Yellow Packard

by Ace Collins

  “Weren’t you lucky,” he observed, pulling himself from his chair. “I need to stretch my legs, so let me ride down on the elevator and walk you to your car.”

  Strolling from the office, they quickly stepped down the hall and punched a button. A second later, a bell rang and the doors opened.

  “Where to, Agent Reese?” the young elevator operator asked.

  “First floor.” After the elevator started moving, the agent reopened the conversation. “Mrs. Coffman, is your husband in the service?”

  “He’s on his way to England,” she proudly replied. “He’s a pilot. He’ll be flying bombers.”

  “Brave man,” Reese noted, a bit of envy evident in his tone. The door opened, and the trio stepped out into a lobby that was alive with activity. After passing a barbershop and newsstand, the woman and child entered the revolving door. He followed behind. The wind was brisk, and the gray skies suggested another blast of snow was on its way. Suddenly Hawaii called out to him, and he couldn’t wait to get back to the office and make that request.

  “We’re right up here,” she announced.

  The woman walked with a determined step. He sensed she would have been going even faster if her daughter’s legs had been a bit longer. As the sounds of honking horns and screeching tires filled the morning air, a bus eased up to the curb and dropped off a dozen passengers, forcing the trio to stop for a few seconds. After the bus patrons had headed off in three different directions, the woman picked up her pace. It was only then that Reese saw it. Fifteen steps and twenty seconds later, she was pushing her key into the door lock.

  “This is your car?” he asked, a sense of urgency now filling his tone.

  “Yes,” Angel assured him. “My daddy bought it.”

  “Where did he get it?” Reese demanded.

  “Why?” Beverly asked. “Is that important?”

  “It very well may be,” he assured her, his eyes still glued to the Packard.

  “He bought it at an auction. In fact, it was at an FBI auction.”

  “My Lord!” Reese exclaimed. “She’s alive.”

  “Who’s alive?” Beverly asked.

  “If I’m right,” he shot back, yelling over the commotion created by another passing bus, “a girl we’ve been trying to find for almost two years.” Sweat suddenly appeared on his brow as he asked, “So this is the car she found the toy dogs in?”

  “Yes!” the woman replied. “They were held in place by the magnets. She said she’d put them under the front seat when she was with her real mommy.”

  “Okay,” Reese hurriedly said. “We need to get back to my office right now. I’ve got to make some calls, and we’ve got to track down this Clara Baker woman. The fact that she might be from Missouri, where the car you are driving was once sold, or the fact she has contacts there says more than you can ever believe.”

  As the woman and her daughter turned and headed back toward the office building, Reese took a final look at the Packard. Meeker had been right again. The car had been the key all along.

  Chapter 75

  Meeker had just stepped back into the White House’s office wing after a lunch meeting with a supervisor in the OSS, when one of the clerks, Victoria House, waved and cried out, “Helen, an FBI agent called from Chicago. He needs you to call him as quickly as possible. By the way, love that suit.”

  “Thanks,” Meeker said as she passed in front of House’s desk. “I picked it up last week at Woosters. They’ve managed to get in some new things in spite of the war. Did the agent leave a name?”

  “Yes,” the twenty-four-year-old brunette replied, “Reese. Henry Reese. He said he was calling from Illinois.” She handed her a slip with the phone number.

  “So he’s back in Chicago,” Meeker remarked.

  “What’s that?” the clerk asked.

  “Nothing,” Meeker assured her. “Have the switchboard make that call and when they get Reese, patch it through to my desk.”

  “Patch it through.” House laughed. “You’re starting to sound like a spy.”

  Ignoring the comment, Meeker made her way down a long hallway and into her small, ten-by-ten, windowless office. It was that lack of window that she most hated. She loathed not being able to see what was going on outside. Doing so just helped her think.

  As she moved through her door, the phone rang. It was the switchboard alerting her that Reese was on the line.

  “How you doing, Henry?” she asked.

