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“Identify yourself!” Purvis shouted.

The man on the ground groaned.

“John,” he said.

“Hands up! Hands up!”

Purvis and Clegg shouted at the fallen man to come toward them. He ignored them. It was dark; at a distance of fifty feet, Purvis couldn’t see the man’s features clearly. He called for Agent Sam Hardy to run back and bring the third FBI car up the driveway, so they could shine headlights on the man. Hardy scrambled back to the car, but the keys were missing. The driver, Agent Arthur McLawhon, was out in the woods on the right. Hardy shouted for him to bring the keys. Precious minutes were lost until McLawhon finally appeared and handed over the keys. Hardy drove the car up the driveway.

When the headlights reached him everyone could see the fallen “John” wasn’t Dillinger. He was elderly, heavyset. Purvis shouted for him to come forward and surrender. The man seemed to oblige, rising to his feet. But then he staggered backward, fell heavily on his rump, took a flask out of his pocket, and took a deep swig. Purvis yelled for everyone to hold their fire.

The lodge was still. FBI men had taken up stations in the woods to the left and right, where they could see the beach at the back of the inn. Word was relayed from both positions: no one had gotten through. The elderly man stood, staggered onto the porch, and disappeared into the lodge. As Purvis and Clegg watched, unsure what to do, they could see the man inside, weaving past the windows.

Purvis was still trying to decide his next move when the headlights of a car swung into the driveway behind them. It drove right up behind the parked FBI cars. The two agents standing with Purvis, Carter Baum and Sam Hardy, called for the driver to identify himself. Suddenly the car leaped backward, rocketing down the driveway toward Highway 51. Baum opened fire with his submachine gun. Purvis ran after the car, firing at the tires and hitting the radiator. The car sped out of the driveway and disappeared into the darkness.

Purvis realized they were in a precarious position. Agents were spraying bullets at anything that moved, not having any idea who they were shooting at. Worried that one of his own men might be shot, Purvis called out for every agent on the grounds to shout out his identity and his position. As he did, Agent Hardy ran up. He said he could still see the headlights of the retreating car moving slowly out on the road behind them. Purvis told Hardy and two other agents to creep back through the woods to try and take it by surprise.

The three agents reached the end of Little Bohemia’s driveway at about the same time as the car. Again they called for the occupants to get out and identify themselves. Again the car sped away. All three men opened fire. There was a loud pop, a tire exploding. As the car disappeared down the highway, this time for good, they heard it running on one rim. There was no way to stop the car. In the rush to reach the lodge, no one had thought to arrange roadblocks. The local sheriff had no idea the FBI was even in his jurisdiction.

Back in the driveway, Inspector Rorer materialized from the left and discussed with Purvis and Clegg what to do. They had now fired on at least five different cars and people, and no one had a clue who a single one of their targets actually was. And now there was a sixth. By this point everyone could see a man sitting in the wounded Chevrolet coupe, its motor still running. Music could be heard; the car radio. Purvis called to the man in the car. He wasn’t moving.

Rorer was elected to reconnoiter the car. As Purvis covered him, Rorer dropped to his hands and knees and crawled to the Chevrolet. In the front seat he found a young man, his head drooped forward, his right chest and shoulder covered with blood. Rorer felt for a pulse; there was none. He reached over and switched off the radio and the motor, then slipped his hand into the man’s coat pocket and took his wallet. He returned to where Clegg and Purvis were standing