my people,” replied Nitti, almost grudgingly, looking into the distance as he remembered. “I couldn’t leave them alone in dirty tenements to slowly die as their lungs filled with blood and snot. Couldn’t help them all, but I had to help some. Then I caught it; guess I always knew I would. I was burning up, beginning to choke to death. I remember my fingertips were even turning blue.” His eyes snapped back and focused intently on Bierce. “And then some goddamn Army captain began injecting me with the most God-awful burning shit, and from that point I began to get better.”

“There was never enough. Columbia University couldn’t produce it fast enough, and besides it was still an experimental antitoxin and usually made no difference. You were one of the lucky ones.”

“Why me?” asked Nitti softly. “There were all kinds of people in that field hospital. Kids, grandmas, priests, doctors themselves. I never got a chance to ask you, why me? Why a nobody street punk?”

“It’s hard to explain, Mr. Nitti,” replied Bierce reflectively. “Perhaps it was because you were there when you didn’t have to be. Doctors, nurses, Army officers—we were all there because it was our duty. There were very few professional volunteers, and the few that did volunteer were doctors, priests, and teachers—the sort of people everyone expects to have high civic values. But there you were, as you say, a worthless street punk, already a career criminal, risking your life for complete strangers. In any event, I wasn’t sure the antitoxin would work; it didn’t for most.”

Bierce sighed and looked at Nitti. “Anyway, that small particle of humanity in you, so rare in a someone in your line of business, is why I have come to you for help today. I need the name of a Chicago criminal, and I need it soon. You know as well as I do, that the Chicago police will be useless.”

Nitti scowled. “I don’t snitch on my boys. They’re loyal to me, and me to them.”

“The morality of the Dago gangster,” murmured Bierce. Nitti glared at Bierce for the slur, but Bierce ignored him and continued speaking. “In any event, I seriously doubt that one of your people is the man I want. The crime he intends to commit is not exactly in your organization’s line.”

“I told you, and it’s true, I don’t deal drugs.”

“No, nothing as mundane as that. He intends to murder the President.”

Nitti stopped massaging his ulcer. “Jesus Christ! You’re shitting me!”

“I truly wish I were. Fortunately, I was able to overhear the plot being hatched. Unfortunately, I was unable to see the assassin, or even learn his name. All I know is that he is a desperate criminal who operates out of Chicago.”

“That’s it? Mary Mother of God! Do you know how many torpedoes that could cover in this burg?”

“And I know that you are probably the only man in Illinois who has even a remote chance of giving me a lead. He’s well-funded, and you know what that means.”

Nitti nodded his head. “He can buy off the local bulls. Now, you G-men aren’t for sale, I’ll give you that. But there’s not that many of you, and you don’t really know this city.”

“And that is why I have come to you.”

Nitti scowled. “Just what is in this for me? Why should I care if Roosevelt is ventilated?”

“Just ask yourself, Mr. Nitti, what would happen if the President of the United States is assassinated, and it’s traced back to a Chicago gangster? Rightly or wrongly, Americans look upon Roosevelt as their last hope. They would scream for the blood of Chicago criminals, any criminals. The Bureau of Investigation, the Department of Treasury, and for all I know, the United States Coast Guard would descend on this city like the wrath of Jehovah. All known criminals, especially those working for you, would be thrown into Alcatraz on any charges—or no charges—Bill of Rights be damned. Your whorehouses, gambling dens, Speakeasies would be rolled up like a cheap carpet. Your tame Chicago police would not be able to help you, and probably would not want to help you. And the icing on the cake would be you. Everyone knows you’re the top gangster in this city, and the public will never believe you were not somehow involved—damn the lack of evidence. You will spend the rest of your life as a cellmate to your old boss Capone. What you would gain for helping me is that none of these unfortunate things would happen to you should I locate the assassin before he could strike.”

Nitti began rubbing the spot over his ulcer again. “You make a strong case, Captain Bierce. You should’ve been a lawyer.”

“I was, but that was a very long time ago. So, what is your response to my offer?”

“Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll have my boys hit the streets, asking whether anyone has heard of a freelance hit man taking big jobs.”

“Why just freelance?”

“Because my boys all know how I feel about killing that isn’t strictly in defense of our interests. Hell, even those crazy Mick gangs wouldn’t take on a job like that. Oh, they’ve got some skilled button men they use in their turf wars, but they are only used against competitors for territory. Even the dumb bogtrotters aren’t stupid enough to try and bump off the President. No, if this guy is a Chicago thug, he’s one of the independent operators—like those ham-handed crackers Bonnie and Clyde and the Barker gang. I can’t promise nothing, but I’ll have my boys shake the trees to see what falls. I suppose I owe you for saving my life in ’19, and for not digging too deep into my business interests.” Nitti paused for a moment, his face reddening slightly, almost as if he were embarrassed. “Besides, it ain’t right to mow down the President. That’s the way the Fascists do in Italy. It ain’t right that their way of business becomes ours.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nitti,” responded Bierce politely. “I will meet you in three days at this bench, same time, to hear what you’ve been able to learn.” Bierce rose from the bench smoothly and walked off without a backward glance. Frank Nitti continued to rub the spot over his ulcer, his thoughts turning to Milk of Magnesia.

The Hudson Essex was a light car with a powerful engine. It barreled along the road from South Bend to Chicago, passing everything in sight. At the wheel sat John Herbert Dillinger, America’s most famous bank robber. A tall, darkly handsome man of about thirty he was usually in a good mood, except when someone failed to give the “g” in his last name a hard, Germanic pronunciation. He was not in a good mood now, pushing the Hudson six-cylinder engine for all that it was worth, putting as much distance as possible between the car and the Merchants’ National Bank of South Bend.

“Slow down, John,” grunted the small man who sat beside Dillinger, clutching a Thompson submachine gun. “We’ve left the local bulls far behind. All you’re doing now is attracting the attention of motorcycle cops.” The speaker was Lester Gillis, known as Baby Face Nelson because of his youthful features and small stature. Despite his humorous alias, he was a sociopath who loved killing, especially policemen. In this, he differed from Dillinger, who viewed a killing during a robbery as a sign of bad planning.

“You stupid little bastard!” snarled Dillinger, not even deigning to glance at Nelson. “The cop walked in expecting nothing, didn’t even try to pull his piece. You could have held him at bay with the Tommy gun. Now every cop between Philly and Denver will be after us.”

“Don’t get all pious on me, John. You got no trouble with killing. I’ve seen you do it.”

“Only when money is at stake, you stupid Mick. Greasing that bull won’t bring us a penny.”

“I hate cops and G-men,” snarled Nelson. “I’ll gun down every last one of the bastards I can. I’ll never forget what they did to me in the Chicago lockup!”

“Yeah, right. That cop you left bleeding on the floor of the bank is the one that raped you,” muttered Dillinger sarcastically over the roar of the engine. He was an intelligent man who bitterly resented that his father’s poverty had placed college out of reach, and that the Depression had taken away any prospect of a good job. He reflected on how he had dreamed as a teenager of being an engineer or architect. Dillinger frowned slightly as he realized he could not seem to recall how his petty crime thefts as a kid had led him to this time and place. He shook his head as if to clear it, then made his decision.

Dillinger saw that he was on a long, straight stretch of road, with no sign of cars in either direction. He pulled off the pavement onto a grassy shoulder, stopping the car, but keeping the engine running.

“Hey, what the….” said Nelson, who realized that somehow, Dillinger had produced a .380 Colt automatic and was holding it to his head.

“No sudden moves,” Dillinger said quietly. With his left hand, Dillinger deftly plucked Nelson’s pistol from under his coat, and tossed it out the open driver’s side window. Then he took the heavy Tommy gun from Nelson’s grasp. Nelson did not resist, although his face had turned nearly purple with rage. Clumsily, Dillinger shoved the chopper out of the window, where it clattered metallically on the edge of the pavement.

“Now, this is where you get out, Nelson. The witnesses at the bank will surely have recognized a mean little shrimp like you. All the bulls in two states will be looking for you, and I’m not going to be there when they find you.”

Nelson finally spoke. “So you’re going to stiff me of my share and leave me defenseless when the cops come! You Goddamn, lousy—”

“GET OUT OF THE CAR!” Nelson had never heard the soft-voiced Dillinger shout before. He scrambled for the handle, found it, and half fell out of the Essex. Never taking his eyes off Nelson, Dillinger reached into the back seat and brought a bulging valise into the front. Unlatching it, he began throwing bundles of currency at the feet of an astonished Nelson. Finally, he stopped.

