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He stood there swaying, apparently half out on his feet, and Dillinger moved in fast. Rojas took a quick step backwards, then smashed his bull fist savagely into Dillinger's face.

Dillinger lay on the floor for a moment, his head singing from the force of the blow. Rivera laughed and as Dillinger started to his feet, Rojas delivered a powerful blow to his stomach and hit him again on the cheek, splitting the flesh to the bone.

Rojas came in fast, boot raised to stamp down on the unprotected face. Dillinger grabbed for the foot and twisted, and Rojas fell heavily across him. They rolled over and over, and as they crashed against the wall, Dillinger pulled himself on top. He reached for Rojas's throat and was suddenly thrown backwards.

As Dillinger scrambled to his feet, Rojas rose to meet him. Dillinger feinted with his left and smashed his right fist against the Mexican's mouth, splitting the lips so that blood spurted. He moved out of range, then feinted again and delivered the same terrible blow. As he stepped back, his foot slipped and Rojas got home a stunning punch to the forehead that sent Dillinger staggering back against the open window to the boardwalk outside and he almost went over the low sill. As he straightened up, Rojas lurched forward again. Dillinger ducked, twisted a shoulder inwards and sent the Mexican over his hip through the open window in a savage cross-buttock.

Dillinger scrambled across the sill, almost losing his balance, and arrived on the boardwalk as Rojas rose to his feet. Dillinger, enjoying the best fight he'd had since he was a kid, hit him with everything he had, full in the face, and Rojas went backwards into the street.

For a little while he lay there and Dillinger hung on to one of the posts that supported the porch. Slowly, the Mexican got to his feet. He swayed in the lamplight, his face a mask of blood, eyes burning with hate, and then his hand went round to the back of his belt. As he came forward, a knife gleamed dully.

Behind Rojas, old Nachita appeared from the darkness like a ghost. His hand moved in a single smooth motion and a knife thudded into the boardwalk at Dillinger's feet.

There was a mist before Dillinger's eyes and he felt as if he had little strength left in him. He picked up the knife and went toward Rojas, the knife held out in front of him.

He heard a voice say, his own voice like that of a stranger, 'Come on, you bastard. If that's the way you want it.'

Rojas, who had been prepared to fight knife to hands not knife to knife, stumbled away into the darkness.

Dillinger swung round, the power in him like a white-hot flame. They were all there on the boardwalk, looking at him strangely in the lamplight, fear on their faces. Rivera stood at the top of the steps and Dillinger went forward, the knife extended.

Rivera staggered back, almost losing his balance, and hurried into the hotel. Dillinger was aware of a grip of steel on his arm. Old Nachita took the knife from him, supporting him at the same time, and Rose appeared on the other side.

She was still crying and Dillinger couldn't understand why. As they led him forward, he frowned, desperately trying to concentrate, and then as they reached his room, Fallon appeared and got the door open, his face ablaze with excitement.

'Jesus, Johnny, I never seed anything like that in my whole damn life. You really took that big ox apart.'

'Johnny?' It was Rose's voice. 'I thought your name was Harry. Who are you?'

He turned to her voice, smiling foolishly, and tried to speak and then the lamp seemed to revolve into a spinning ball that grew smaller and smaller and finally disappeared into the darkness.

This time J. Edgar Hoover had only one operative standing in front of his desk. He'd just finished reading the man's report.

'You've got a pretty good fix on him.

The man said, 'He didn't do the California job or the Chicago job. The woman we picked up in Kansas swore she'd seen a white Chevvy