by Jack Martin
Zangara then seemed to wake up from his semitrance state and looked about him. A guard was already stationed by the junction box, his hand firmly gripping the switch, while he stared intently at the clock on the wall, waiting for one minute past midnight. The warden, two more guards, and three reporters stood next to each other, each there as a witness. Standing apart from them, Zangara saw another witness, Harry Bierce, staring at him intently through gold-rimmed spectacles. It occurred to Zangara that it was still not too late, that Bierce could stop the execution, if he agreed to talk. Filled with terror of his impending death, no longer concerned with his family and their possible demise, Zangara opened his mouth to scream to Bierce that he would talk.
And then the whole universe filled with a brilliant, impossible light.
CHAPTER ONE
“They used to tell me I was building a dream …”
John Edgar Hoover stared at the thin file on the mahogany desk in front of him and frowned. He believed that files were power, the thicker the better. When he had been appointed head of the Bureau of Investigation seven years previously, he had found an organization rife with corrupt and incompetent agents, most of them protected by powerful bureaucrats, congressmen, and senators. Unlike his predecessors, Hoover had decided not to accept the situation. Zealously determined to create an efficient and incorruptible national police force, he had begun assembling files on agents he deemed unacceptable, as well as on their protectors. In less than a decade, he had cleaned up the agency and filled it with the competent, brave and incorruptible. In his more honest moments, he admitted to himself that it was accomplished to a large degree by blackmail. But, he thought, since it was done in the cause of honesty and efficiency, it wasn’t truly blackmail. It was patriotism.
He frowned again and rifled through the meagre contents. Harry Doyle Bierce was the one man in his bureaucratic empire who seemed out of his reach. According to Bierce, he was born in Galveston, Texas in 1898. The agent could produce no proof of this because the hurricane of 1900 had utterly destroyed Galveston, killing over 8,000 people and destroying whatever records the local authorities possessed. But that wasn’t the only missing piece of information in Bierce’s file. There seemed to be absolutely no documentation of any kind on Bierce until May of 1917, when, despite his apparent age of nineteen, he applied for and received a commission of lieutenant in the Army’s Military Intelligence. He had been promoted to captain in the astonishingly short interval of fourteen months. The cause for this rapid promotion was officially concealed behind a wall of security, which even Hoover’s people could not penetrate. Unofficially, the most astonishing rumors circulated in the army, the most common—and the most unbelievable—was that Bierce had somehow managed to attend General Ludendorff’s final staff briefing before the German commander launched his greatest offensive in 1918. An offensive thwarted by Allied knowledge of exactly where the attack would take place. All thanks to Bierce.
Hoover didn’t believe such dime-novel melodrama. Nonetheless, Bierce had clearly done something to gain him the patronage of General Pershing, the up-and-coming General MacArthur, and such supposedly incorruptible politicians as that damnable Bolshevik Franklin D. Roosevelt. So, Harry Bierce was protected from the kind of pressure Hoover could normally deliver. Thus he roamed the Agency pretty much as he pleased, taking cases that interested him, declining those that did not. Most fascinating to Hoover was that the cases Bierce did take were often the most baffling, and yet, ended with Bierce solving them nearly single-handedly. That was all well and good, but still, Hoover could not tolerate such a free spirit in his beloved agency, and he intended to rein in his knight errant.
There was a soft knock on the door to Hoover’s office. “Come in,” barked Hoover.
Harry Bierce entered and closed the door behind him. As he approached Hoover’s desk, he said with a hint of the South in his voice, “You wished to see me, Director?”
“Sit down, Agent Bierce,” growled Hoover, gesturing to a straight-backed chair in front of his desk. Bierce complied, crossing his legs in a relaxed manner that irritated Hoover, who liked his agents to show healthy fear in his presence.
“Bierce, I got a call this morning from the Governor of Florida. He lodged a very strongly worded complaint against you. He alleges you bullied him into agreeing to offer a commutation of that bastard Zangara’s death sentence. He wanted to know if I had authorized you to make this deal. As you very well know, I had not.”
Bierce shrugged negligently at his superior, oddly unaffected by Hoover’s disapproval. “I suspect Zangara was a tool of other, more powerful players. I felt that commuting the gunman’s death sentence would be a small price to pay for exposing the masterminds of this attempt on a President’s life. I was able to … persuade the Governor to cooperate.”
Hoover was not surprised by Bierce’s admission. He struggled to keep his volcanic temper under control. “Agent Bierce, do you have any idea of what I go through to keep this organization free from the taint of politics? Do you? I have garnered the power to steer the Bureau clear of the rapids of political influence and corruption, and keep that power only because I do not abuse it—or permit my men to abuse it. And here you are, threatening a powerful ally of Roosevelt, the governor of a state no less, all on your own authority!”
