Cold Morning

by Ed Ifkovic

  Charlie walked out from behind the bar and slid into a chair. He’d been listening to the conversation. “I didn’t like him,” he added.

  “Why is that?” asked Aleck.

  “He looked down on everyone. Even the Morrow kid, who was like a dumpy kid you beat up on in school. Treated him like a servant. Get me this, do that, stop talking, listen to me. He ruled the roost, that one.”

  Marielle spoke up. “Dwight was meek, like a follower.”

  “You say Dwight rarely came here?”

  “Yeah, not much.”

  “Did you tell this to the police when they talked to you?”

  Her eyes got wide. “No, should I have? All they asked was about the night of the kidnapping. Everything was about Ernie Miller. So she came with her boss two or three nights. Nobody’s business, and it ain’t related to killing that baby. That I’d bet on.”

  “What did the police ask you?”

  Charlie answered. “They also wanted to know if she was here with Bruno Hauptmann or Isidor Fisch. They flashed pictures of both of them. I never seen this Bruno, tell you the truth. Isidor, yes. But I don’t think Violet Sharp knew either one. Leastwise, as I saw. She sat with Dwight and this slimy Blake, very polite like, proper. Not smooching or cuddling, but I could see this Violet had it bad for Blake.”

  “How did he treat her?” I asked.

  Charlie sighed. “Like he was this matinee idol and she was a shop girl swooning over him. He liked that, I could tell.” A long pause. “She was a fool, that girl.”

  “Tell me about Blake,” I said.

  Marielle smiled. “A charmer, but real phony. Disloyal.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He came here one night, got a little plowed with the rotgut they served then.” She looked at Charlie apologetically. “You know it’s true, Charlie. Back then. Anyway, I overheard him blarneying this girl he was with. I never seen her before. But he’s talking about Dwight, calling him a simp, a milquetoast. How when he snapped his fingers, Dwight would jump. Then he said Dwight was in a nut house just over the Hudson in New Jersey. That he worked at the nut house and that’s how he met him.” She looked into my face. “That confused me. Here he’s acting like a rich boy, a friend of Dwight from another wealthy family, and then he says he worked in a nut house. Nothing added up. But I figured he was just making things up.”

  Charlie added, “One of the customers told me that Blake was the black sheep of his family. He wasn’t allowed to go back home. He lived in New York, was even an actor on Broadway for a bit, worked as an elevator operator in some hotel somewhere, who knows? A spoiled, rich boy who got thrown out by his parents. He kept coming back—his mother loved him—but daddy kept sending him into exile.” Charlie laughed out loud. “In his thirties and he’s still playing the bad boy. Toot-toot-tooting the night away on the pennies in his pocket. Always looking for a good time. Thrills.”

  Marielle was eager to add something. “God, I just thought of something funny. I mean, we all knew Dwight was the brother-in-law of Lindbergh, but he never talked about it. Like it was a forbidden topic. Blake once told someone that Dwight hated Lindbergh.”

  “Do you know why?” From Aleck.

  Marielle grinned wide and winked at Charlie. “Lindbergh likes practical jokes, I guess. It seems one time he sent a letter to Dwight when he came back from college up in Massachusetts. Christmas break, after finals, I guess. There was a formal letter telling him he’d flunked his courses and he was on probation. Dwight got real depressed, crying and all. I mean, his whole family went to that school, it seems. Daddy and all. It turned out that Lindbergh put that letter together. When Dwight found out it was a fake, he refused to come home for weeks.”

  “Did he confront Lindbergh?”

  Marielle nodded. “Dwight’s a tiny man, you know. He shoved Lindbergh, who’s real tall, and Lindbergh just laughed and laughed.”

  Charlie looked confused. “But all this got nothing to do with the kidnapping. Or Violet Sharp. Ernie Miller ain’t involved. They got this Bruno fellow with the ransom money hidden in his garage. Really.”

  I glanced at Aleck. “Most likely not. Curious anecdotes about the famous.”

  “Tell me something,” Aleck said. “After the night of the kidnapping, did Blake or Dwight come back here?”

