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“I need a car,” Dillinger told Blunk.

“There’s lots of cars,” Blunk said. “Take what you want.”

They walked up to a thirty-year-old mechanic named Edwin Saager, who was hunched over an engine.

“What’s the fastest car in the garage?” Dillinger asked.

Saager noticed the submachine gun hanging at Dillinger’s side. He thought he was a deputy. “The V-8 Ford,” he said, returning his attention to the engine. Dillinger raised the gun and said, “Get going.” Saager was looking at the engine. He didn’t seem to hear.

“Get going,” Dillinger repeated.

Saager turned and saw the gun pointed at him.

“He means business,” Blunk said. Finally Saager realized this was no deputy. Dillinger led the two men to the V-8 Ford, which was also owned by Sheriff Holley. “You want me to drive?” Saager asked.

“No, Mr. Blunk will do the driving,” Dillinger said. “You get in the backseat.” Youngblood slid in beside him. Dillinger sat in the front seat, the submachine gun across his lap.

“Someone open the doors!” Dillinger shouted. A mechanic pressed the air-compressor button and one of the garage’s two rear doors opened. Blunk drove the Ford out of the garage onto Joliet Street, then headed west through city streets in the rain. Dillinger told him to keep his speed down. Crossing the town square, Blunk narrowly avoided a collision with another car; Dillinger told him if they had a wreck, he would be the first to die. At the edge of town, Dillinger said to keep heading west, keeping to dirt roads. A few minutes later they crossed the state line into Illinois. As he had at Racine four months earlier, Dillinger turned buoyant as they entered the countryside. He began singing, warbling a rendition of “The Last Roundup,” repeating the phrase “Get along, little dogies, get along.”

The singing stopped when the Ford slid off the muddy road into a ditch. After ten minutes Youngblood and Saager managed to push it back onto the road. Saager then took a half hour putting chains on the car. As they continued driving west, Dillinger turned chatty. Blunk asked if he planned to rescue Pierpont and the others in Ohio.

“They’d do the same for me,” Dillinger said.

Outside the town of Peotone, Dillinger began looking for telephone wires. When he didn’t see any, he had Blunk stop the car and get out. He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket, peeling off four singles. He offered them to Blunk, who shook his head. Dillinger offered the money to Saager, and Saager took it.

“It’s no use for me to tell you fellas not to get in touch with the police, ’cause I know you will,” Dillinger said.

“Put yourself in our positions and you would do the same as we’ll do,” Blunk said.

“I could make you shut up now if I wanted to,” Dillinger said, brandishing the Thompson gun.

“I don’t think you would kill a man without giving him a chance,” Blunk said.

Dillinger grinned, slid behind the wheel of the Ford, and drove off. Blunk and Saager stood in the mud, watching Dillinger disappear toward Chicago.1 By noon he would be the most wanted man in the country.

Lou Piquett and his investigator, Art O’Leary, arrived at the lawyer’s office that morning, waiting for news. Billie Frechette showed up around eight. Piquett’s gofer, an ex-con named Meyer Bogue, drifted in later. They were sitting around at 9:30, already drinking gin, when Piquett’s nephew telephoned to say he had just heard of Dillinger’s escape on the radio.2 “Seems that everything worked out,” Piquett announced as he put down the phone. “I think I’ll call Warden Baker.”

Piquett dialed Crown Point. “Hello! Mr. Baker? This is Lou Piquett, in Chicago.”

“Yes hello, Lou,” Baker said.

“What truth is there in the radio report that my client just broke jail?”

“That’s right. He just left us.”

“Anybody killed or hurt?”

“No, nobody was hurt.”

“That’s good, I’m glad to hear that,” Piquett said. “Say, he didn’t leave a forwarding address, did he?”

When Piquett put down the phone he said, “By golly it’s true! He got away!”

Billie let out a little yell and thrust her face into her hands. “Poor Johnnie!