“That’s about fifteen grand. I’m leaving that with you, along with the guns I threw out the other side. That should give you a chance.” Dillinger reached over and slammed the passenger door shut. Slipping his automatic into his shoulder holster, he gunned the engine and put the car back on the pavement. As Dillinger rapidly sent the car through second and into third gear, Nelson ran to the Thompson, picked it up, worked the bolt, and took aim at the rapidly disappearing vehicle. With a snarl of disappointment, he lowered the weapon. Dillinger was already over a hundred yards away, well beyond the range of the Thompson’s .45 caliber round.

Ana Cumpanas sat at the desk in the small bedroom that served as her office, frowning over her ledger. She sighed and leaned back in her chair. America was supposed to be the richest country on Earth. Men always wanted women, and would pay as much as they could afford for them. In America, that would be more than anywhere else, at least if she provided a quality product. And she did provide a quality product. Her girls were attractive, healthy, and free of obvious signs of disease. Furthermore, she made sure that her girls were at least superficially educated and fluent. As an experienced madam, she understood that the best paying customers often wanted company as much as sex, and she did her best to provide both.

No, this small, somewhat shabby apartment building on Chicago’s busy Halsted Street should have been a gold mine. It was not. Times were hard, and the number of men who could afford Cumpanas’ prices had declined steeply. Then there were the leeches, Nitti’s Italian bastards who demanded “protection money,” and even worse, the so-called law—policemen and aldermen—who demanded “consideration” for her violation of the anti-prostitution laws. Many of them were more than willing to tolerate, even enjoy, her establishment most of the time. But on the first day of each month, they would show up, shocked to find vice in their pure city of Chicago and demand money to salve their shattered nerves. Since she paid her whores better than most brothel owners, this left surprisingly little for her at the end of the month.

She shook out her long black hair then stood up from the desk and stretched, revealing a tall, lithe figure. She then took a pack of Camels from the desk, shook out one to place in her mouth, and lit it with a gold-plated lighter. Breathing deeply, she expelled the smoke through her nostrils and strolled over to the window and looked through the curtain. Hearing a commotion directly below her, she looked down at the sidewalk outside the front entrance to her apartment building. She was stunned to see Gino, her massive, if dim-witted bouncer, arguing with a beefy man in an ill-fitting suit and a straw boater. The stranger pulled a revolver with his right hand, and with his left, he produced some sort of badge. It took Gino a moment to process the situation before he nodded and led the stranger through the door.

Cumpanas felt her heart lurch with panic. She strode quickly over to her desk and crushed the cigarette out in an ashtray. She then grabbed her ledger full of incriminating information and, after a moment’s thought, ran to the window, opened it, and slid the ledger onto the eight-inch brick ledge that circled the building. She believed—no, hoped—that even a bull doing a thorough search of the room would not think to open the window and examine the ledge. Just as she quietly closed the window, she heard a knock at the door. Working to control her breath, she strode to the middle of the room, smoothing her hair and bright orange dress before calling out, “Yes?”

The door was violently kicked open, and the stranger lumbered in, revolver now holstered but clearly visible, a smile creasing his flabby face. Behind him, the bovine Gino was stuttering, “Mrs. Cumpanas, I tried to tell him you don’t see no people this time of morning.”

“That’s all right, Gino,” she replied in a throaty voice redolent of Eastern Europe. “Go downstairs and watch the front door.”

The bouncer half-saluted, turned, and walked out of sight, his heavy tread fading away.

In a cold voice she said to the newcomer, “Who are you, and what is your business with me?”

“Top of the morning to you, Miss Ana Sage,” replied the big man in a voice shaded with an Irish lilt. “Or rather, should I say, Mrs. Ana Cumpanas, the name under which you entered this fine country of ours? I’m Patrick Burke of the immigration service.”

The cold organ that was her heart seemed to skip a beat. “Immigration?”

“Oh, bless me yes, Mrs. Cumpanas.”

“I don’t know what you could want with me. I received my naturalization papers four years ago.”

“You did indeed, lass, you did indeed,” replied Burke in a friendly voice. “Ah, you see, you identified yourself as Ana Sage, a person who I fear does not exist. Instead, a little bird has told us that you really are Ana Cumpanas.” He whipped a dog-eared notebook out of a side pocket and consulted a page towards the middle. “Ana Cumpanas. Born in eastern part of the late Austro-Hungarian Empire in 1889.” He glanced up at her and smiled. “May I say you carry your forty-four years well?” He turned his attention back to his notebook. “You have a police record with the Kingdom of Roumania. Arrested in 1923 for prostitution, procuring, and—bless my soul—theft and moral turpitude. Escaped custody by seducing a guard—what a bad girl we’ve been.” The man continued. “Then obtained a falsified passport and immigration visa to enter our fine, upstanding country. Tsk. Tsk.”

“But I am now an American citizen.”

“Well, that’s the pity of the thing, Mrs. Cumpanas. No one of low moral character may be admitted to this country. You concealed your low moral character, and as a result, your citizenship was obtained by fraud. It can be revoked for that reason, and your sweet self can be returned to the welcoming arms of Roumania.”

Cumpanas was genuinely shocked. “But … but … I have been in this country now for over ten years! Why do you raise all this now?”

The smile left Burke’s face. “Now that be the pity of the matter. You could say that there are many more deserving of deportation that yourself, and Patrick Burke wouldn’t call you a liar. But when an alderman in this fine and honest city of Chicago levies an accusation with my superiors, and they give me my orders, now I ask you, what am I to do?” His face turned dark, angry. “I have heard, Mrs. Cumpanas, that you refused to increase your bribes to the said alderman, who then decided to peach on you to Uncle Sam. If things ran as Patrick Burke would have them, he’d be the one thrown out of the country, not your lovely self. Sad to say, things never have been run as Patrick Burke would have it, and probably never will.”

Cumpanas was proud and seldom begged. This was one of those few times she would beg.

“Please … I would have paid him if I had the money, but I do not. Don’t send me back to Roumania. You have no idea what it’s like. The Iron Guard under that bastard Antonescu takes what they want from whoever they want, kills at random—Jews, Gypsies, or anyone who doesn’t worship Antonescu or that bastard in Germany. Please.”

Burke looked genuinely sorrowful. “Far be it for an Irishman to deny that the world is a hard place. The sad fact is that me, and my superiors, have no choice against the kind of political pressure being brought.” He reached into his inner coat pocket, removed a paper, and threw it down on her desk. “This is a summons to appear in our offices in ten days’ time for your hearing. Please be sure to show up. And don’t be thinking of leaving town. You won’t get far, and I’ll be very unhappy if you put me to the trouble of tracking you down.”

Burke nodded and tipped his hat to Cumpanas. Then he left the room, closing the door behind him. Ana Cumpanas stared at the document on her desk as if it were a poisonous snake.

It was 2:00 in the morning, and Cumpanas was still tossing in her bed, unable to sleep. But it was not the occasional noises from the rooms of her whores that kept her wide awake. After all, she had trained them to be relatively decorous in their behavior with the customers. No, it was the thought—and fear—of being sent back to Roumania—the Roumania that Antonescu and the Iron Guard were busily turning into an approximation of Hell on Earth. Her body was telling her to run. Her mind was telling her that she didn’t have the money to run, or for that matter, get very far if she did. Filled with terror of deportation to Roumania, she gazed wide-eyed at the ceiling, even in the total darkness of the room.

Sighing, she decided to give up on sleep. Turning on the lamp on the table beside her bed, she sat up, swung her legs around, and slipped on her slippers. She grabbed a pack of Camels she kept next to the lamp, shook out a cigarette, ignited it, and took several deep drags in rapid succession. Suddenly, there was a slight rapping on her window, which startled her and she dropped her cigarette. Quickly, she ground it out with her heel. Then she grabbed a snub-nosed revolver from the nightstand and carefully approached the window. She lightly slid the edge of the curtain aside and peered through the glass. She nearly cried with relief. Throwing her gun onto the bed, she unlatched the window and carefully drew it up. A soft-sided valise was thrown into the room and was immediately followed by an athletic man who crouched, his feet on the sill and then fell forward, catching himself on his hands, balancing his body upright. The acrobatic visitor walked on his hands about the room, then with a smooth spring, landed upright on his feet. Cumpanas giggled.

“John, you stupid bastard! I could’ve shot you!”

A grinning John Dillinger folded her into his arms and planted a deep, lingering kiss on her lips. Then he said, “Ana, you’re such a bad shot, I figured the risk was worth it.”