  “Except for the cold weather in Chicago, fine. Let me assure you, I do miss Hawaii.”

  “Gee, it’s good to hear your voice. When did they transfer you back to the States?”

  “About six weeks ago,” he explained. “But I didn’t call to catch up. I’ve got something you need to know about, and I’m hoping you can work with me at least one more time.”

  “What is it?” she asked, suddenly intrigued by the possibility of reuniting with the FBI agent. “You have something the OSS needs to look into?”

  “No. Is that who the President has teamed you up with now?”

  “This week anyway. I kind of freelance. But the spy guys use gals, too, so it is much easier to fit in at the OSS than with you G-men.”

  “No doubt,” he agreed. “It is long overdue. Now give me your ears! I’ve got a really good lead on the Rose Hall kidnapping.”

  She took a deep breath, got up from her chair, and leaned on the corner of her desk. “Define good lead.” She followed that with a question she didn’t want to ask. “Have you found the body?”

  “No,” he quickly shot back. “I am pretty sure she is alive and living with a woman who up until a couple of days ago worked in the Motl Aviation here in Chicago. As soon as she found out someone might be on to her, she bolted with the girl. This woman’s name was Clara Baker. I’m thinking she might be the Clara Hooks woman we couldn’t find in St. Louis back when we were looking for the owner of the Packard.”

  “She and her husband owned the place where Burgess lived when he unloaded the car?” Meeker asked.

  “Yeah, the same one. I had a couple of folks who knew her in Missouri look at the picture we got from her Motl Aviation personnel file, and they were sure it was her.”

  “Where did she go?” Meeker asked. “Any idea?”

  “My best guess is southern Missouri. Or at least that is where the answers are going to be. In case she is there with the kid, I want to go down there myself. Could you fly into St. Louis? I could pick you up, and we could drive down there together.”

  “I don’t think Lepowitz would like that,” she replied.

  “I don’t think it matters,” Reese assured her. “The big guy has fallen out of Hoover’s inner circle. Besides, this woman worked for one of our biggest suppliers of bombers—it could be a matter of national security. And in times like this, when it comes to matters of national security, all branches of the government and the agencies within those branches must work together. You say you’re OSS this week?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll put in a request that you help me clean this up. After all, you never know what this woman stole from the plant. Could have been plans for a proposed bombsight.” She knew he was making a joke, but the scenario did give her probable cause to be involved in the case.

  “I’ll pack my bags,” Meeker informed him. “But before I do, I’ve got to ask how you found this woman and discovered she might have Rose.”

  “The car,” he explained. “The little girl rode in the yellow Packard. It seems the family who reported her brought her to their house to play. They had bought the car at our auction. This girl they knew as Jenny reached under the front seat—”

  “And found two magnetic dog toys.” Meeker didn’t let him finish.

  “How’d you know?” He sounded more than a bit amazed.

  “I knew they were there,” she whispered. Moving off her desk, she sat down in her swivel chair. Her eyes fell to her calendar. There was nothing in DC that she couldn’t put off for
a few days. Plus there was an investigation she needed to do in Chicago concerning a possible group of German sympathizers in the city’s west side. Justifying the trip would not be a problem. And if anyone protested, she’d just call Eleanor.

  “Henry, when can you get to St. Louis?”

  “I can drive down early tomorrow morning and be at the airport by noon.”

  “I’ll catch the first plane out. And if I beat you, I’ll wait.”

  “I’ll check the schedules,” he assured her, “and I’ll make sure I’m waiting at the gate.”

  “Thanks,” she said softly.

  “It will be good to get the team back together. Maybe ‘The Grand Experiment’ can be revived.”

  “I just want to close the case,” she replied. “Bye.”

  “Good-bye, Helen.”

  She placed the receiver back in its cradle. Getting up quickly, she marched out the door, down the hall, and into Gladys Termane’s office. She waited for the fifty-year-old secretary to finish jotting down some information while she was on the phone before lightly tapping on her desk.

