Stolen Away

The brick terra-cotta six-flat on Sheridan looked just the same; it might have been yesterday I stood before it, not four years. Even the day was the same: gray, cold, the air flecked with icy snow. I stood on the sidewalk, studying the six-flat like a clue I couldn’t decipher.

Only I had deciphered it.

This was Tuesday, late Tuesday morning—almost twenty-four hours to the minute from when I saw Bernice Conroy’s mug-shot picture in Frank Wilson’s office in Washington. I had taken the train in the afternoon, got into Chicago in the middle of the night, slept like a baby in my Murphy bed in my office, till about an hour ago.

On the train, I hadn’t slept a wink. I lay in my Pullman upper with my eyes wide open and staring, slowly piecing this together, instantly piecing that together, until I knew. I knew exactly what had happened.

Evalyn, I told nothing. I said only that I had a long-shot lead, from something I’d seen in Wilson’s office, and that it required me going back to Chicago to follow up. She’d wanted to come, but I said no. She tried to argue, but I wasn’t having any.

This was for me to do.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I told her.

“What do I do till then?”

“Same as Hauptmann,” I said, touching her face. “Wait, and pray.”

Interpretation was required: that’s what Marinelli had said. Not long ago I thought psychics were the bunk; and I still thought most of them, Marinelli included, were scam artists. The “fortune” in “fortune-teller” was the money those sons of bitches plucked off their marks.

But a few of these screwballs were sincere—Edgar Cayce a prime example. Even in ’32 I’d sensed that he at least thought he was for real; he, and his nice little wife and quiet little life, had impressed me, back then, though I hadn’t wanted to admit it to myself.

Now, as I stood before the brick building on Sheridan Road, I knew he’d somehow tapped into something very real. But interpretation was required: he’d gotten so much right—the mill section of New Haven; the two-story shingled house on “Adams” (Chatham) Street, numbered 73; the name of the man who lived in that house, Paul Maglio, a.k.a. Paul Ricca; the brown building two-tenths of a mile from the end of Chatham, where neighborhood rumor had it Little Lindy had been baby-sat…

But the child was on Scharten Street, Cayce had said. And that brown building was on Maltby.

Interpretation: Scharten. Sounds like Scharten, sounds like Scharten…

Sheridan?

Only that baby had never been in the six-flat on Sheridan. I’d followed Bernice Rogers, a.k.a. Bernice Conroy, a twenty-month-old baby bundled in her arms, from LaSalle Street Station to this apartment building. And that baby had turned out to belong to Hymie Goldberg.

You remember—it was in all the papers.

That was the sweetest irony of all: I was picked to be the police liaison from Chicago because I’d cracked the Hymie Goldberg kidnapping. It had impressed Lindbergh himself, got me immediately into the inner circle with Breckinridge and assorted colonels and underworld types.

But had I really cracked the Goldberg kidnapping? No charges had been pressed against Bernice Rogers, after all—Hymie Goldberg, upon return of his kid, had claimed Bernice had been acting as his Jafsie. The Goldberg kidnapping may have been a sham, a front, all along.

What I most certainly had done, that fourth day of March in 1932, when I got suspicious of a hard-looking blonde and an innocent-looking baby in a Chicago train station, was royally botch the Lindbergh case.

Funny, I remembered how I’d speculated that cracking the crime of the century would send my career skyrocketing. But I was a green kid, and what did I know? Certainly not what I was doing.

That great old detective, though, my Chief of Detectives, “Old Shoes” Schoemaker, had been right on the money. We knew at the time that Bernice Rogers had adopted a boy, of a specific age, from an Evanston agency. Old Shoes had theorized that she had then gone east with the kid and set up housekeeping in some quiet neighborhood and let herself, and her charge, be seen—but not too close up. Then after the kidnapping, Charles Lindbergh, Jr., was substituted for the adoption-agency kid, who was disposed of, somehow.

I now knew that the “quiet neighborhood” out east had been in New Haven, “in the region of” Dover, in an apartment over a grocery store in a brown building on Maltby Street. At the behest of “Paul Maglio,” whose shingled two-story on Chatham had briefly been used as a safe house. That adopted kid had probably been smothered or whatever, and buried in the basement on Chatham or something—possibly winding up, months later, in a shallow grave in the Sourland Mountains.

Only Paul Ricca hadn’t counted on the feds pouring into New Haven in the days immediately following the snatch, looking for suspects and babies; Ricca had no way of knowing that the construction workers on Lindbergh’s estate had largely come from New Haven, and had become immediate suspects.