Stolen Away

But butler Ollie took sick—he became increasingly nervous, and troubled by internal pains; he survived an emergency operation for a perforated ulcer, then died four days later. His widow stayed in the Lindberghs’ employ, though her employers forever abandoned the unlucky Hopewell house, donating it to be a welfare center for children.

In mid-August, Anne Lindbergh gave her husband a second son. Lindy beseeched the press and public to allow the boy to “grow up normally”; at the Englewood estate, the cranky fox terrier Wahgoosh was made second-in-command to a surly police dog named Thor, who was known to shred the clothing and flesh of intruders. Kidnap threats against the infant were an everyday occurrence, the notes now requesting money to prevent a kidnapping; in one case kidnap notes and a ransom drop led to the arrest of two suspects—both of whom had alibis in the previous kidnapping, however.

There was something else, which struck me as very strange: when the name of the boy was finally released to the press, it turned out Anne and Charles had christened him “Jon.”

Even without the “h” out, that seemed a hell of a choice.

I quit the force and went into business for myself in December 1932. The Lindbergh case had long since become something I followed in the papers, like everybody else. I began to wonder if they’d ever find the kidnappers. If Capone had really been behind it—he was in the Atlanta pen, now, as Eliot predicted—I didn’t figure they ever would.

On the other hand, that ransom money was out there, and in 1933, the country went off the gold standard, meaning anybody with gold certificates had to turn them in by May first or face the legal consequences. That, thanks to Frank Wilson and Elmer Irey’s insistence on paying out the ransom in gold notes, ought to flush out the kidnappers.

Or the extortionists.

I continued to think it might have been an interloping group with inside info that had contacted Jafsie; with that kid buried in so half-ass a fashion, so near the estate, in woods that had been searched time and again, the kidnappers themselves seemed unlikely to risk going after any dough. They had fucked up that night, accidentally killing the kid maybe when the ladder broke, or when they were fleeing the house, and faded into the night and history.

At least, that was my theory. And when the gold notes were tracked, I’d be proven right or wrong.

A New York City dick named James Finn, a lieutenant, had been keeping in his Manhattan precinct office a large city map charting the path of the surfacing gold notes for over a year, when the gold-standard situation started crowding his map with pins.

I had never met Finn, but apparently he was in touch with Schwarzkopf and even Lindbergh in the early days—just another cop being kept at arm’s length.

Anyway, it was Finn who made the bust. September 19, 1933.

They only got one guy: a German carpenter in the Bronx. Following it from Chicago, in the papers, I figured Finn and the feds would soon shake the rest of the gang out of this Hauptmann guy.

The papers claimed he was Jafsie’s “Cemetery John.”

I had thought about calling Slim with my condolences, when I first heard about the body of his little boy turning up in those woods; but I figured I was the last person he’d want to hear from. I’d got very drunk, sitting by the phone, making my mind up, and got a little weepy, which was the rum talking.

Lindbergh called me, but better than two years later. Not long after they caught the kraut, in fact. A long-distance call so crackly it might have been from another planet, not New Jersey. On the other hand, my experiences in New Jersey led me to believe it just might be another planet.

“Nate,” Slim said, “I’ve been negligent in thanking you.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I wish I could have done more.”

“You wanted to. Sometimes…I wonder how things might be different, if I’d listened to you.”

“Not much. Frankly…if you’ll forgive my bluntness, Colonel, it’s obvious your son died the night of the kidnapping. Nothing we could have done differently would change that.”

“Those evil bastards would be in jail now.”

“Maybe. But this clown Hauptmann will cough up his accomplices. Wait and see.”

I heard him sigh. Then he said: “That’s what we’re counting on. I understand you’re in private practice, now.”

“That’s right. A-l Detective Agency. I’m the president. Also the janitor.”

He laughed. “Same old Nate. If I ever need a detective, I know who to call.”

“Right,” I said. “Frank Wilson.”

He laughed again, wished me well, and I wished him and Anne and their new son the same. And that was that.

It felt strange, sitting on the sidelines, after having been in the midst of this famous affair, early on. Not that I minded. Sometimes I thought about Lindbergh; fairly frequently I thought about Evalyn. Bittersweet memories.

Nonetheless, it was reassuring knowing that this case was behind me—that it was, in fact, virtually solved.

3

  THE LONE WOLF

MARCH 13–APRIL 4, 1936

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