  Both shook their heads, but Marielle answered. “No, all the staff talked about that. The police came and talked to us about Violet and Ernie and that awful night. No one mentioned Dwight. No reason to. Lots of rich boys come here. They bring rich girls who get drunk.”

  Charlie broke in, “Bring poor girls who get drunk.”

  Marielle sat back. “No, this place became No Man’s Land for that crowd. For lots of folks—except for the crazies who read about it in the papers.”

  “Blake disappeared?”

  Both nodded.

  I looked at Charlie. “You said that Isidor Fisch used to come here.”

  Both nodded quickly. “Yeah, a bad apple,” Charlie noted. “But we told the cops about that. They did ask about Bruno. No one ever saw him, true—but Izzy, yes.”

  “What can you tell us about him?” I asked.

  Charlie said nothing, but went behind the bar and returned with another brandy and another martini. “On the house.”

  He sat down. “As I was saying, we read about Isidor in the paper afterwards, like his connection with Bruno. But he was just a slimy little con artist, a little Jewish weasel, who sized you up. Could he get a dollar off of you, that kind of look.”

  “He was a sick man, I remember,” Marielle added. “Always coughing in your face, spitting up on the floor. It’s a wonder we ain’t all in a TB ward somewhere.”

  “Who was he with?” Aleck asked.

  Charlie tilted his head, thinking. “Well, I only spotted him a couple times. He tried to move some fake bills, and he was told not to come back.”

  “Hot money?” I asked, and Aleck’s eyebrows rose.

  Charlie grinned. “You know about hot money?”

  “I know about a lot of things.”

  Aleck stared at me. “Edna, what in the world?”

  Charlie explained. “Isidor was a sham. He claimed he traded furs or pelts, was a skilled fur-cutter, worked with this Bruno guy, but I only read about that later. A gambler, he was, a nervous Nelly, always pacing the floor, watching people. He moved money around. Bad money. Hot money. Fake and real. Tried to get folks to invest in a pie company that never existed—I read that it was all fake, like he even had a fake letterhead printed. A cheat.”

  “Did he ever mention Bruno?” I asked.

  “Not in my earshot. And I told the cops I never seen Bruno in here. Never. We talked about it afterwards. Izzy probably played Bruno for a dupe. Maybe Bruno was in on it, maybe he knew the money was hot—maybe even from the kidnapping. Bruno strikes me as a greedy man, cold, anything for money. But Isidor lied about his business ventures. That’s what the papers said. This scheme, that one. Lots of money in his pocket, or none at all, begging for a quarter.”

  Marielle went on. “Maybe Bruno ain’t lily white in this story, but I bet he was tricked by Isidor.”

  “Who drops off a shoebox of fourteen grand and then boards a boat for Germany?” Alex wondered.

  “Where he dies. Tough luck.” Charlie shrugged his shoulders. “Somebody said he was blackmailing Bruno because Bruno was here illegally. Maybe he did.”

  Marielle summed up, “Fourteen grand, hidden by Bruno. And they’re saying he did it alone. Come on. Think about it. Then where is the rest of the fifty grand ransom? Tell me that. Ask Isidor. Oh, you can’t. Probably hidden somewhere in an attic in Germany. Or in somebody’s pocket right here in America.”

  I stood. “We have to get back. We have a driver waiting.”

  “He’s paid to wait, Edna. They also serve who sit an
d wait.” Aleck glanced toward the doorway.

  “Enough, Aleck.”

  Aleck stood, arching his back. “So be it.”

  When Aleck took out his wallet, Charlie waved it away. “On me.”

  Marielle addressed Charlie. “Were you here the night Blake came in with this guy, a wiry man who annoyed everyone.”

  “Isidor?” I asked.

  “No, I told you I never saw them together, those two.”

  “Go on.”

  “A quirky guy, short, fawning, rushing up to Blake and then rushing away, getting him drinks, laughing at anything he said. That night Blake was dressed for dinner, white cravat, a black cutaway jacket, like he was going to a cotillion at a country club. But this other guy was sloppily dressed, a Hooverville hobo.”

  “They were together?”

  She nodded.

  “They walked in together. And Blake called him by a name.”