Hoover precipitously stood, and began pacing back and forth in front of his windows, hands clasped behind his back. “Do you know who was sitting in your chair not half an hour ago?” Hoover spun around. “No, how could you? Well, Bierce, it was the Vice President of these United States, John Nance Garner. Yes, Cactus Jack, in the flesh! And do you know what he wanted? He wanted me to call off the investigation by the Houston field office into allegations that some Ku Klux Klansman had abducted a colored preacher who had been urging his congregation to defy the Jim Crow laws.” Hoover threw up his hands. “Preacher turned up dead in Arkansas, hanged from a tree, for God’s sake. I explained to our beloved Vice President that crossing interstate lines in the commission of a kidnapping was a Federal crime, and in a respectful voice, told him I would not order my people to ignore a violation of Federal law.
“Ever been shouted at by a vice president, Bierce? It’s quite an experience. Surpassed only by being shouted at by a president. Garner raved at me for a good ten minutes, reminding me that he had helped deliver the Klan vote to our beloved President, and that Roosevelt would be nowhere without it. I only got him out of here by promising to look into it. Of course, I won’t be pulling the Houston office off the case, but it will be some time before he realizes that.” Hoover stopped pacing and sat down, his face fire-engine red. Then he slammed his fist on his desk. “And now, after all that, you drag another goddamned political mess into my office!”
Most men in the Bureau quailed before the anger of Hoover. Not Bierce. “With all due respect, I did not feel that the interests of justice permitted any delay in the matter. As I said, I had a strong feeling that Zangara was simply the tool of more powerful men, and, I believed the surest way to get at those men, would be to offer the pathetic little gunman a commutation. My apologies if I neglected to clear the matter with you beforehand. With Zangara’s execution pending, time seemed of the essence.”
“I’m of a mind to throw you out of the Bureau,” Hoover growled.
Bierce’s eyes were bland, indifferent to Hoover’s rage. “That is your prerogative, sir. I would, however, continue my work, although I would regret losing access to the Bureau’s resources. Conversely, you would regret losing my proficiency at solving difficult cases. After all, who produced the evidence that Sacco and Vanzetti were behind that murderous bombing? Who procured the accounting records for Mr. Ness, that allowed the Treasury to put Capone in Alcatraz? Who was responsible for obtaining the evidence that guaranteed the conviction of Secretary of the Interior Albert Fall? At the risk of seeming immodest, I would suggest to you that the Bureau can ill afford the loss of my … specialized services.”
“And dammi
t, that is why I am not firing you on the spot! But Bierce, don’t dare rely on my appreciation for your previous successes. I run this Bureau, and if you persist in defying me, I will be forced to not just fire you, but will certainly deny you any assistance from the Bureau. Besides, Zangara was a lone gunman, a pathetic little wop who sought fame by killing Roosevelt. And failed even at that, only managing to shoot a Chicago party hack. Don’t get me wrong, the mayor was a good, honest man, a commodity sadly lacking in Chicago. We should be as concerned about his fate as that of the President.”
Hoover struggled mightily to control his temper. The damnable thing, he reflected amid his outburst, was that Bierce was among his very best agents—perhaps the best—and he needed him. He decided to change the subject and get down to business.
“Bierce, I am sure you have been following the news about the wave of robberies, kidnappings, and murders sweeping the Midwest.”
Bierce nodded. “Indeed I have, Director. I had hoped the repeal of prohibition would have diminished the lawlessness plaguing the nation. Unfortunately, it would seem that criminals involved in bootlegging haven’t turned to law-abiding work, just because alcohol is now legal.”
Hoover agreed, but added, “That’s only part of it. This damned Depression has left many law-abiding citizens unemployed and bitter. So, they cheer these thugs on, even making heroes of them. The newspapers render accolades, follow their crime sprees with ill-conceived glee, and portray them as modern-day Robin Hoods. Whereas you and I both know they are selfish, murderous lawbreakers, most who would kill a mother and her child for the price of a meal.” Again, Hoover pounded his fist on his desk. “This rampage must stop! The country needs to see them for what they are and understand that breaking Federal law is the surest way of gaining admission to one of Uncle Sam’s eternal summer camps.”
“With respect, what does this have to do with me? You have good men on the ground in all the major cities in the Midwest.”
“Not as good as you,” replied Hoover in a voice indicating he wished it was not so. “Bierce, I want you to forget this political nonsense and take a new assignment. You’re going to be my roving trouble-shooter and rein in these criminals.”
