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girl who had to be Polly Hamilton—and John Dillinger. Sage was wearing the orange skirt and tilted white hat, just as Zarkovich said she would. Dillinger wore a straw boater. Ralph Brown saw them, too. The moment the three passed, Brown got out of the car and trotted off to call Cowley. As he did, Dillinger walked up to the ticket booth and slid the girl behind the glass several bills. Stunned that he was finally laying eyes on the man he had sought so long, Purvis studied Dillinger in profile, the gray slacks, the clean white shirt, the dark glasses. He wore no jacket; that was good. It meant he had one gun at most. And he was alone. No Nelson, no Van Meter.

It was happening. As Purvis watched from the car twenty feet away, Dillinger bought his tickets and guided the women into the theater. Inside it was crowded, but Dillinger found two seats in the third row; Sage took a seat alone in the back. Dillinger snuggled up to Hamilton and in a stage whisper asked for a kiss; she obliged. Later she would say Dillinger was unusually amorous that evening.

Outside, Purvis stepped from the car, walked to the ticket booth, and purchased a ticket of his own. He shuffled in with the crowd. Inside the theater, Purvis scanned the seats. The place was jammed. If he could find three seats behind Dillinger’s, he thought, maybe they could grab him during the show. Purvis walked down one aisle, then another. He couldn’t see more than a handful of empty seats. He couldn’t see Dillinger. They would have to take him when he left.

Purvis returned to the car. Brown said Cowley’s men were on their way. The two agents began to get nervous. What if Dillinger left before the others arrived? What if he sensed something awry and left early? They would have to take him themselves. Purvis studied his watch. He got out and talked to the girl selling tickets. She said the movie lasted ninety-four minutes. With newsreels and trailers, it would let out in two hours and four minutes. If he stayed for the entire movie, Dillinger should exit the theater around 10:35.

Purvis grew more anxious as the minutes ticked by. Not for another twenty minutes did Purvis spy the first agents taking positions on the street around him. He and Brown exchanged relieved glances. When Cowley arrived, he and Purvis spoke in low tones, discussing how to position the men. They put the two East Chicago cops, Stretch and Sopsic, on the sidewalk north of the theater entrance. When Charles Winstead arrived from the Marbro, he and Clarence Hurt took positions on the south side, the direction Dillinger would take if he returned to Sage’s apartment. Cowley fanned the other men in pairs up and down the street. The Biograph had two side exits and one in the rear. The side exits opened into an alley that could be used as a shortcut to Sage’s apartment. Cowley put four men in the alley.

By 9:30 everyone was in place. Standing in a doorway beside the box office with Agents Winstead and Hurt, Purvis bit the end off his cigar and chewed it. His throat was parched, but he couldn’t go for a drink of water. When he stood in one place, he realized his knees were trembling. Ten o’clock came and went. No one left the theater.

Tension rose as the end of the movie neared. All along the street agents shifted their weight, keeping their eyes down, trying to look inconspicuous. It didn’t work. Suddenly, at 10:20, two sedans pulled into the alley beside the theater. Several men jumped out, guns in their hands. One of the men leveled a sawed-off shotgun.

“Police!” one of the men yelled. “Put up your hands!”

One of the agents, E. J. Conroy, flipped out his badge. Each of the three other FBI men did the same. “Federal agents,” Conroy said. Conroy explained they were on a stakeout. When one of the cops asked who they were after, Conroy refused to say. One of the officers explained they were responding to a report of suspicious men hanging around the theater. The cop asked if they could help. Conroy said no and asked the cops to leave. Grudgingly, they piled back into their squad cars and drove off.

Ten