  “What?” asked Aleck.

  “Johnny. I remember that. But Blake at one point sidled up to him and hissed, ‘Keep your mouth shut, Johnny. You talk too much.’ I remember that.”

  “But what was he talking about?”

  “Dunno.”

  “No ideas?”

  “It had to do with a girl.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “The only thing I heard was Blake angry as hell, spitting into Johnny’s ear. ‘Make sure Emily is on board. You hear me?’ But that was it. Blake wasn’t happy with the guy and they left real quick.”

  “That was it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Marielle smiled and waved us off.

  ***

  Sitting in the backseat of the car, Aleck said in a low voice, “Isidor Fisch?” He stared into my face. “A new player on your stage.”

  I pointed to Willie’s head. “Later.”

  Willie had been fiddling with the wipers as a light snow fell, but when Aleck blurted out the name, he sat ramrod stiff, head pressed against the rest, inclined. Nosy, the man, of course.

  I nodded at Aleck. We rode in silence.

  But on the ride back to Flemington, Aleck was restless, bothered. Finally, in an angry whisper, he said, “Edna, I fear you are seeking a murderer who is anybody but Bruno Hauptmann.”

  Willie twisted in his seat.

  Again the heated whisper, “I fear you’re going to the other side.”

  “There is no other side, Aleck.”

  A snide tone in his voice. “Bruno’s not one of your romantic heroes, Ferb dear. He’s not Gaylord Ravenal jumping onto a show boat to woo the ingénue.”

  I faced him. “Are you out of your mind, Aleck?”

  “No, but I fear you’re going to go out on a limb. And somewhere a man is sharpening his saw.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The telephone in my room jarred me at seven. I’d overslept—I wanted to be up before six, dressed for a walk in the cold morning—but I found myself dreaming of tons of hot money falling from the sky, a disturbing image that was alarming because I couldn’t breathe under that avalanche of illicit cash.

  Cora Lee Thomas spoke in a hesitant voice. “Miss Ferber, my apologies for the…the call.”

  “That’s all right. Tell me.”

  “Could we meet for coffee? I know you are busy and all…with the trial and…”

  I glanced at a clock on the nightstand. “Where?”

  “There’s a little diner down from you, the Maple Leaf. Nobody goes there but townsfolk.”

  “Give me ten minutes.”

  When I arrived, she was already sitting in a back booth, steps from the kitchen. An early-morning eatery, noisy with the pleasant hum of men and women headed to work: milk and bread and egg delivery men, all chatting, back-slapping, downing hot coffee and toast, joking, teasing, then rushing off. Everyone, it seemed, was on a first-name basis. Hey, Linda. New work boots, Jack? Mary, another cup of java. You seen It Happened One Night at the Palace, Mabel? That Clark Gable.

  Cora Lee, spotting me, waved, and a few heads turned as I walked back. I was an outsider, clearly, a tiny woman in the long and expensive fur coat and sable hat, a woman who touched her three strands of pearls nervously.

  “Thank you,” Cora Lee whispered. She shook my hand.

  A waitress walked over and I ordered coffee with a dollop of whipped cream.

  “We ain’t got whipped cream until they do the pies later on.”

  “Plain cream then,” I said.

  “I should think so.” A click of her tongue and off she went.

  Cora Lee was smiling. “Now you’ve given her something to yap about all day.”

  I smiled back. “I don’t think people talk about things I do, Mrs. Thomas.”

  She twisted her head to the side, amused. “Miss Ferber, I know who you are now. A writer. I bet you get tongues wagging all over your Manhattan.”

  That gave me pause. My Manhattan. I liked that.

  As I sipped my coffee—delicious, hot with a hint of bitter chicory—I began, “Tell me why you called.”

  She sat back, debated her first words. “I don’t got anyone else to talk to—I mean, someone who believes me.” She looked over my shoulder. “I thought long and hard before I dialed your number.”

  “Tell me.”

