Stolen Away

“That psychic in Virginia Beach mentioned New Haven.” That made him less interested, but he said, “A number of the workmen involved in the construction of this house were from New Haven. They were among the first people we questioned. Detective Heller, I realize you have a low opinion of the New Jersey State Police. But we have been, and continue to be, running a first-class investigation. Within the first forty-eight hours after the crime, we interrogated three hundred and twenty people, in New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut.”

“That’s a lot of interviews. I didn’t know you had the manpower.”

“We were, and are, stretched to the limit.”

“Who were those people you questioned?”

“The Lindbergh and Morrow household staffs, neighbors, delivery boys, carpenters and various workmen involved in the construction of the house…we’ve been very thorough.”

“Yeah, it sounds like it. Say, you think you could arrange an open phone line for me, Colonel?”

“Certainly.”

He walked me to one of the tables where troopers were manning phones and cleared a space for me. He stood there for a moment, until he realized I wasn’t going to place the call until he left.

I used the number Lindbergh had given me and got Treasury Agent Frank J. Wilson on the first try.

“What’s going on out there, Heller?”

“We’re about to have a talk with Red Johnson.”

“The Norwegian sailor? Found a milk bottle in his rumble seat, I hear.”

“Right. You boys checking up on him?”

“Not us, but I understand J. Edgar’s crew is checking on his immigration status.”

“Not a bad idea. Would you like a lead?”

“Why not? We’re not getting any help from Schwarzkopf, that’s for damn sure.”

“You found Capone’s boy, Bob Conroy, yet?”

“No.”

“You said witnesses put Conroy in New Haven, Connecticut, that night, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, apparently this house was built by workers from New Haven. Schwarzkopf was suspicious enough to send his state cops in there doing an investigative sweep.”

“That is interesting.”

“Also—and this is a long shot, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t ask me my source…but see if you can find an Adams Street and/or a Scharten Street, in New Haven. And maybe a section of town called Cordova.”

The line went silent; he was writing it down.

“Okay,” he said. “Anything else?”

“If you get anything, call here and leave word for me to call you. If there is an Adams or a Scharten Street, I’ll give you more specifics.”

“Fair enough. I appreciate your cooperation, Heller.”

“That’s okay, Agent Wilson.”

“Make it Frank.”

“Okay, Frank. I can always use a friend in the IRS.”

“Just keep an eye on Schwarzkopf. He’s a rank amateur. Don’t let his military bearing fool you—between graduating West Point and falling into law enforcement, he served a hitch as a department-store floorwalker.”

“Impressive credentials.”

“He’s never patrolled a beat or arrested a criminal in his life. He’s in way over his head, Heller.”

“Well, if he starts going down for the third time, I’ll throw him something nice and heavy.”

“That would be my advice,” Wilson said.

After I’d hung up, I joined Schwarzkopf, who was conferring with the bullet-headed Welch. “Any sign of our wandering sailor boy?” I asked.

“Yes,” Schwarzkopf said. “He’s arrived.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

“You noticed the contractor’s shack just inside the gates?”

The small shack had been used as a guard outpost for troopers, primarily to keep reporters and sightseers at bay.

“Sure,” I said.

“We’re going to question him there.”

“Away from the house and Colonel Lindbergh, you mean.”

“Right.” Schwarzkopf gestured to Inspector Welch. “I want you two men to start fresh. I can’t have any animosity among my men.”

I was his man, now? Lindbergh must’ve really lowered the boom.

“No hard feelings,” I said, and extended my hand to Welch.

We shook hands, exchanged insincere smiles and followed Schwarzkopf to a patrol car. A trooper drove us to the weatherbeaten shack, the inside of which wasn’t much bigger than an outhouse. Two troopers stood guard over a man in a straight-back chair. The troopers looked spiffy; the man did not. It was cold and everybody’s breath smoked.

Husky, freckled, his hair a dark reddish brown not unlike my own, Betty Gow’s sailor looked tired and frazzled; in his early twenties, ruggedly good-looking, he wore a light-blue work-shirt and dark-blue trousers, clothes obviously slept in.

“The Hartford police have turned you over to us, Johnson,” Schwarzkopf said, planting himself before the suspect like a cop directing traffic. “You know why you’re here.”

“I don’t know nothing’ bout Lindbergh kidnap.” He had a thick, rather melodious accent—Swedish or Norwegian or something.

“You’ll have to prove that,” Welch said, poking him in the chest with a hard finger.

“Tell us where you were,” Schwarzkopf said, “and what you did on the night of March first of this year.”

Johnson sighed, wearily. “Oh kay. On night of kidnap, I meet friend of mine, Johannes Junge, ’bout eight o’clock.”

“Who is this Junge?”