Stolen Away

“Why the hell would Capone resort to unreliable rabble like this Wendel character and, of all people, Gaston Means?”

I gave him the same explanation I’d given Nitti: they were smart, savvy crooks, who were probably smart enough not to cross Capone, and who would make perfect fall guys. They could call out Capone’s name in court and everybody would just laugh.

“Means didn’t contact Evalyn McLean at first, you know,” I said. “He contacted Colonel M. Robert Guggenheim, and a prominent judge—this was in the earliest days of the case. He seems likely to have been truly attempting to become the intermediary, at the bidding of Capone. He’s a hell of a lot more likely go-between than Jafsie Condon!”

Wilson smiled.

“Now as for the kidnapping itself, disbarred lawyer Wendel—as I mentioned—has a client named Isidor Fisch. Fisch is a con man, fence and probable dope-smuggler…”

“Nate, pardon me, but we checked Fisch a hundred different ways. He was a harmless Jewish boy suffering from tuberculosis.”

“Frank, maybe you should’ve checked one hundred and one ways.” It was time to get tough. “I know you had a man in that spiritualist church of Marinelli’s…”

“One of the best undercover agents in the Unit. Pat O’Rourke.”

“I know O’Rourke, and he is a good man. But this time he didn’t do a good job. Are you aware that Fisch lived across the street from that spiritualist church?”

“Certainly,” he said, and shrugged dismissively.

That surprised me. “You did? Didn’t you find that significant?”

“Not particularly,” he said. “Fisch didn’t even meet Hauptmann until two years after the kidnapping. Just one of the many coincidental red herrings we were always running into on the case.”

I hardly knew how to respond to that brilliant piece of deductive thinking.

“Frank, you’re operating from the premise that Hauptmann is guilty,” I said, trying to maintain control, and stay reasonable. “Assuming that Hauptmann may not be guilty, then his not having met Fisch until two years after the crime speaks only of Hauptmann’s innocence.”

He made a small dismissive wave. “Well, for the sake of argument…but I can’t accept your characterizing Pat O’Rourke’s undercover work as anything but exceptional.”

“Oh, really? Then did you know Isidor Fisch was a member of that spiritualist church?”

His face remained impassive, but his eyes flickered.

“So was Oliver Whately. So was Violet Sharpe.”

He sat forward. “Are you certain?”

“I have witnesses who say so. And if you send some of these famous Washington G-men or T-men into the field checking, I think you’ll come up with a lot more witnesses. Can I continue my scenario?”

He nodded; his expression was grave.

“Paul Wendel uses his client Fisch to arrange for Violet and Ollie to help, in various ways. I think Violet’s a dupe, actually, providing inside information possibly through a boyfriend, while Ollie is, on the other hand, an active participant in the scheme. He is, in fact, the prime inside accomplice. The night of the kidnapping, he probably handed the baby either down the ladder or out the front door to one of Hassel and Greenberg’s cronies. There’s a possibility these bootleggers have a connection to the servants that can be traced, even at this late date, because I understand deliveries of beer and booze were made to Whately and others.”

Wilson wore a faint humorless smirk. “I suppose Whately’s role explains why the dog didn’t bark.”

“Oh, yes and then some—you see, Whately looked after Wahgoosh. He in fact brought the dog into the household, raised it, trained it. There’s no way around it, Frank, it has to be said…”

“Oh, Heller, please don’t.”

I shrugged and smiled. “The butler did it.”

“You had to say it.”

“I was born to say it. Frank, the child was spirited away by these bootleggers, Hassel and Greenberg’s boys, and possibly along for the ride was a Capone representative.”

“Surely not Ricca.”

“No. But I have a hunch this is where Bob Conroy was positioned; he’d been on the outs with Capone, and maybe was willing to do almost anything to get back into the boss’s good graces…setting himself up, unwittingly of course, to be Capone’s fall guy.”

“Conroy is the guy that Capone was offering up, all right,” Wilson admitted. “Go on.”

“The first note, planted in the nursery, was written by Wendel; his background, incidentally, is German, although he’s apparently at least second-generation. The note was not really for ransom purposes, but merely to lead Lindbergh and the authorities into thinking the kidnapping was for real.”

“So that Capone could ride in on his white horse,” Wilson said, playing along, “and give us the kidnapper—Conroy—and the kid back.”

“And get his freedom. Right. Meanwhile, this weasel Fisch tries to interlope; he knows nobody’s really going after any ransom, so decides it’s his for the asking. He sends a second note, patterning it on the original.”

Wilson’s expression was openly skeptical. “How would he have access to that?”