Cumpanas stood back and looked at him seriously. “It’s not that I’m not glad to see you, but what brings you hear now, at this time? And why through the window?”

Dillinger himself turned serious. “I’m hot, Ana. That bloodthirsty bastard Nelson machine-gunned a bull when it wasn’t necessary. Can’t count on buying protection from our boys in blue. No matter how much they’re on the take, you know how they feel about cop-killers.”

“Where’s Nelson now?” Cumpanas said, uneasiness in her voice. She did not know the word “psychopath,” but she knew one when she saw one, and she had seen the diminutive Nelson.

“Dumped him on the road, with guns and half the swag. If he were smart, that would allow him to lay low, maybe get out the country. But I don’t expect him to be smart. He may even try to track me down. That’s why I need someone I can trust to stay with.”

“Honey, I hate to tell you this, but you aren’t safe here. The Feds are on me, said they’d deport me.”

The normally cheerful Dillinger frowned. “The hell you say! You’ve got your citizenship papers and everything.”

“They say they have proof I lied on my citizenship application.”

“How’d they get that, after all these years?”

“I’m not sure, but I can make a guess. The others running fancy houses in this burg know I get more than my share of the best paying customers. They’d like me out of competition, so they did a little digging. Wouldn’t have been hard. Whores, even my whores, don’t keep secrets very well. Anyway, they’ve given me an order to appear at a hearing next week.”

The expression on Dillinger’s face turned thoughtful. “I still think I’m safer here for the time being. The Feds won’t be busting down your doors, so long as you show up to the hearing. Those things always take time.” He gestured at the bulging valise. “See that? It’s got $45,000 inside. I’ve got another job coming up that’ll double that. Then you and me’ll get some fake papers, and we’re over the border into Canada. Lots of nice places to go from there. You and me, baby.”

Cumpanas smirked. “‘Just you and me, Johnnie?’ You never struck me as a one-woman guy.”

Dillinger smiled. “Maybe it’s time for me to settle down. Could do a lot worse than you.”

Cumpanas laughed. “Yeah, you sure could baby.” She folded her arms around the handsome gangster and kissed him hard.

In mere moments, they were on the bed with a pile of clothes scattered on the floor around them.

Special Agent Melvin Purvis stood at the entrance to the St. Peter Catholic Cemetery in Skokie, smoking a Camel, watching two of his agents and the county coroner huddle over a still form. A short, intense man, he took a last drag on his cigarette, crushed it underfoot, and walked over to the group.

“Well boys, is it Nelson?” he said with a Deep South Carolinian accent.

“It’s him, boss,” replied one of the agents. “A little hard to tell at first. A slug took him in the face, which must have also been skinned up by his being dumped from a moving car. Still, there’s no doubt.”

Purvis turned his attention to the doctor from the coroner’s office. “The bullet to the head do it for him?”

The doctor remained hunched over the body and did not look up. “Couldn’t say, Mr. Purvis. So far, I count at least a dozen bullet wounds. And the hell of it is, judging by the bleeding, none of them killed him immediately. Going by the rigor, he died about four hours ago.”

“No sign of Dillinger?” asked Purvis moodily.

“No sir,” responded the other agent. “There were plenty of witnesses to the shootout at the motel. All agree there was just Nelson and a woman, probably his wife.”

“And our two men?”

The agent could not look Purvis in the eye. “One is dead, the other’s dying. No chance he’ll pull through, according to the docs. At least they died killing Nelson.”

Purvis grunted. Two more letters to write. Goddamnit. Two more widows, two more sets of fatherless children. He could literally feel his blood pressure rise as he thought of all the death and grief Nelson and Dillinger had inflicted. Over forty murders to their credit—civilians, local police, G-men. True, most of them had been Nelson’s, but Dillinger had contributed his share. And the goddamn newspapers were making heroes out of the mad-dog killers! This was always the way with the public not directly victimized by such parasites. Purvis strongly suspected that if you dug back far enough, you would find Robin Hood to be a murderous whoremaster and the Sheriff of Nottingham a selfless protector of the public.

Purvis walked over to the body and, to everyone’s surprise, kicked it viciously in the head. “Bates,” he snarled at one of his men, “find the nearest telephone and get on the line to the Chicago office. Nelson’s bitch-of-a-wife won’t be able to get far. Take her alive, and find out the places Dillinger might hide out.”

“Then we set a trap to catch him?” asked Bates.

“No. Then we kill him.” He lit another cigarette and started walking back to his Plymouth. He did not notice a burly man with dark features watching him intently from behind the small group of early morning onlookers.

Frank Nitti and his two bodyguards occupied a table far back from the restaurant’s front window, the bodyguards facing the door. Nitti poked disconsolately at his food, then put down his fork, took the cold glass of milk and sipped at it as if it were medicine. His attention was taken from his ulcer by his bodyguards’ quick movements, jamming their right hands under their coats, more slowly removing them. Nitti looked up to see one of his capos walking through the door. The man approached Nitti’s table, removed his hat, and waited respectfully to be addressed.

“I assume it is important for you to interrupt my meal,” grumbled Nitti. “Take the last chair.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nitti,” the bulky man replied as he sat down. “I would not disturb you, except you said it was important to give you news of killers not part of the familia. Lester Gilles, the one they call Baby Face Nelson, has been found dead. He killed two Feds, but not before they filled him with lead.”

“I wonder if this is the gunman who so interests the Bureau of Investigation,” muttered Nitti to himself. In a louder voice, he asked, “Have the Feds called off the manhunt they’ve had going on for the last few days?”

“Doesn’t seem so, Mr. Nitti. Word downtown is that they’re looking for Nelson’s wife, and for Dillinger.”

A thought occurred to Nitti. He could dismiss Mrs. Gillis. She often strung along with her husband, but never seemed to be involved with the shooting. But Dillinger … Dillinger … was a killer as well, but not a rabid, mad-dog killer like Nelson. Dillinger tried to avoid killing as much as possible, unless there was gain in it. So, he knew no one in their right mind would try to hire Nelson to do a high profile assassination. But Dillinger … that was another matter. Nitti addressed his capo.

“I remember hearing that when he’s in Chicago, Dillinger stays in one or two preferred whorehouses. Find out which ones. Bring him to me, or if he’s gone, bring the madam running the cathouse. In either case, alive and uninjured.”

The capo nodded solemnly. “Yes, Mr. Nitti. Without another word, he stood up and strode out of the restaurant.

A stab of pain shot through Nitti’s stomach, which he rubbed gingerly.

Harry Bierce sat alone at a table in a rather dreary restaurant, not far from the Loop, reading the Chicago Tribune. His meal was only half-finished, but he had eaten as much as he could tolerate of the rather greasy viands. And the meat, which he preferred rare, so rare that blood would spurt out as he chewed, was so overdone, he couldn’t stomach another bite. He sipped at his glass of strong tea as he read, having never acquired a taste for coffee. When his eye caught something on the page—the glass hovered motionlessly for nearly a minute. Then with exaggerated care, he placed the glass on the table and slowly stood up.

No one was watching him, but if someone had, they would have been shocked to see what little color Bierce’s face held. At that moment, he resembled a living statue of marble. He threw a dollar bill on the table, then walked over to the empty telephone booth by the checker’s counter. Closing the door firmly behind him, he inserted some change into the slot. After much delay and argument with trunk operators, a connection was made.

“Bierce, what the hell are you doing calling me at this time of night,” said the tinny, far-away voice of John Edgar Hoover.

“Don’t try to tell me you didn’t know about what I just read in the newspaper,” replied Bierce in a voice filled with sorely concealed rage.

“You mean the president coming to Chicago in eight days to make a speech to the labor convention,” stated Hoover. Although it may have been the static over the long distance line, Bierce thought Hoover’s voice sounded dejected, almost defeated.

“Yes sir, that is what I mean. Why didn’t you stop him? Didn’t you tell him of the risk to his life?”

“I most certainly did. Talked to him for over an hour. It did no good. No good at all.”

“Despite what happened in Florida eighteen months ago?”

“Especially because of what happened. He says he trusts the Secret Service to protect him. Has some idea of proving his courage.” The Director did not add his suspicion that FDR’s buckling in to Hoover’s blackmail over his mistress had filled the President with a desire to prove he was not a physical coward.

Hoover literally ground his teeth in frustration. He despised the President, not only for his politics, but for his weaknesses. And yet, to his own surprise, he found himself deeply concerned about the man’s safety. He turned his attention back to the waiting Bierce.