  She breathed in. “I heard yesterday from the lawyer—he’s this young guy they appointed, but he never looks me in the face so I know he don’t believe me—well, he told me some guy has come forward to the police. Now this guy lives on the same floor of the boardinghouse as Annabel, a guy who travels a lot, a drummer of women’s dresses, he said. He was leaving that night and seen a man move out of Annabel’s room, not fast but sneaky and bent low. A bulky man, big like my boy, bundled up for the Arctic, he says. Scarf around most of his face. But he says he glimpsed some of the face, and then watched him slink down the stairs. He seen a flick of the guy’s head.” She swallowed. “They showed him a picture of Cody Lee and he said it’s him.”

  “My God.”

  Desperation in her voice, her words rushed. “But it ain’t true, Miss Ferber. He gotta be lying through his teeth—or mistaken. He seen someone else—it had to be. I told you—Cody Lee was with me. The man is wrong.”

  “But what now?”

  “They’re gonna do one of those lineups, you know, have my boy stand with some others and see if this guy can pick him out, you know, all of them dressed in winter clothes.”

  I tried to reassure her. “Perhaps he can’t make an identification.”

  She dipped her head into her chest and said in a low voice, “No, you know how it works for poor folks.” Then, breathing in, she went on. “Now they got this photograph of a scratch on Cody Lee’s forearm, a long scratch they seen when they brought him in. It looks like Annabel fought him. They said she did. They found a bit of blood under her nails. But Cody Lee got scratches all the time. Lord, he hauls lumber. He got scratches on his legs, his shoulders. Black-and-blue marks.”

  I took a sip of coffee and watched her. “I don’t know what I can do, Mrs. Thomas.”

  A sliver of a smile. “That’s not why I asked you here, Miss Ferber. You can’t do nothing. I know that. But”—she gazed toward the doorway, unblinking—“I just needed to talk to someone. I catch me a bus every day so I can visit him—there’s no one else.” She stopped, abrupt. “No one.”

  I patted the back of her wrist. “Any time. Of course. I’m someone who believes you.” I thought of something. “Maybe I can do something. Let me call a lawyer friend of mine in New York. Perhaps another attorney can see this differently.”

  “No.” Her hand up in my face—so shriveled, skinny, the nails bitten to the quick. Her face fleshless, haggard.

  “I’d like to do this,” I said.

  Again, louder. “No. The money.”

 
“Let me worry about that.”

  Her eyes got wide and glossy. “Lord, Miss Ferber…”

  “There are no guarantees, Mrs. Thomas.”

  Then she started to say something, but her voice broke. Sobbing, she dipped into her purse for a handkerchief, but in her fumbling she spilled the contents: a few coins, a comb, a house key, chewing gum. A crumpled pack of cigarettes. She scrambled to gather the items, but they slipped away from her. Finally, distraught, she sat back and closed her eyes. She was whispering, “Oh my Jesus! Oh my Jesus!”

  ***

  Aleck and I slid into the backseat of the town car, and Marcus, offering blankets for our laps because the car was cold, looked unhappy that we refused his gracious offer. Night had fallen early, a whisper of snowflakes swirling in the air. We were headed to Princeton where Aleck had scheduled an early dinner with a professor he planned to interview on an upcoming Sunday night radio program. At the last minute, at my prompting, he’d invited me, though he confessed the professor’s wife had wanted to meet the author of So Big.

  Judge Trenchard had adjourned the trial for the afternoon, and the automobiles were bumper-to-bumper leaving and entering town, a gridlock with horns blaring and fists raised and curses hurled as out-of-town drivers attempted to move. “Zero miles per hour,” Marcus had moaned. Unfortunately, Aleck had been delayed at the hotel so we’d ended up in the unmoving queue, which didn’t please Aleck—he repeatedly tapped Marcus on the shoulder as though he were Pegasus and could fly us over the roofs of the cars. But Marcus also seemed flustered, his neck stiff, largely because some hot-shot reporter in an old tin lizzie had edged in front of us, nearly sideswiping our front fender.

  “Calm down, Aleck,” I begged him. “Your face is beet red.”

  “I don’t like being late for meetings.”

  “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have lollygagged in your room while Marcus and I sat in front.”

  “It’s all right, Miss Ferber.” Marcus looked back. “Mr. Woollcott is a busy man.”