Same was true of the blonde, of course; hadn’t caught her yet, either. Inside the claustrophobic vestibule were half a dozen mailboxes and as many buzzers. All but one of the buzzers had a name underneath; neither “Bernice” nor “Rogers” was one of them. I pressed them all, except the nameless one—4-B—and waited for somebody to buzz the inner door open.
Somebody did.
The central stairway stopped at each floor for a small landing and a couple of apartment doors, then jogged on up to the next landing. The janitor had a basement apartment, and I could’ve checked with him, but he might warn his tenant a cop was on the way. Instead, I went up to the first landing, knocked on the door of Apartment 1-A, and waited.
A cutie about twenty with Clara Bow curls peeked around the door at my upheld badge. She frowned.
“You’re new,” she said. Betty Boop with a bad attitude and a cigarette.
“Pardon?”
“I paid already this month. I’m not made of money.”
“Miss, I’m just here for some information. I don’t want your money.”
“Oh,” she said, warming. She opened the door wider. Her slender little shape was wrapped up in a blue-and-pink floral kimono. She looked as easy as ticktacktoe, but her timing was lousy.
“How can I help you, cowboy?”
“Do you know if any new tenants moved into this building recently?”
“Why, no.”
“Well, then—any apartments empty right now, that you know off?”
“No. I don’t think so.” She blew a smoke ring. “Didn’t you check with the janitor?”
I gave her my best suave smile. “Maybe I’d rather talk to you.”
Ronald Colman had nothing to worry about, but she bought it just the same, a sultry smirk making the cigarette in her lips erect.
“I’ve been here over a year, cowboy, and nobody’s moved in or out in all that time.”
I thought about that. Then I took out the circular and folded it so that all she could see was Bernice Rogers’s picture.
“Know her?”
“Sure,” she said. “That’s Bernice Smith. She lives upstairs in 4-B.”
The one buzzer without a name.
“She got a kid?”
“Yes.”
“Baby?”
She thought I was calling her “baby” for a second. Then she figured it out and said, “Uh, yes—year-and-a-half old or so.”
“What color is the baby’s hair?”
“Blond, I think.”
“And Bernice?”
“Well, like that picture—brunette.”
Interesting.
“If you’re looking for her,” she said, exhaling blue smoke, “I don’t think she’s around.”
“Yeah?”
“She’s on vacation. Over a month already. Her brother’s staying in her place while she’s gone.”
“Thank you, miss,” I said, tucking the circular away.
“My name’s Marie.”
“Thanks, Marie.”
“Got a name, cowboy?”
“Nate,” I said.
Her cupid lips formed a kiss of a smile. “Careful, Nate.”
She liked me. On the other hand, I had a feeling all that was required out of me was a pulse. And five dollars.
I nodded and went on up; halfway up the stairs, I heard her close the door. I unbuttoned my topcoat as I climbed. Then I unbuttoned my suit coat and got the automatic out from its shoulder holster. I’d had both my suits tailored on Maxwell Street to hide the Browning. I slipped my right hand with the gun in it in my topcoat pocket.
And now I was on the fourth landing, looking at 4-B.
I stared at the door, at the brass number and letter. I had no backup. I was trembling a little, my body mixing a fear and adrenaline cocktail. Should I wait? Should I kick the door in, or knock?
I knocked.
The door cracked open. The harsh, pockmarked pretty face glared at me suspiciously.
“What do you want?”
I showed her the badge, and said—nothing. She pushed the door shut before I could.
Inside, she was yelling, “Coppers!”
Gun-in-hand still in my topcoat pocket, I lifted my foot and kicked that fucking door. It sprung open first try.
I rushed in to see two boys in shoulder holsters, white shirts, suspenders, loosened bow ties and unshaven faces standing up hastily from a round table where a gin rummy game had been in progress. Both were smoking cigarettes and a blue haze hung in the room like bad weather. One boy was razor thin with a razor-thin mustache and slicked-back Valentino hair. He wore a revolver in a shoulder holster. The other was big and fat and sloppy and a half-eaten sandwich and several bottles of beer were before him at the table, and so was a revolver, which he went for, and I shot him twice. Once in the chest, once in the head. Shot right through my damn coat. Damn!