“The president is coming to Chicago. Flat out, that’s a given. Bierce, you have to stop that torpedo. You’ve got eight days.”

Unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, Bierce replied, “Didn’t you think to alert me to this before I read about it in the newspaper?”

“Bierce, I know you. You have only one speed. Full throttle. I know you are doing everything you can. There was no point in giving you some distracting news. Anyway, I’ve instructed the Chicago office to give you any help that you request. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s been a long day, and I need some rest. Goodnight, Agent Bierce.”

Bierce heard a click, followed by a dial tone. Still gripping the receiver in his hand, he fought the temptation to rip it out by the cord and destroy the booth.

Dillinger was a very light sleeper. Cumpanas’ building was after all a brothel, and there were comings and goings at all times of the day and night. Those sounds he managed to ignore. However, the creaking of floorboards made by big men quietly moving in, did disturb him.

Instantly, Dillinger was fully awake. Dumping the still sleeping Cumpanas onto the floor, he threw on his clothes with lighting speed, grabbed his gun and valise, and vaulted out the fire escape just as the door to the room crashed open. Nitti’s capo moved into the room warily, large automatic held out in front of him, followed by one of his men. BANG! A shot boomed from outside the window. Swearing in Italian, the capo rushed over to the window, screaming “Luigi! I told you the boss wants him alive!”

The man was halfway out the window when he froze, catching site of the man he had stationed on the fire escape to catch anyone fleeing. It was clear Luigi had not fired the shot, unless, that is, he had shot himself through the forehead. The capo frantically scanned the alley in both directions, but saw no one. He re-entered the room, where his man was holding onto the naked, dazed Cumpanas.

“Puta!” he snarled as he slapped her across the face with his meaty open hand. “Your boyfriend has killed my sister’s boy! What shall I be telling my sister, about how Luigi is never coming home again? Now, where did that bastard go? Speak!”

Cumpanas was confused, and in truth did not know where Dillinger had gone. After a few moments of her silence, the capo struck her again, this time with a closed fist. As Cumpanas gasped for breath through a bloody mouth, the huge gangster pointed the Colt .45 between her eyes. Before he could pull the trigger, his minion hurriedly said, “Remember how the boss feels about killing kids and dames. We should talk this over with him before doing anything that can’t be undone.”

The capo thought for a moment, then slowly, he lowered the hammer of his automatic, his face contorted with hate. “Get dressed, bitch. We’re going for a little ride. Oh, and just give me a reason. Any reason. Please.”

Some fourteen hours later, Harry Bierce trudged into his dingy hotel, frustrated and tired from a wasted day of trying to track down leads from the corrupt and inefficient Chicago police.

Before he could ask the desk clerk for the key, the untidy young man with bulging eyes said, “Telephone message for you, Mr. Bierce,” and threw a folded piece of paper across the counter.

Bierce picked it up, rapidly scanned the contents, and sighed. It had taken him a quarter of an hour to find a parking spot for his hired Hudson convertible, and now it appeared he would have to be taking to the streets again. Without saying a word to the clerk, Bierce turned on his heel and hurried out of the hotel, taking the two blocks to his car with surprising speed for someone so tired.

A short drive brought him to the downtown hotel. Surprisingly, very few cars were parked along the street, and he was able to find a place for his Hudson virtually at the front entrance. A small, thin man with crazy eyes, hands buried in the deep pockets of his overcoat, walked up to Bierce as he locked the car. Not removing his hands from his coat pockets, the small man said, “You the G-man?”

Calmly Bierce replied, “I am indeed.”

“Come with me. Boss said to bring you right up. Room 2322.”

The two entered the lobby side-by-side. The clerk at the reception desk glanced up from the copy of the Chicago Tribune he was reading, frowned, and hurriedly returned his attention to his newspaper. They rode the elevator up to the twenty-third floor in silence, then proceeded along the corridor. The crazy-eyed man opened the door to a suite and gestured for Bierce to go in. Bierce entered, but instead of following Bierce into the room, the small man remained in the hallway, pulling the door closed.

To the right of the entry, Bierce saw three people sitting in the suite’s living room. Bierce walked into the room to find Frank Nitti lounging on a sofa, left hand massaging his stomach through his vest, while in his right hand, he held a drink that looked surprisingly like milk. A woman sat huddled in a padded chair, and from behind a bruised face stared at the newcomer with fear-filled eyes. The enormous capo stood to the right of his master’s sofa, huge hands clenching and unclenching as he glared at Bierce.

“Good evening, Mr. Nitti,” said Bierce, making a slight bow to the man on the sofa.

“Evening, Captain Bierce,” responded Nitti brusquely, draining his glass in several large gulps, then setting it on a small table beside his sofa.

“Mr. Nitti, I don’t see the good of this,” uttered the capo in a strained voice. “Word gets out you’re talking to a G-man, some of the boys will get strange ideas.”

“The boys don’t need to know nothing. Only us in this room, and Carlo outside guarding the door, know this meeting’s taking place. I’d be very unhappy were that to change, understand?”

The large man visibly paled, but nodded once. Nitti turned his attention back to Bierce.

“Captain, as a personal favor to you, I’ve had my boys out looking to find a freelance torpedo who might undertake a … high-profile killing. Ain’t certain, but I think my boys have come up trumps. That bitch in the chair is Ana Cumpanas, runs a high-end whorehouse. Word on the street is she sometimes shacks up with John Dillinger. Normally, I don’t care about those hayseeds who spray bullets, whether needed or not. Chicago bulls ain’t smart, but they’re smart enough to round up hicks like them. But I thought it over a bit, and it seemed Dillinger was a cut above, and just might take the kind of job you were talking about. So, I send three of my boys over to Cumpanas’ place to invite Dillinger over for a little talk. Bastard was as quick as a lizard, and deadly as a rattlesnake. Made a clean break after blowing the brains out of one of my men.”

“It was my sister’s boy,” interrupted the capo, still clenching and unclenching his enormous fists.

Nitti grimaced. “As I told you before, I like things quiet on the streets. This is different—blood requires blood. Normally, we’d handle this within the family, but I made you a promise. Now can you promise me this bastard is going to die? No deals, no plea bargains?”

“I can make that promise. I might need to keep him alive to testify at the trial of another, but after that he will pay for all he has done.”

Eyes blazing with rage, the capo started toward Bierce. Nitti held up his hand, and despite his anger, the gangster stopped. He had worked for Al Capone.

“You’re the only G-man whose word I’d take.”

“So, do you know where I can find Dillinger?”

“Not exactly. But I know how he can be found.” Nitti gestured at Cumpanas. “This bitch knows more about his hideouts than anyone else. She wasn’t inclined to share her information at first, but we persuaded her in the end. Hey, whore,” he turned to Cumpanas, “tell the nice G-man where Dillinger hangs out.”

Cumpanas did not look at Bierce. Gingerly touching the large bruise under her eye, she began speaking in a low monotone. “Johnnie likes to go to Cub games. Doesn’t matter if the heat’s on, he won’t miss one. There’s also a whorehouse a few blocks from Wrigley Field, he goes to ground there when he has to. Used to have a thing with the madam. That’s all over, but they’re still pals. And movies, he likes to go to the movies at night when it’s hot, like it is now.”

“How did you come to be involved with such a mad-dog killer?” Bierce asked Cumpanas softly.

The beaten woman managed a smile. “Johnnie’s good company. Always has good stories, can make you laugh no matter what. Like the way he can walk on his hands all over the room. Funniest thing you ever saw….”

Cumpanas didn’t notice Bierce go absolutely rigid for a few moments, adjusting to the idea that Dillinger, without a doubt, was the man about whom the dying Bonnie Parker had raved.

“I’ve paid my debt to you, Captain Bierce. Now we’re square,” said Nitti.

“What will you do with her?” asked Bierce, gesturing toward the battered woman.

“Not your concern, Captain,” replied Nitti, glancing over to his capo.

“I disagree. I may need her to lure Dillinger out of hiding. I will take her with me.”

The woman and the capo looked at Bierce—one with faint hope, the other with barely suppressed rage. Nitti was silent, and the issue hung in the balance. Then Nitti rubbed his ulcer, sighed, and said, “All right, you can have the whore.” He then looked up at his furious capo. “She didn’t plug your sister’s boy. Dillinger dropped the hammer on him. The important thing is to get him.” He then shifted his attention to Bierce. “Captain, I think it’s in both of our interests if we don’t meet again. Close the door on your way out.”