  “What is it you need, honey?” Termane asked as she hung up.

  “I’ve got to get to St. Louis as soon as possible. Can you book me out on a flight in the morning?”

  The woman smiled. “I’ll do it even if I have to bump an admiral off the plane.”

  Chapter 76

  As promised, Reese was at the gate waiting for her. After quick greetings and grabbing her two bags, they hurried off to his car.

  “You got one of the new ones,” Meeker noted as she slid into a 1942 Ford Coupe. “How did you rate not getting stuck with one of the older, well-worn members of the FBI’s mechanical fleet?”

  “When they jerk you out of Hawaii,” he said with a laugh, “and back to winter in Chicago, they feel they owe you. Now, let me catch you up on what I’ve found out since we last talked. After all, you’d rather talk about that than cars.”

  “Let me have it,” she anxiously replied.

  After they’d pulled out of the parking lot and pointed the maroon sedan south onto the highway, he gave her the scoop. “A local sheriff did a bit of legwork for me, and based on my description he was able to confirm that a woman who looks like Clara Hooks or Clara Baker is staying in a farmhouse about a quarter mile outside of Koshkonong.”

  “Koshkonong?” she asked.

  “A little town in the south central part of the state. Not far from the Arkansas border.”

  “Koshkonong,” Meeker said again.

  “The locals call it Kosh,” Reese informed her. “Now back to what I know. A little girl has been spotted with this older woman. The car in the drive matches the one Beverly Coffman saw Baker bring when she came to her house—a black midthirties Dodge. It has a large dent in the front fender.”

  “That information sounds solid,” Meeker said as she nodded. “Do we know who lives at the house?”

  “The man’s name is Mike Burtrum. He’s middle-aged and is somewhat a hermit. Moved to town about a year back. Bought the place where he lives with cash. Doesn’t get out much. Goes to the grocery store about twice a month, and along with food he buys lots of cigarettes.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “Same initials as the handyman in Oakwood and the prison guard. This guy’s not very imaginative.”

  “Mr. Burtrum also holds his cigarettes the same way as Mr. Burgess, according to our source.”

  Meeker checked her watch. “How long will it take us to get there?”

  “We’ll be there by five.”

  “And we are sure the local cops haven’t spooked them?”

  “The sheriff has his mouth taped shut for two reasons. One, he’s scared of the FBI, and the other is the reward’s still out there, and he doesn’t want to share it.”

  She glanced at a two-story Victorian home along the road. As she studied the gingerbread pattern on the porch railing, she posed one final question, “Are we going in alone?”

  “No,” the man answered. “I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”

  She turned her attention from the house back to the driver. “No, I’m fine with that as long as no one is trigger-happy. I don’t want Rose to get hurt.”

  “I’ve read about the cases Melvin Purvis handled. He always went in with more firepower than he needed just in case something unexpected happened. So I have Austin Ross and J. P. Adams coming in from Little Rock. They were down there working on a bank robbery case.”

  “I remember Adams,” she said. “I trust him.”

  “There is a part of my plan that requires a woman,” Reese continued.

  “Really,” she said with a grin. “What do I do?”

  “Not you,” he shot back. “The guys are bringing along a gal from the secretarial pool. She’s had some experience on the stage in high school and college, and we need those skills.”

  “We do?”

  “Let me hang on to one of my secrets for a while,” he quipped, a twinkle in his eyes.

  As they left the St. Louis city limits heading south on Route 66, she eased back against the Ford’s Bedford cord upholstery.

  “Finding Rose Hall sure would put Hoover in his place,” Reese noted, as if reading her mind.

  “I really don’t care about what old J. Edgar thinks,” she softly replied. “I don’t care about ‘The Grand Experiment.’ It’s not nearly as important as giving that child back to her parents. You have no idea what that would mean to me.”

  “I think I have a better idea than you realize,” he assured her. He paused for a long time before adding, “What was your sister’s name?”

