Stolen Away

The next day the house-to-house canvas began, without any success, and the suspect at Morrisville was viewed; but the suspect proved noticeably shorter than Nils, despite a strong resemblance. This day, too, ended around 2:30 A.M., and at 7:00 Curtis was hauled back to Hopewell.

“I wandered all morning around the grounds,” he said. “I was given the silent treatment, except for a few troopers who on the sly gave me a sympathetic comment or two. Some of the troopers seemed sore at Lindbergh for wanting to run the investigation himself. They said they should be at ‘headquarters,’ not in this ‘godforsaken place.’ I wasn’t given anything to eat. Finally a trooper passed the word to me: Schwarzkopf and Welch were planning to arrest me. I asked to talk to Lindbergh. Pretty soon he came out.”

Curtis had asked Lindbergh, “What’s this all about, my being arrested for ‘obstructing justice’?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” Lindbergh had said. “I do know that a phone number you said you called in Freeport, Long Island, did not check out.”

“What number?”

“Five-six-three-oh.”

“I said, five-six-four-oh. Colonel, I’ve been asking from the start that I be given the opportunity to consult my notes! I’ve been up day and night for practically the last ten days, and I can’t recall numbers like that—I’m not sure I could if I were rested!”

Lindbergh nodded, went into the house, didn’t come back.

“I wandered, and waited. Sat on the running board of Colonel Lindbergh’s car, feeling pretty goddamn low and dejected. Then something happened that should have been a warning flag, but I didn’t recognize it as such: Inspector Welch came by and was nice to me. It was hard to accept, this kindness from so cruel a man, but I grasped it, like a life jacket. He asked if I’d care to play a game of checkers. I said I’d like that. We played and he talked about what a great weight I must have on my mind.”

“And you admitted lying about seeing the ransom money,” I said.

“Yes,” Curtis said, nodded, lips tight across his teeth. “He trotted me inside and had me admit that to the Colonel. I did, and Lindbergh gave me a cold look, a look to kill that I will never forget. He nodded to Welch, who dragged me out of there. I was taken to Schwarzkopf’s office, where I made a statement adding this new fact. Then I was taken into the basement of the Lindbergh home, and the beatings began.”

They started at 10:00 in the evening, the beatings; ended at 4:30 A.M., when the final, most complete of the several statements he signed, he signed. Then he was left tied up in the dank basement laundry room. He was not yet under arrest, or even formally accused of any wrongdoing.

“The next morning, unshaven, in filthy clothes,” he said, lips trembling, “I was dragged into Colonel Lindbergh’s library. A court of arraignment was waiting—the justice of the peace was there, so was Breckinridge, Lindbergh, Wilson and Prosecutor Hauck. I was charged with obstructing justice and taken away to jail. I stayed there until the trial. I couldn’t afford the bail. My wife came and brought me a change of clothes.”

Evalyn believed him. The tears in her eyes said so.

I believed him, too. I knew all about cops beating confessions out of suspects—having been both a cop and a suspect, at various times.

But what was more important, I believed he’d been telling the truth all along: I didn’t know who exactly Sam, Hilda, Nils and the rest were…nor whether they were in on the kidnapping, or just interloping extortionists.

But I was convinced they existed.

“One thing I don’t understand,” Evalyn asked earnestly. “Why weren’t Admiral Burrage and Reverend Dobson-Peacock accused and brought to trial?”

“Admiral Burrage never had any direct contact with the gang,” Curtis said. He had calmed himself, but it was a surface calm, only. “Also, the Admiral’s friendship with Colonel Lindbergh protected him. His only public comment, incidentally, has been ‘no comment’—and he has never responded to my calls or letters.”

“What about Dobson-Peacock?” I asked.

“The Reverend refused to come to New Jersey for questioning,” Curtis said, “which was undoubtedly wise. His public stance was that I’d put one over on him—though he did have some contact with the kidnappers.”

“I’d like to talk to him.”

“I hope you’re prepared to travel, Mr. Heller,” Curtis said. He smiled but there was nothing happy about it. “Like Colonel Lindbergh, the Reverend resides in England, now.”

Evalyn and I exchanged looks of quiet frustration.

“What else can I tell you?” Curtis asked.

“What about the allegations,” Evalyn asked, gently, “that all this was a hoax you concocted to sell your story to the newspapers?”

“I did have a deal with the Herald-Tribune,” he said forth-rightly. “But it was contingent upon the recovery of the child. No money exchanged hands.”

It was time to take another tack.

“Did you ever hear of Max Greenberg,” I asked, “or Max Hassel?”