Bierce nodded slightly to Nitti, then walked over to the chair and took the woman’s arm, pulling her into a standing position. He guided her to the door, opened it, nodded to the crazy-eyed gunman who had been standing sentry, and guided her down the hallway to the elevator. Only when the elevator had started its descent did she begin to speak.

“Why did you take me out of there? They were going to kill me. I am nothing to you.”

Bierce looked at her, and his set features softened somewhat. “I rather disapprove of the murder of women, even those in your line of work. Besides, you remind me of someone I knew many years ago.”

“Where are we going?”

“To my hotel room. Tomorrow, I’ll get you some respectable clothes, then you will help me catch your boyfriend, the man who left you to the tender mercies of the Nitti gang.”

“And what happens to me after that?” she asked in a small voice.

Bierce made no reply.

At 11:00 the following morning, Bierce maneuvered his Hudson into the nearest parking spot, a mere three blocks away, to Wrigley Field. He vaulted easily out of the driver’s seat, went around to the passenger side and held the door open for Cumpanas. Gingerly, she stepped out of the low-slung convertible, smoothed the wrinkles out of her brand-new orange dress, and adjusted her cloche hat to a rakish angle. Bierce cast an appreciative eye over her.

“Mrs. Cumpanas, you are to be congratulated. I feared the dress would not fit you well, but the last-minute alterations you made are splendid. It now fits you like a glove.”

As they began walking toward the stadium, she replied, “I once supported myself as seamstress, back in Roumania. I liked it, but it paid pennies. As soon as I could, I got away from it and started catering to the lusts of men. It paid much better.”

Bierce looked as if he were going to reply, but in the end said nothing. They covered the remaining distance to Wrigley Field in silence.

When they arrived, a large crowd was already jostling through the gates, even though it was nearly two hours to the start of the game. Many in the crowd were obviously among the unemployed, their ragged, shabby clothing testifying to that fact. However, unlike their usual appearance, there was a cheerful, festive air about them. For a few hours they could forget their problems, thanks to America’s pastime.

To the left of the main entrance, Bierce spotted four men standing around in neat but inexpensive suits, the uniform of a Federal agent. Bierce led Cumpanas over to the men, and shook the hand of the smallest of them.

“Mrs. Cumpanas, allow me to introduce Special Agent Melvin Purvis, one of the Bureau’s best.” He did not bother to introduce the other three, nor did they bother to introduce themselves.

“Well, Bierce, when I got your call late last night, I have to admit it seemed a screwball idea. Dillinger, the man being sought in three states, going to a daytime baseball game? Still, I’m running out of ideas, and I’ll grasp at any old straw. This the woman you talked about?”

“Yes. Mrs. Cumpanas knows Dillinger very well. I know we’ve all seen pictures of him, but photos are never as good as an eyewitness.”

“Don’t need a woman to finger him for me,” muttered the gloomy Purvis. “I see that bastard’s face in my dreams.”

“I agree,” replied Bierce. “Still, it’s better to be doubly sure.”

“So, Bierce, should we split up?”

Bierce shook his head, and gestured to the thickening stream of baseball fans before him. “That’s the only way in, a true bottleneck. Besides, I must have him alive.”

“He murdered two of my best men,” replied Purvis in a low, hatred-charged voice. “He must die for that.”

Bierce jabbed a forefinger at Purvis. “He must be taken alive, if at all possible. Once he has testified about … about another case, he will be bent sent to the electric chair.”

Cumpanas had not yet decided whether she would help finger her lover. As the two G-men conversed, she looked at the sea of faces passing her into Wrigley Field. Like a flash, there he was, bold as brass, jacketless in the Chicago heat, straw boater perched jauntily on his handsome head, a loose white untucked shirt. Almost in a hypnotic state, she quietly walked away from the agents, feeling her way through the packed crowds. She touched his arm, and he whirled around in surprise.

“Johnnie, the Feds are here. You gotta run.”

At the same moment, Bierce became aware Cumpanas was no longer at his side. He scanned the crowd franticly. His pale blue eyes locked on Dillinger.

Dillinger did not speak, did not hesitate. Grabbing Cumpanas roughly by the arm, he dragged her through the crowd, using blows and kicks to clear a path to the turnstiles, elbowing his way past the astonished ticket-takers. Bierce drew and cocked his .45 Colt automatic, and began fighting his way forward, shouting in a surprisingly loud and deep voice for so slight a person, “Out of the way! Federal Officer!” He was closely followed by Purvis, who in turn, was trailed by his three agents.

Running at full tilt, the crowds on the other side of the turnstiles cleared the way for him. Dillinger, hampered by the high-heeled Cumpanas he dragged along behind him, swerved left onto the first aisle, forcibly shoving past the relatively few fans who had not yet found their seats. Still, he could not go as fast as the unencumbered Bierce, who ran with the shocking fluidity of a mongoose. When a space cleared between them, Bierce’s now deep voice boomed, “Halt or I’ll shoot!” Bierce paused for a second to decide how best to inflict a nonlethal wound on Dillinger. It was a second too long.

Moving with the speed of a striking cobra, Dillinger released Cumpanas and grabbed a pregnant young woman who had been trying to settle into a seat in the front row of the section. He swung the shrieking woman in front of him, and as Bierce hesitated, the gangster produced an automatic from under his shirt and fired a single shot at Bierce. He then released the young woman, grabbed Cumpanas, and darted down a connected aisle leading into the bowels of the stadium.

Bierce was standing stock still as Purvis and his agents reached him. “Where did he go?” screamed the frustrated, red-faced Purvis as he swiveled his pistol around in all directions, much to the terror of nearby baseball fans. Bierce did not answer. Instead, his automatic slipped slowly from his hand to clatter onto the concrete of the aisle. He brought his hand up to the section of his expensive double-breasted coat that was right over his silk handkerchief, and brought away fingers dabbled in blood. As the horrified Purvis looked on, Bierce smiled weirdly and murmured, “It has been a long time, but I am finally coming, my love.” Then his eyes closed and he collapsed to the concrete. like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“Go get that bastard and his bitch and kill them both!” screamed an enraged Purvis to his men. He then grabbed a terrified hot dog vendor, shoved his pistol in the young man’s face, and yelled. “Go find whoever’s in charge! Close the gates! Then call the Bureau Office and have them send an ambulance and every man they have! Now move, or so help me God I’ll make it a bad day for your mother!” Purvis then dropped to his knees and setting his gun aside, commenced doing everything he could to stop the bleeding.

Dillinger and Cumpanas were sharing a dingy room in a no-questions-asked downtown hotel. Dillinger was busy cleaning a Springfield rifle with a telescopic sight that he had stored in the room some days before.

Cumpanas was chain-smoking while sitting on the bed, her hands trembling with delayed shock. Finally, she broke the silence. “Johnnie, there was no need to shoot that G-man. You had a hostage. You could’ve demanded that he throw his gun away, and then we could have made our escape.”

“No time for that,” Dillinger responded sourly. He then placed the cleaned rifle across the room’s desk and turned in his chair to face Cumpanas. “I’m more interested in what you were doing with the Feds. Thinking of selling me out?”

“It wasn’t like that, honey,” she replied, a tremble of fear in her voice. “After you took off from my place, shooting the young punk on your way out, the goddamn dagos took me to Nitti.”

Dillinger gave a low whistle. “Frank Nitti himself. That’s quite an honor.”

“They wanted me to give you up. They beat me pretty good. I think they had decided to take me for a ride, when Agent Bierce—the G-man you shot—showed up. It was strange. He took me away from them, just wanted me to identify you. I went along with it, but only to warn you when they caught up to you. That’s what I did.”

Dillinger gave her a long, hard look, then his features softened. “Okay baby, I believe you. This will be our new plan. You stay here. Only go out for food and such. I got things to do, people to see. I’ll be dropping in from time to time. When I finish my job, we’re out of here and off to Canada. Got the picture?”

“Sure, Johnnie, sure.”

“All right then, come here. I’m in serious need of some loving.”

The room in the west wing of the seventh floor of Chicago Memorial that Melvin Purvis was approaching resembled an anthill that some kid had disrupted with a stick. Purvis stood still for a minute, watching white-clad doctors and nurses scurry in and out, strange looking expressions on their faces. He had left here just four hours before, desperate for some sleep in one of the bunks reserved for the night interns, leaving strict orders to be awakened when it looked like Bierce was about to die. He had awakened on his own, looked at the clock on the wall and decided the staff had ignored his request, and had allowed Agent Bierce to leave this world with no fellow agent to witness his leaving. Now, staring at the commotion in Bierce’s room, he realized Bierce had not yet died, although he suspected the end was imminent. He jogged the rest of the way to the room, and grabbed one of the doctors at the entrance. Shaking the man by the shoulder, Purvis asked, “When will Agent Bierce … pass on?”

