Stolen Away

“He live in Englewood. Husband of seamstress at Morrow house. We take short drive in my car—sometime ’round quarter of nine, I call here and ask speak to Betty.”

“How did you know she was here?”

“I had date with Betty for Tuesday, but I call earlier and learn Betty would not be in Englewood that night. Baby have cold. Lindberghs, they decide best not to make baby make trip between two homes.”

“So you called Betty Gow.”

“Yes. She ask, what’s big idea? I said, oh, I just thought I call you up and tell you I’m sorry not to be seeing you tonight. She say, oh, I see. I say, how is baby? She say, I think he going to be all right. I say, uh, when you think you get back? She say, I don’t know; please don’t call here anymore—they might not like it. She hang up. I hang up.” He shrugged.

“Then what did you do?”

“Junge and me, we go to Plaza Theater in Englewood to see movie. When we come out of show, we go to ice-cream parlor. Had couple those chocolate nut sundaes. Then I went home to my room at boardinghouse.”

This guy sounded like a hardened criminal, all right.

“When was this?”

“Sometime ’bout midnight.”

Schwarzkopf seemed stumped by the forthrightness of the suspect. He looked at Welch, who said, “Mind if I take over?”

I knew what that would amount to—rubber-hose roulette. So I said, “Excuse me, Colonel. Could I ask Mr. Johnson a few questions?”

Schwarzkopf, rather stiffly, said, “Certainly. Johnson, this is Detective Heller of the Chicago Police.”

“Hi, Red,” I said.

“Hello.”

“You smoke?”

“Yah.”

I looked at Welch. “Get this man a smoke, would you?”

Welch dug out his own Camels and reluctantly lit the sailor up. The boy sucked the smoke in eagerly.

I just stood there, letting him smoke and relax.

Then I said, “How much did you spend on that long-distance call, Red?”

“Pardon?”

“You called from a public phone?”

“Yah.”

“From Englewood to Hopewell. How much money did you feed the pay phone?”

“Was thirty-five cents.”

I looked at Welch, who was standing there like a fireplug, and looking just about as intelligent. I made a writing motion with my finger and he looked at me blankly for a moment, then nodded, and took out his notebook and wrote down what Johnson had just said.

“What movie did you see, Red?”

“Saw two. Don’t remember names. Sorry.”

“Who was in the first one? What was it about?”

“Uh, funny movie. That fat guy and skinny guy.”

“Laurel and Hardy?”

He nodded vigorously.

“What about the second feature?”

“Fighter and little kid. Sad picture.”

I looked at Welch. “The Champ.”

Welch smirked and scribbled.

“You know where that ice-cream parlor is?”

Johnson nodded and reeled off the address; Welch wrote it down.

“What about this milk bottle they found in your car?”

He shrugged. “What ’bout it?”

“What was it doing there?”

“I guess I forgot to throw it out.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“I bought bottle of milk on my way up to Hartford, Wednesday morning.”

“Where?”

“Can’t remember exactly. Guess it was somewhere along the road, near Englewood.”

“What was the idea of buying a bottle of milk? Somehow I picture you drinking something a little stronger, Red.”

“No, no. My stomach bad. Doctor told me drink lots of milk.”

“What doctor?”

“Morrow family doctor, in Englewood. Forget his name.”

Welch stepped in. “Now listen, Johnson—where is that baby?”

“So help me God, I don’t know. I don’t know a thing about it!”

“You know Betty Gow pretty well?” pressed Welch.

“I guess you could say that.”

“Where’d you meet her?”

“Up in Maine, over year ago.”

“How?”

“Well, I work for Mr. Lamont, and his estate was near Morrow summer place.”

“When d’you see Betty last?”

“Sunday. No—Monday night.”

Welch straight-armed him. “Which—Sunday or Monday?”

“Both!” Johnson winced with pain.

“Where did you see her?”

“In Englewood.”

Welch grabbed his shirt front, wadding it in a tight fist. “Why did you call her and ask about the baby, the night of the kidnapping?”

“Because it was on account of baby that she broke her date with me! Naturally, I ask about baby.”

“Ever been in Lindbergh’s home?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Two…three times, I think.”

“When were you there last?”

“Maybe two weeks ago.”

“Know the layout of the place pretty well, do you?”

“I guess I do.”

“Ever been in the nursery?”

“No, never.”

“Ever been on the second floor?”

“Yah.”

“Where on the second floor?”

“In Betty’s room. That where she can have visitor after working hours.”

“Where’s that from the nursery?”

“Next to it, I think.”

Johnson was answering the questions as fast as Welch could fire them; the sailor was holding up under it.

Welch let go of the sailor’s shirt and turned to Schwarzkopf and said, quietly, “Clear this shack out—leave me alone with him, and I’ll get you the truth.”

Schwarzkopf nodded; that seemed to sound good to him.

“Colonel,” I said, “Inspector…let’s step outside a second, fellas, what say.”

We stood outside the shack; nearby were the stone walls of the front gate, beyond which reporters milled like ants in search of a picnic. They were dying to know what was going on in our glorified outhouse.