The woman began to scream. She was standing in a doorway to what appeared to be the kitchen. The child was not in sight.
The razor-thin guy overturned the table and began to fire at me from behind it. I ducked back out in the hall, to put a wall between us, while his slugs flew through the open door and chewed the wood of the door across the way.
“Give it up!” I said, my back to the wall. The smell of gunpowder scorched the air. “Place is surrounded. You want out alive, it’s with your hands the hell up!”
The gunfire subsided.
“Slide your rod out in the hall,” I said, my gun out from my coat pocket now. “Don’t throw it, slide it!”
After a moment or two of hesitation, the guy pitched it. It clunked against the baseboard of the floor at my left, harder than I liked but it didn’t go off; the barrel was still trailing smoke.
“Playing it smart, finally,” I said, stepping back inside, where I saw that he was indeed playing it smart—his version.
He held the small, black-haired, angelic-faced baby around its waist with one hard forearm; the child was asleep, or doped. The blonde was against a wall over at my left; her eyes were round and wet, her hard face distorted with fear, a knuckled hand up against one cheek. She wore a simple blue frock that hugged her curves. Behind her on the wall, crooked, hung a peaceful Maxfield Parrish print.
The razor-thin man had small eyes, but they looked large, the white showing all round. He looked crazed and quite capable of squeezing the trigger of the small automatic pressed to the unconscious child’s head.
“Let me pass,” he said. His voice was as thin as his mustache.
“No,” I said. “Put the kid down.”
“You kidding? He’s my ticket.”
To hell.
“What’s your name?”
“What do you care, copper?”
“What’s your name?”
The blonde said, breathlessly, “Eddie.”
I didn’t know whether she was answering my question, or talking to him. And I didn’t care.
“Put the kid down, Eddie, and I won’t mention you took a hostage. I’ll even lay the resisting arrest off on your dead pal, here.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” he said, and laughed. He moved forward a step, holding his tiny hostage tight, keeping the nose of the gun against the kid’s temple.
I shot Eddie between the eyes.
Not as impressive a shot as it sounds, close as he was to me; what was more impressive was the dive I made toward him as he dropped the kid. I caught the sleeping baby like a touchdown pass.
I sat on the floor, cradling the slumbering kid in my arms, the smoking gun still in one hand, the corpse of the thin guy at my feet, the other corpse between me and the blonde, who was stuck to the wall like a fly. I had just killed two men, and it would hit me later, but right now I felt good.
“You…you shot Eddie,” the blonde said. She was shaking her head, disagreeing with reality.
“No kidding,” I said. Rocking the child as I eased back onto my feet.
“How could you risk it? He had his finger on the tr
igger…”
“A shot in the head kills all reflex action, lady.”
“Am I…under arrest?”
“You’re under arrest.”
“What…what charge?”
“Kidnapping.”
She sighed. Nodded.
“This is the Lindbergh baby, isn’t it?”
She cocked her head, like she hadn’t understood me. Her Master’s Voice.
“Well?” I said. “Isn’t it?”
“Mister,” she said, “that’s Hymie Goldberg’s kid.”
“Hymie Goldberg?”
“The bootlegger. In Peoria. He’s loaded. We were gonna get five grand for the little bastard.”
My boss burst in the open door, then. Lou Sapperstein, a sturdy, balding cop of about forty seasoned years. He took off his hat, eyes wide behind wire-framed glasses; snow dusted his topcoat like dandruff. He had a .38 in one hand.
“What the hell are you up to, Nate?”
“I just cracked the Hymie Goldberg kidnapping,” I said.
And I handed him the baby.
1
THE LONE EAGLE
MARCH 5–APRIL 18, 1932
2
“There’s somebody I want you to meet,” Eliot Ness said.
I sat slumped in a hard wooden chair in Eliot’s spartan, orderly office in the Transportation Building on Dearborn.