The young doctor stared at Purvis, then bit his lip before saying, “I think you should talk to Dr. Stein. He’s in the room.” Then he pulled free of Purvis and ran down the hall as if he were in fear of his life.

Purvis paused for a moment, then entered the room. The pale, still form of Harry Bierce lay motionless on the bed, an intravenous line snaking into each arm. Two doctors and two nurses hovered over Bierce. “Which one of you is Stein?” asked Purvis with more harshness than he had intended.

They all turned to look at Purvis. The elder of the two doctors said, “I am Stein.”

“What is happening to Agent Bierce? I was told four hours ago that he had only a couple of hours to live.”

The balding Stein turned to his colleagues, and in a voice tinged with a German accent said, “Please leave for a few minutes.” They glanced at each other, but filed out of the room wordlessly. Stein closed the door behind them and turned to face Purvis.

“Frankly, this case baffles me, Agent Purvis. When I initially examined Agent Bierce, I was amazed he had lived to reach the hospital. X-rays confirmed that the bullet had transited the left lung, exiting under his shoulder blade. It had nicked his pulmonary artery; internal bleeding was extensive. Frankly, all I did was stop the external bleeding and administer morphine, so that he would be comfortable while he died—yet, he has not died. In fact….”

Dr. Stein closed his eyes for a moment and reeled. Purvis reached forward to catch him, but the doctor’s eyes flew open and he steadied himself. “Pardon, but what I have witnessed has shaken my belief in medical science.” The doctor hesitated, as if deciding how to say what he’d seen. “When I changed his bandages, the entry and exit holes were almost completely … healed. And it seems unlikely that any substantial scar tissue will form.” He shook his head, still in disbelief, and spoke as if trying to convince himself. “His internal bleeding appears to have stopped. Even less believable, his collapsed left lung has spontaneously re-inflated. Of course, I ordered additional X-rays.” Then looking directly at the agent, he said, “You know, Agent Purvis, if I were not a man of science, I would say that this man isn’t—”

“Isn’t what, doctor?” asked a thin but firm voice from the bed.

Dr. Stein jerked his attention over to the bed. Harry Bierce’s sky-blue eyes stared at him calmly. Visibly swallowing, Stein replied, “It’s not important, Agent Bierce. What is important is that you are making an astonishing recovery.”

“Harry, this is amazing!” exclaimed Purvis, moving closer to the bed. “Dr. Stein and his staff have performed a miracle!”

“We cannot take the all the credit,” said Stein. “Much of this recovery seems due to a remarkable immune system. When you are better, I would like to run a number of tests on you.”

Bierce’s attention had drifted from the doctor. Seemingly to himself, he murmured, “Still here … still here … still not done.” He looked back at Stein and said, “Doctor, I would be very grateful for a glass of water.”

“Of course.” Stein opened the door to the room and barked some orders.

“Harry, I’m damned glad to see you conscious,” said Purvis. “I’ve had to bury too many Bureau men. Didn’t want you to be another.”

“Did you capture Dillinger?”

Purvis contorted his face as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “No, and I blame myself. Should have had more men waiting outside the park. We had the place locked up tighter than a Scotsman’s wallet, but it was five minutes too late. Looks like his love of baseball paid off. He seems to have known every nook and cranny at Wrigley Field.”

Bierce nodded slightly. “The woman get away as well?”

“Yeah, the bitch as well. Don’t worry, Harry. They’re dead—they just don’t know it yet.”

“I need them alive!” snapped Bierce with surprising emphasis for someone who’d just been so close to death’s door. “Take them alive, and bring them to me. I need your word, Purvis.”

With visible reluctance Purvis said, “If I can do it with no risk to my men, I promise. But I’m not letting Dillinger kill any of my men. I’m not going to bury another comrade!”

“Fair enough.”

Stein re-entered the room with a carafe and a glass. “Here is your water, Agent Bierce.”

“Excellent, Doctor. Also, could you have some food brought to me? I’m famished. Preferably steak, as rare as possible.”

Ana Cumpanas was lingering on one of Chicago’s busiest thoroughfares, window shopping the various dresses on display in various shops, painfully aware that she could afford none of them. Dillinger had barely given her enough cash to pay for a meal before he had taken off early in the morning. Her clothes that she had worn the day before were decent enough in appearance, but they were the only clothes she had. She had just decided she was going to have to beg Dillinger for enough cash for a couple of decent dresses when a rough hand nearly jerked her left arm out of its socket. Simultaneously, she felt the barrel of a gun jabbed into her lower back.

“Take it easy sister,” said a man in a low, gravelly voice. “Federal agent. Damned if Purvis wasn’t right, that you would still be wearing that orange number. Stands out like a socialite in a strip joint.”

Harry Bierce was sitting up in bed, to the utter amazement of Melvin Purvis, Doctor Stein, and various nurses. They all knew the wound he had sustained was fatal, and that if Bierce had pulled through at all, he should have been crippled for life. Yet the latest set of X-rays confirmed what the doctor had suspected—the internal bleeding was not only stopped, all the blood enmassed in his gut had been completely reabsorbed into the agent’s body. Although it was harder to interpret the soft tissue of the lung, it seemed, too, that the damage was healing itself with inhuman speed. All those around him, save Stein, felt an increasing uneasiness in the presence of Bierce. As to Dr. Stein, he occasionally muttered in his native German tongue which often contained the words “Nobel Prize.”

Bierce handed the seated Purvis his food tray. Purvis grimaced as he placed it on the table to his right, the bloody residue on the plate disgusting him almost as much as had the sight of Bierce devouring the near-raw steak. Sated for the moment, Bierce leaned back into his pillows with a sigh. He then turned his attention to Purvis.

“Not the slightest clue as to Dillinger’s whereabouts?”

Purvis shook his head dejectedly. “None. And we’re fairly sure that he hasn’t left Chicago. We’re watching the airport, the train stations, and the major roads out of town. With his face in all the newspapers, we should trace him down soon. It’s only a matter of time.”

Bierce removed the gold-rimmed glasses from his face and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We do not have time, Purvis, three days at the most. If he is not apprehended within that time, there could be the most horrific consequences.”

“I keep hearing refer to such ‘consequences’. What the hell are those consequences?”

“I have told you before, I am not at liberty to reveal—”

There was a commotion at the room’s door. A thickly built agent entered, roughly shoving Ana Cumpanas before him.

“Here she is, Mr. Purvis. We should be able to shake something about Dillinger out of the bitch.”

Frowning, Purvis asked, “Why did you bring her here? Why didn’t you throw her in the can?”

The agent shrugged. “Well, Mr. Purvis, you know that the Bureau don’t have its own jail in Chicago. Chicago police run the jails here, and I don’t trust them as far as I can throw them. Thought you might have a quiet place where we could put the questions to her, with no one to interfere or complain if the questioning gets a little … loud.”

At that, all the medical staff exited the room quickly, not wanting to know the rest.

Cumpanas paled at the last comment. Purvis thought it over, and then nodded. “Right. The Bureau has a safe-house over in Cicero. We’ll take her there and get to work on her.”

Surprisingly, Bierce said, “I would prefer if you leave her with me. I have errands I need to send someone on, and she will do as well as another.”

Purvis’ eyes narrowed to slits. “Have you lost your mind, Bierce? This is the whore who ruined our bust on Dillinger, not to mention got you shot!”

Bierce turned his attention to Cumpanas. “You love John Dillinger, don’t you?”

Cumpanas lifted her face and for the first time looked Bierce in the eyes. “I did. I still do, I think. People outside my profession think we are not capable of love, but we are … sometimes. But Johnnie does not love me. I see that now. I gave him warning so he could get away, but he dragged me along so he could use me as a shield. Then he used that pregnant woman as a shield, then he fires into crowd, where if he missed you, he maybe would kill some good man or woman or child who were there only to see game. I knew him to be bad man, but didn’t care. But he is worse than a bad man—and he does not love me.”

Bierce replied to her in what was for him a surprisingly gentle voice. “Mrs. Cumpanas, if John Dillinger is not stopped, at least one other man will die. A good man, on which many other good people rely. Can I count on you to help us catch him?”

She waited for a long moment, then said, “You promise not to kill Johnnie?”

“Yes. I need him alive.”

“Then I’ll help, but with one condition: you let me stay in this country. I do not want to go back to Roumania.”

