Stolen Away

Welch rolled his eyes at Schwarzkopf, who said, “All of the other servants at the Morrow home have been cooperative. Why are you so difficult, Miss Sharpe?”

“I resent being questioned, and I am cooperating—but only because I have no choice!”

Her defiance was an amazing thing to see; but I wasn’t fooled. Behind the strength was weakness, and fear.

Schwarzkopf, almost pleading, said, “Don’t you want to help Mr. and Mrs. Lindbergh get their baby back?”

She lowered her head and nodded. Sighed. “Go ahead, then. Ask your questions.”

Welch nodded to the stenographer to start, then said, “State your name and age, please, and place of birth.”

“My name is Violet Sharpe. I was born in England in 1904 in Berkshire. About two and a half years ago, I went from England to Canada. I stayed there about nine months and moved to New York.”

“And went to work for the Morrows?”

“Well, I registered at Hutchinson’s Employment Agency on Madison Avenue, and was interviewed there for Mrs. Morrow, and received a position as maid, which I still occupy.”

“Have you made any friends, male or female, in New York, or New Jersey?”

“No. None.”

She was too good-looking a girl for that to ring true.

Exasperation distorted the inspector’s voice. “Since the time that you arrived in New York from Canada, you’ve been out in company of no friends, male or female?”

“No. I have nobody here other than my sister, Emily.”

“Where does she reside?”

“In Englewood. A friend of the Morrows employs her.”

Welch moved to the other side of her. He tried again. “Have you at any time since your arrival in this country been to any social functions, public gatherings, theater, dinners or dance, with any man or woman?”

She paused.

Then she said, “Yes.”

Welch, with studied sarcasm, said, “Why don’t you tell us about it, then, Miss Sharpe?”

“My sister and I were walking through the village of Englewood on a Sunday afternoon…”

“What Sunday afternoon?”

“February twenty-eighth.”

“Of this year?”

“Of this year. We were walking along when a man passed us on Lydecker Street in an automobile and waved his hand at us. I mistook him for one of the employees at the Morrows’, and waved back. He stopped his car and I went over to him, but realized my error—explained that I had taken him for someone else.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘That’s all right, where are you going?’ And I said, ‘Just to the village.’ He invited my sister and myself to ride there in his car, which we did. During the ride we had a friendly conversation and the gentleman said he’d like to take me to the movies some night, if I would like to go.”

“What did you say?”

“I said okay.”

She was a pretty easy pickup for a girl who’d been here for years without making a single male or female friend.

“And what did he say?”

“He asked for my phone number and I gave it to him.”

“The phone number of the Morrow house, you mean?”

“Yes. He wanted to know who he should ask for when he called, and I told him to ask for Violet.”

“Did he call?”

She nodded. “At about ten minutes of eight on the evening of March first.”

The day of the kidnapping.

“What did he say?”

“He asked if I would care to go out with him that evening. I said I would, but that I wouldn’t be ready for a while, as I hadn’t yet finished with serving dinner. Before long, he came to the back door of the pantry of the Morrow house.”

“What did you do?”

“I got my hat and coat and went out. He had another couple with him, who I’d never seen before. The four of us went to a movie house in Englewood and after the show, he drove me back to the Morrow home. It was then, I think, eleven P.M.”

“Have you seen your date since?”

“No. I made a second date with him, for March sixth, but I couldn’t get away from the house. I haven’t spoken to him or seen him, since then.”

Schwarzkopf stepped in and smiled warmly. “You’re doing fine, Miss Sharpe. Just fine. Now, if you can just fill in a few blanks…”

She turned snippy again. “What sort of blanks?”

“Names would be a good start.”

“I told you before! I don’t remember any names.”

“You don’t remember the name of your date? You went for a ride with him on that Sunday afternoon, spent an entire evening with him…”

“I can’t remember.”

“Look,” Welch said, “we know you’re nervous. Just relax and the name will come to you.”

“I am not nervous, and I can’t remember his bloody name!”

“What about the other couple?” Schwarzkopf asked. “Can you remember who they were?”

She cocked her head and smiled with tight sarcasm. “No. I can’t remember their names, either.”

“You were out with these people a little over a week ago,” Welch said, “and you can’t remember their goddamn names?”

The steno paused, wondering whether to record “goddamn.”

Violet folded her arms across her chest, and her chin was raised high; but she was trembling. And she didn’t dignify Welch’s badgering with a reply.

“What movie did you see, Violet?” I asked.

Welch and Schwarzkopf looked at me, a little surprised that I’d get into this.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“My name’s Heller. I’m a police officer, like the rest of these men.”