  “Emily,” she said softly. “I don’t really even remember what she looked like.”

  “Don’t you have pictures?” he asked as he reached over to turn the heater down a bit.

  “No,” she sadly answered. “Dad destroyed them after mom died. He got rid of everything that was hers. It was as if he were trying to wipe out every facet of her existence. And he was successful except for one place.” She grimly shook her head. “He couldn’t wipe her out of his mind, and that killed him as surely as it killed Mom.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Reese proclaimed. “I really can’t imagine that kind of pain.”

  “It’s with me every day.” She sighed. “That’s why I pushed Eleanor into getting me a job with the FBI. You all are the ones who deal with kidnappings. I wanted to be there and help bring somebody’s kid home.”

  “Looks like you’re about to do that,” he assured her.

  “Maybe,” she said, “but let’s not get excited just yet. Let’s hope she’s still there and this wild goose chase is about over. When Carole Hall gets her kid back, then I will celebrate. But not until then.”

  Chapter 77

  In Rolla, Missouri, they got off Route 66 and took U.S. Highway 63 to Koshkonong. As they rolled past the WELCOME sign, she sized the place up. There must have been two hundred people living in the city limits. There were a couple of stores; a filling station, a garage claiming to work on trucks, tractors, and cars; a post office; and a bank. Along the road on each side of the buildings that made up downtown were unassuming frame houses. Judging by the age of the cars and the size and condition of the homes, Koshkonong’s citizens had experienced some very tough times during the Depression.

  It was just past five when Reese piloted the new Ford into the parking lot of a small, native-stone Baptist church. A 1939 Ford was already there. Leaning against the hood, seemingly unconcerned about the cold north wind, was J. P. Adams. Meeker guessed the woman barely visible in the backseat was their actress, and Austin Ross had to be the man inspecting the gravestones at the cemetery on the north side of the old church.

  After Reese set the parking brake and switched off the ignition, the two travelers got out and walked to Adams’s position. As they strolled over to the spot, the woman opened the door, and Ross made his way across the cemetery to the parking lot. He was the last to arrive, and no one spoke until he did.
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br />   Sensing all eyes on him, Reese began, “This is Helen Meeker with the OSS. She worked this case with me from the get-go, and she deserves to be in on the finish.”

  Adams, a man of average height and build, nodded at her. “Nice to see you, Meeker. Wish they’d kept you around. Though we were all jealous Henry drew you as his partner.”

  “Thanks,” she said, returning his smile. “If we can close this case up, I’ll consider my time with the FBI worthwhile.”

  “Helen,” Reese continued, “this young feller is Austin Ross.”

  Ross chuckled. At fifty-two, he was one of the oldest men in the bureau. Though he might have had some years on him, his hair was still jet-black, his body firm and fit, and his dark eyes filled with energy and life.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said in a deep voice that would have been welcomed for the bass part in any quartet in the country. Ross turned his gaze back to the woman they’d brought with them.

  “This is Judy Asher, but today we can call her Bette Davis.”

  Asher was not beautiful, but she was kind of cute in a girl-next-door way. The sparkle in her hazel eyes and the shine in her honey blond hair exuded Southern charm. Yet it was her cute figure on her barely five-foot frame that men would have found alluring.

  “Hi,” she squeaked, accompanied by a quick wave.

  Reese winked at Asher before turning back to the men. “Did you all drive by the house on your way in?”

  “Yeah,” Ross volunteered. “It’s a frame home, maybe a thousand square feet. It has a small porch on the front and kind of a stoop on the back. Those are the only two entries or exits. There are no outbuildings, but there are some large cedar trees growing very close to the house. There’s a pretty thick woods on the back and sides of the place. That should give you lots of cover as you work your way in from the south side—”

  “So,” Reese interrupted, “you are thinking the south side is the best way for Helen and me to get to the back of the house.”

  “Yeah,” Ross said with a nod. “Based on the placement of the windows and doors that would likely be the path where the folks inside wouldn’t see you.”