Bierce gave a short, barking laugh. “Yes, I imagine not. You have my word.”

Through gritted teeth Melvin Purvis swore creatively and at length. Then he stood and growled, “All right, Bierce, it’s on your head.” Then he and the other agent stomped out of the hospital room.

Bierce laughed again as the men left. “Mrs. Cumpanas, I assume that Dillinger only visits you irregularly, and does not care much where you go when he isn’t around?”

“That’s Johnnie.”

“Very well. Please reach into the bedside table drawer and hand me my wallet.”

Cumpanas did so. Bierce extracted a hundred dollar bill and handed it to her.

“I’m afraid that my clothes were ruined by my last encounter with Mr. Dillinger. I will need something presentable for when I leave here. Go to the Brooks Brothers store and buy me a suit and shirts. Size 36 short, I believe; it will be close enough. Dark blue, pinstriped, double breasted. Come back when it is safe to do so.”

Cumpanas looked strangely at Bierce, then rose, tucked the bill in her purse, and left the room without a word, just before the bustling Dr. Stein entered, charts and X-ray plates in his arms.

“Dr. Stein.”

“I would like to run a few more tests.”

Bierce shrugged. “No need. I should be ready to leave in about two days.”

“Oh surely not, Mr. Bierce, surely not. You have miraculously survived being shot through the lung. We cannot afford for you to being released early, only to relapse. Now, let us see the chest wound. We do not want an infection to develop.”

Dr. Stein placed his bundle of charts and X-rays on the table, then laid out a small pair of scissors, bandages, and a bottle of iodine. Without asking permission, he drew back the top of Bierce’s hospital gown, to expose the chest bandage. Swiftly he loosened it with the scissors and carefully drew it back. Then he shuddered, literally hissed, and drew back. His widened eyes focused on where there should have been a bloody, jagged hole drilled deep into Bierce’s chest. Instead, the doctor was looking at an expanse of smooth, healthy skin, with only the slightest impression of a dent in the middle of his torso. Wordlessly, he looked at Bierce, who was smiling in a way that disturbed the doctor.

“I heal rather fast, Dr. Stein.”

The following morning one of Chicago’s notorious summer heat waves clamped down on the Windy City. By ten o’clock, both temperature and humidity were in the nineties. Ana Cumpanas’s orange dress was light, but it was already soaked with sweat. As she entered the hospital, struggling with the clumsy parcels she was carrying, she had hoped to find it was one of the few buildings in the city that had the new-fangled air conditioning. Her hopes were immediately thwarted. If anything, it was hotter and more humid than outside. She passed by sweating, red-faced doctors and nurses in the corridors, too miserable to pay her any attention. As she came up to the door of Bierce’s room, she could hear him in quiet conversation with Melvin Purvis. She hesitated, not wanting to go in while the unsympathetic Purvis was there, but Bierce noticed her in the doorway.

Waving cheerfully, he called out, “Come in, Mrs. Cumpanas, come in.”

She entered the room, keeping her eyes carefully on the floor. “I don’t want to disturb you while you discuss police things.”

The haggard-looking Purvis, tie loosened, jacket slung across his shoulder to imperfectly conceal his large Colt automatic, rose wearily to his feet. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve been sweeping every street, nightclub, and whorehouse for your boyfriend—nothing. Coming up with jack.”

Cumpanas continued to look at the floor. She would have much preferred to tell her news to Bierce alone. “Mr. Agent Purvis, I think I know how you can capture Johnnie alive tonight.”

Immediately Purvis’ exhausted eyes came alive. Cumpanas continued. “He called me. Johnnie wants to leave town, but not for two days. He says the big job must take place in the next two days, so that we have money to live like royalty overseas. He wants us to stay apart until we leave, except for tonight. He says he needs to relax, so he and I should meet at Biograph Theater. It’s air conditioned, and he says we will be able to relax most of night there.”

Purvis looked inquisitively at Bierce, who said, “This could work much better than trying to intercept Dillinger at Mrs. Cumpanas’. He will be especially careful now, and will just disappear if he so much as smells a Federal agent. It would be almost impossible to hide our presence from him around an apartment building with relatively few people coming and going. Whereas, on a crowded street filled with theater goers, we should have an excellent chance.”

Bierce turned his attention to Cumpanas. “Will you do it? Will you lead Johnnie into our trap?”

She hesitated slightly before she nodded. “Yes, if you keep them from sending me to Roumania. I cannot go back there. I cannot.”

Purvis shrugged. “Wear that red number tonight. It’ll make it easier for my boys to see you.”

“It’s orange, Mr. Purvis.”

“Whatever. Stands out like a drunk at a society ball. Anyway, what film will be playing?”

“Manhattan Melodrama. It’s a Clark Gable movie.”

“I’ve seen it, not bad. That Gable guy has a future in front of him in the movies.” Purvis narrowed his eyes and gave Cumpanas a cold sneer. “Don’t try to rabbit on us tonight. Bierce needs Dillinger alive. You, he doesn’t.” With a nod to Bierce, Purvis strode purposively out of the room.

After a moment, Cumpanas spoke in a low voice, “I am scared, Mr. Bierce. I think without you there, that man will kill me tonight.”

“Then I better be there tonight.” With only the slightest of groans, Bierce sat up and twisted his legs so that his feet rested on the floor.

“Mr. Bierce! You cannot get out of bed! It will be weeks, many weeks before your wound heals.”

“I heal quickly, Mrs. Cumpanas,” Bierce replied as he tentatively stretched his arms. He slowly stood up. “Now, let us try on the clothes you were kind enough to buy for me.”

Slowly, with help of a rather intimate nature from Cumpanas, he put on his new clothing. Walking slowly, Bierce approached the small mirror over the sink, looked at himself, and grimaced.

“Not a very good fit. Nothing off the rack seems to be exactly the right size for me. Well, it will have to do.”

“Nonsense,” replied Cumpanas. “Take off coat and pants. I fix.” To Bierce’s amazement, Cumpanas took out of one of the shopping bags what appeared to be a complete set of tailoring implements. Amazement turning to amusement, he took off the suit and handed it to Cumpanas. He sat at the foot of the bed, watching Cumpanas work with amazing speed, stopping only occasionally to whip out a tape measure and hold it steadily against some part of Bierce’s anatomy. In less than an hour she was done.

“Here. This is much better. Try it on.”

Bierce did as he was instructed. Inspecting himself in the mirror, he was astonished. The fit was perfect, as good as any Brooks Brothers he had ever owned.

“Marvelous, Miss Cumpanas. You will make some lucky man a happy husband someday.”

Her features clouded. “I had husband once. He drank away all the money then sold me to whorehouse.”

Instantly, Bierce stepped forward and took her hands into his. “I apologize deeply, Mrs. Cumpanas. It was wrong for me to jest about your personal life when it is obvious it has not been a happy one. May I ask your forgiveness?”

“It’s all right. You meant no harm.” Then, acting oddly shy for one in her profession, she asked, “You have wife, Mr. Bierce?”

He gently released her hands. “I did. She died of a cancer of the uterus some years ago. I was with her to the end. Never had I seen such bravery, in man or woman.” He paused, then voice lowered almost to a whisper said, “She looked much like you, at least at a distance. For a moment—just a moment—when I first saw you, I thought you were her.”

Cumpanas was not used to the relations between man and woman being about anything but animal sex. “I see that you loved her very much.”

With a catch in his voice, he replied, “I loved her more than my life.” His eyes seemed to glisten. Then shaking his head he said, “You should go and meet up with Dillinger. I promise I will be there tonight to make sure Mr. Purvis behaves himself.”

She nodded and left the room. Bierce went to the room’s small closet and retrieved his Colt .45 and its holster. Having secured the holster, he removed the magazine—seven in the mag, one in the barrel—enough to deal with anything he was likely to meet. He slammed the magazine into the butt of the weapon and holstered it. He then removed his white Panama hat from the shelf within the closet and placed it levelly on his head. He stepped over to the mirror above the sink. An utterly expressionless face peered back at him.

Despite the heat and mugginess in the corridor that made his bald head glisten with moisture, Dr. Stein bustled along toward Agent Bierce’s room in a state of immense happiness. By pure good luck, a fortuitous opportunity had fallen into his hands when Harry Bierce had been brought to his hospital. It was not that his body’s defenses were unusual, they were absolutely unprecedented! The man healed at an inconceivable rate from what should have been a fatal injury. There was not the slightest sign of infection that almost always accompanied serious gunshot wounds. There was something unique in the man’s immune system, something, that if he could discover what it was, would save millions of lives—and most notably—win him the Nobel Prize. No more struggling endless hours in obscurity with a procession of routine injuries and illnesses. He would be famous, a guest of honor at countless conferences, a tenured professor at an Ivy League university. The whole world would open up to him. All he needed were additional X-rays and blood tests to help unlock the secret hiding within the body of Agent Harry Bierce!