“And who would that be?” I asked.
“Al Capone,” Ness said, with the smile of a mischievous kid.
Eliot was leaning back in his swivel chair, sitting with his back to his rolltop desk. He was a fairly big guy, about my height—six feet—with broad shoulders on an otherwise lithe frame; his upper torso had gotten powerful from a stint dipping radiators at the Pullman plant as a youth.
The biggest surprise about Eliot Ness—for those who’d read newspaper and magazine accounts of his exploits as a gang-busting prohibition agent—was his youth, his boyishness. Eliot was twenty-eight years old, with a ruddy, well-scrubbed appearance and a sprinkling of freckles across his Norwegian nose. That he was an ambitious young exec moving up the ladder of life was evident only in his impeccable three-piece steel-gray suit and black-and-white-and-gray speckled tie.
“Actually,” Ness said, reconsidering a bit, or pretending to, “I’d prefer you didn’t meet him. I just want you along to listen.”
“Listen to what?”
“Snorkey says he can get the Lindbergh kid back.”
I sighed, shook my head. “It’s just a scam, Eliot. Besides, none of it has anything to do with me.”
He put his hands behind his neck, elbows flaring out. “Nate—you’re the resident kidnapping expert around this town right now.”
I gave him a Bronx cheer. “Why, ’cause I stumbled onto getting some bootlegger’s kid back for him? We couldn’t even make the charges stick against that Rogers dame!”
He shrugged with his eyebrows. “How were you to know Hymie Goldberg would claim the woman was acting as his intermediary?”
“Yeah, right—his intermediary. That’s why her brother Eddie shot it out with a cop.”
Eliot shrugged again, shoulders this time. “Why do you think these snatch-racket gangs prey on their own kind, so often? Their victims are primarily borderline characters like themselves—bootleggers and gamblers and the like. Who know their fellow underworld denizens would never seek help from the cops at the outset, and won’t rat them out at the finish line.”
Eliot was the only guy I knew who might actually use the word “denizens” in a sentence, let alone one that also included the phrase “rat them out.”
“But these days,” he continued, “most major gamblers and bootleggers and panderers don’t go anywhere without bodyguards. So the snatch-racket boys are looking to greener pastures, monetarily speaking.”
“Like the Lindberghs.”
Eliot nodded. “We’re already seeing a pattern of industrialists and bankers and businessmen being hit. Remember the Parker case in California? That little girl was dead and dismembered before the ransom was even collected.” He sighed, shook his head. “With prohibition winding down, kidnapping could be the next big racket.”
“Well, it’s easy money. What are you gonna do?”
It was a rhetorical question, but Eliot answered it literally. “I’ve sent a petition to the federal government. Recommending capital punishment for the transportation of a kidnapped person from one state to another.”
“You’d like kidnapping to be a federal crime?”
He nodded sharply, smiled the same way. “No offense, Nate, but too many local cops are either incompetent or on the take.”
“I’d tip my hat to you,” I said, “if my hands weren’t so full of apples I took off pushcarts.”
“That’s not fair, Nate.”
“Hey, I’ve seen J. Edgar’s boys operate. Third-rate accountants and lawyers who graduated bottom of the class.”
“I’m not talking about Hoover—I’m talking about my own unit…and the IRS squad, of course. Speaking of which…Elmer Irey and Frank Wilson are going up from Washington, D.C., tomorrow, to Hopewell, New Jersey. To meet with Lindbergh.”
“Why? Kidnapping isn’t a Treasury matter by any stretch of the imagination.”
“Well…I don’t think Lindbergh has any more confidence in J. Edgar’s boys than you do. That’s why he called his pal Ogden Mills…”
“Who?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “The Secretary of the Treasury? Of the United States? Of America?”
“Oh. That Ogden Mills.”
“Lindy wanted Mills to send him the agents who ‘got Capone.’”
“Meaning you, Irey and Wilson.”
“Yes. But I’m tied up with the mop-up operation here, and besides, Irey and Wilson would rather work without me, I’m sure.”