The doctor paraded into Bierce’s room, only to see a young nurse changing the sheets on the bed.

“Where is patient Bierce?” he yelled at the young woman.

Eyes wide with concern, she replied, “Why, he checked himself out not thirty minutes ago, Dr. Stein. I thought you knew.”

Without another word, Stein spun on his heels and started running for the elevator. He prayed Bierce was being delayed in settling his bill at the front desk. But as he reached the elevator, he pulled up short, nostrils flaring. Smoke, he thought. Fire? Then the fire alarms began to clang, the sound seeming to come from the corridor leading to his office. Stein ran for all he was worth. As he came within sight of his office, the alarm stopped. Without immediately understanding its significance, Stein noticed that the door to his office was ajar, although he could have sworn he had locked it. One orderly was holding an emergency hose, spraying it into a metal waste can that was spewing black smoke and ash. Another orderly had been engaged in stopping the blaring alarm. He turned and saw Dr. Stein.

“Sorry, sir, seems it was some kind of nasty prank. That trash bin was filled with files, records, X-ray plates. Someone placed it in the middle of the room here and set it alight. At least they seem to have taken care to prevent the fire from spreading, since the can was metal, and where it was placed, the fire was unlikely to spread any further.”

The other orderly turned off his hose. Most of the contents in the can were utterly destroyed, all script unreadable—except one plate. Dr. Stein bent over to get a closer look at the Xray. Scrawled along the edge—Bierce, H.

Cumpanas waited uneasily outside the Biograph Theater, all too aware there were armed Federal agents scattered in the crowds of the street. Half of her worried that Dillinger would not show up, the other half feared he would.

Then, from behind her she heard a voice call to her, “Hey, Ana!” With a mixture of emotions she whirled around, only to receive an unexpected shock. It was indeed Johnnie, waiving at her with his right hand, but his left hand firmly encircled the waist of a young, bleached-blonde woman.

A wave of iciness rushed over Cumpanas. “Who is your … friend?”

“Polly Hamilton,” replied Dillinger easily. “I’m surprised you two haven’t met before, being in the same business. Anyway, it’s her place where I’ve been hiding out since your place seemed too hot. The bulls know I have a connection with you and might be watching your place, but they know nothing of dear Polly and me.”

“Pleased ta meetcha,” responded Polly, chomping a wad of gum. A woman of indeterminate years, and a few pounds heavier than she should have been, she wrapped her right arm around Dillinger’s waist possessively. She smiled, but coldly surveyed Cumpanas.

“Thought I’d give her a treat as well, for taking such good care of me,” said Dillinger charmingly. He came up to Cumpanas, pecked her on the cheek, and confidently slid his free arm around her waist. “Let’s go in.”

Across the street in the entrance to an alley, Melvin Purvis stood, twiddling a cigar in his fingers. He briefly considered lighting it, which would signal his deputy Charles Winstead and the other agents to move in. Instead, Purvis decided to wait. If he gave the signal now, Dillinger would likely retreat into the darkened theater full of innocent bystanders. Best to wait until he emerged. Purvis placed the cigar back in his coat pocket. The movie wouldn’t be that long.

“Buck-fifty, mac,” said the cigar-chewing cabbie. Harry Bierce, eyes already locked on the garish lights of the Biograph, handed him two dollars and muttered, “Keep the change.” He walked slowly toward the theater, the pains in his chest telling him that he needed more time to recuperate. Determined, he locked the pain away into a small compartment in the back of his mind. Something he had learned how to do many years before. Tomorrow, Bierce thought, the President would be arriving by train, and over the next few days Roosevelt would be attending a number of very public events. Dillinger must be apprehended, and he must give the evidence that would bring Huey Long to justice.

Bierce caught sight of a narrow alley just to the left of Biograph’s box office and slowly made his way to its entrance. As he settled into position, he noticed a wide-eyed Purvis staring at him from across the street, obviously shocked to see the wounded Bierce present for this dangerous takedown. Bierce smiled, gave Purvis a military salute, and sank back into the shadows.

The wait was less than ninety minutes, but of course seemed much, much longer to the keyed up Federal agents—except for Harry Bierce, who had patiently endured far longer lookouts in his varied career. Then the wait was over, a thickening crowd of happily chatting moviegoers poured out of the cooled recesses of the Biograph into the hot mugginess of a Chicago summer night.

Across the street, Purvis saw a tall man exit, each arm around a woman. Purvis could not quite recognize Dillinger, but he could definitely recognize Cumpanas’s dress. Muttering “Don’t give a damn what she says, it’s red, not orange,” he jammed the cigar into his mouth, ignited a wooden match with his thumb, and lit the stogie. His keyed-up agents had been watching, and moved into action.

Dillinger was puzzled by Ana’s mood. The movie had been excellent, the air-conditioning a heavenly relief from the sticky hot air of Chicago. Yet in contrast to Polly’s happy chattering, Ana was as silent as a stone. He would have to shake her out of her mood because he had plans for the three of them when they got back to Polly’s place.

Like the flick of a switch, Dillinger’s sixth sense for danger kicked in. He looked around wildly until he saw several men hurrying across the street toward him. Flinging his escorts aside, he rabbited to the alley on the left of the Biograph. Surprised, he skidded to a stop before a small man holding a big Colt .45 automatic. In an instant he recognized him as the G-man he had shot at Wrigley Field. The man who shouldn’t be alive, much less holding a gun on him.

“Federal agent. Raise your hands, Mr. Dillinger. You are under arrest.”

Instantly Dillinger realized from the sheen of sweat on the man’s forehead, the slight shakiness of the gun that he held, and the stiff way that he positioned his body, the man was sick from the wound he’d inflicted upon him, and would unlikely be able to respond quickly. Swift as a mongoose, Dillinger reached under his loose white shirt and produced an automatic. Three shots rang out.

Bierce stepped back, astonished by the speed of the criminal’s draw, along with the flecks of blood and bits of brain matter spattered on his gun and hand. Staring at the crater of an exit wound just under Dillinger’s left eye, Bierce watched, as if in slow motion, the criminal’s nerveless hand dropped the pistol to the ground. A moment later, the gangster’s body collapsed on top of the gun, and remained there. Unmoving. Bierce, still motionless, heard rapidly approaching footsteps.

“Agent Bierce, are you all right?” Bierce now focused his attention on Agent Charles Winstead, who rushed toward him, a look of concern on his face. In his hand, the agent held a smoking Smith & Wesson revolver.

Bierce regained his composure. “Yes, I’m quite uninjured,” Bierce replied, removing a large handkerchief from his pocket. “This,” he said as he wiped the gore from his face, “compliments of the late Mr. Dillinger.”

Purvis ran up, followed by several other agents. “You idiot, Winstead! We needed him alive!”

Bierce looked at the gory handkerchief in his hand, and impulsively put a corner in his mouth, tasting Dillinger’s blood, a look of obscene pleasure crossing his face. Before anyone could notice, his expression changed to one of self-loathing and guilt. He looked with disgust at the cloth in his hand, suddenly throwing it on the ground.

“It is not Agent Winstead’s fault. In fact, I owe him my life. I had intended to confront Dillinger, and if he resisted, shoot to wound. Unbelievably, he was quicker than I had imagined, and my reflexes were slowed by my injury more than I supposed. If we could not take him, we had to kill him. I am just sorry I played such an inadequate role tonight.”

“Inadequate!” exclaimed Purvis. “I didn’t expect you at all. And if you hadn’t been here, he might have made an escape down this narrow little alley, which was the only one I hadn’t blocked. I’m a goddamn idiot! We only got this murdering bastard because of you.”

Police sirens wailed in the distance. A crowd had gathered at the entrance to the alley. In some mystic kind of osmosis, they seemed to all know that the body was that of John Dillinger. Several of the more ghoulish were darting forward to dip their handkerchiefs in the growing pool of blood surrounding Dillinger’s head. This stopped for the moment when Purvis impulsively kicked one of the souvenir seekers in the head. Bierce glanced at the alley entrance. Polly Hamilton was wailing uncontrollably, tears smearing her thick makeup. Ana Cumpanas stared stonily at Bierce, her eyes completely dry.