Elmer Irey, Frank Wilson and Eliot Ness were indeed the feds who nailed Capone. Eliot’s Justice Department unit squeezed Capone’s financial nuts in the vise, and confiscated the records Irey, Wilson and their pencil-pushers turned into evidence. But there was friction between Justice man Ness and the IRS boys; both factions seemed to resent the credit taken by the other.
“I’ve recommended a Chicago Police Department liaison be assigned to the case,” he said. “On site, at Hopewell.”
“Why?”
“Early indications are this is a gangland operation, very possibly of midwestern origin. I’ll fully brief you, before you leave….”
“Brief me!” I sat up. “What are you…?”
“I’ve cleared it with your boss.”
“Sapperstein?”
“Chief of Detectives Schoemaker. And the Chief himself. And the Mayor. You’re going to Hopewell.”
I opened my eyes wide as I could and looked at nothing. “Well…that’s swell. Nice break from hanging around train stations and bus depots. And it could be good for my career, but…why me?”
Eliot shrugged. “You made some nice headlines, cracking the Goldberg case.”
I snorted. “Right. I killed two guys up there, and what did it amount to? The dame went free, the case was closed, and who knows how many accomplices are still running around loose?”
Eliot waggled a lecturing finger at me; he was barely a year older than me, but he had a bad habit of treating me like a kid. “Nate, you put a baby back in his mother’s arms. Doesn’t matter that it’s the arms of some bootlegger’s common-law wife. A kidnap ring getting busted up, and a kid going safely home, is exactly what the public wants to hear about right now.”
“Well. It was dumb luck.”
“Much good police work is. The case got enough national play that when I spoke to Lindbergh on the phone yesterday, and mentioned you, he was enthusiastic that you come.”
My skepticism was fading; excitement was creeping up the back of my neck. “But, Eliot…why did you suggest me?”
His face was blank and hard. “I don’t trust Irey and Wilson—that is, I don’t trust their judgment. They’re g
ood investigators, when they’re examining ledger books…but they don’t have your street savvy.”
“Well, thanks, but…”
“You should know a couple of things. My suggestion that you be sent was met with enthusiasm in various quarters.”
“Why in hell?”
He shrugged. “Different people want you out there for different reasons.”
“Such as?”
Eliot counted them off on his fingers. “Lindbergh wants you because he thinks you’re some kind of police hero, who saved a child. I want you there for my own purposes. But…there are people within the department who want you out there because they feel, should it come to that, you can be ‘handled.’”
Now I was getting irritated; I shifted in the hard chair. “Just because, once upon a time, I…”
He held up a hand. “Nate. I know. The Lingle case put you in plainclothes. But it also taught you a few lessons you did not expect to learn. I assume you’re still carrying the Browning your father…”
After a beat, I nodded.
He smiled faintly. “I don’t have many police contacts, Nate. You’re one of a very small handful of men on the Chicago force that I feel I can trust. I’m right about you. The men in the shadows, who think you’ll sell out for a sawbuck, are wrong.”
“Eliot, you are so right,” I said. “It would take at least a C-note.”
He didn’t know whether to smile or not. So he just shook his head.
“Come on,” he said, rising. “I want you to hear what Snorkey has to say….”
Cook County jail was on the West Side, not far from my old stomping grounds, in the midst of a Bohunk neighborhood where Mayor Cermak had relocated both the jail and the county courthouse. His Honor did this, he said, to “help real estate” in the area. That was about as straightforward a statement as any Chicago mayor ever made.
The assistant warden, John Dohmann, took us up five flights in a steel-and-wire elevator that opened onto a heavy iron-barred door, labeled Section D. Dohmann turned a heavy double key in the lock and revealed bars that enclosed the vast sunny concrete room that was Alphonse Capone’s cell, a cell that might have housed fifteen in this badly overcrowded facility. Outside the bars, facing the cell, sat a United States deputy marshal with a billy club on his belt.
Stolen Away Page 2