“Sir, I don’t think—”
“You’ve heard of Machine Gun Kelly?” Hoover interrupted.
Bierce paused for a moment, his eyes glittering with interest. “His real name is George Barnes. As far as we know, he hasn’t killed anyone yet, but the newspapers gave him the nickname because he brandishes a Thompson submachine gun during his crimes. Kelly is just an alias he uses from time to time.”
Grudgingly Hoover nodded his approval. “As always, you are well informed. So, you of course know his gang has kidnapped Charles Urshel, an elderly Oklahoma City banker. What you may not know, is that Urshel’s family paid a ransom of $200,000, and the banker has been found alive, but emaciated, on a road near the town of Wanette.”
“I am glad to hear it. The newspapers reported Urshel has a heart condition, and even if the Kelly gang intended to release him alive, he still might not have survived the ordeal.” Bierce turned thoughtful. “Of course, obtaining a ransom of that size will encourage other such kidnapping attempts.”
“Exactly. That is why we must catch the gang immediately. Kidnapping has only been a federal crime since the Lindbergh tragedy. We need to show the country, and especially the criminal world, that such kidnappings will not be permitted. I want you on the train to Oklahoma City tonight. Go wherever you must, do whatever needs to be done, but don’t come back without the Kelly gang in tow.”
Although Hoover had issued an unambiguous order, Bierce seemed to consider it a request. He put his fingers together as if considering a philosophical problem and was silent for a few moments before he favored the Director with a tight smile. “Very well. This assignment is both interesting and clearly in the public interest. I will take it.” He stood, bowed slightly to Hoover, and left the room without another word, closing the door carefully behind him.
Hoover needed all his self-control to keep from throwing his desk lamp at the door.
Special Agent-in-Charge William Rorer was not sorry that the road to Charles Urshel’s home was in bad repair. He needed all of his concentration to fight the old Model A’s steering wheel, barely avoiding axel-breaking potholes and crumbling shoulders, which left him little time to talk to Hoover’s hatchet man sitting in the passenger seat—not that Agent Bierce seemed inclined to talk. Rorer and his men had spent weeks working on the Urshel kidnapping case, carefully interviewing witnesses and sifting evidence. He believed they were finally on the verge of tracking down and apprehending Machine Gun Kelly, and now this headquarters agent was moving in to steal all the credit.
“I’m not here to take credit for the collar,” Bierce said out of the blue. “You and your men have done sterling work. And as far as the newspapers are concerned, I will not appear in them at all.”
Not taking his eyes off the road, Rorer replied, “Then why are you here?”
Bierce shrugged. “Director Hoover decided that he wanted me to, in effect, establish a nation-wide brief on such kidnappings and robberies. What I learn from the way you are handling this case will be useful in future such cases. I understand you have already made an arrest.”
“Just a small fry. Jethro Tully, a two-bit gunman Kelly had been using on his smaller robberies. He took leave from Kelly, once he learned of the size of the ransom. He was smarter than Kelly, and he knew the heat would never be off him in a kidnapping of this size. We picked him up almost by accident at the Oklahoma City train depot, buying a ticket to California. He was acting so nervous that the local bulls figured he had to be guilty of something. So, they held him for us. A couple of cracks from the rubber hose, and he broke like a fresh egg. Unfortunately, Tully didn’t seem to know too much about Kelly’s long-term plans, beyond him repeating that would be his last job.” After a moment, Rorer said, “Here we are.”
Rorer turned into a graveled drive, much better kept than the county road. Fifty yards away from the road was an immaculately maintained Victorian mansion. The Depression might be continuing, but Urshel had obviously done well in banking. Rorer pulled the Ford up to the front porch, killed the engine, and set the parking brake. Both men exited the car and bound up the steps just as the door opened and a thick-necked, glowering man appeared, hand in his jacket. When he recognized Rorer, he removed his hand from his pocket.
“Hi, boss. Who’s this joe?”
“Gus, this is Agent Bierce from Washington. Hoover wants him to, ah, help us out on the Urshel case.”
“Don’t need no help from Washington,” Gus growled. “We’ll track down Kelly just fine on our own.”
Bierce ignored the sullenness of Rorer’s man. “I’m just here to help. I see you’ve established a bodyguard here. Wise precaution.”
“Nobody’s getting near him until Kelly is collared,” replied Rorer. “That includes newspapermen. Damn vultures don’t care that the old geezer’s ticker is bad.”
“Well, I am no reporter. I would like to talk to him, if he feels up to it.”
“As I told you back at the office, that depends on Urshel. Goddamn kidnappers took him without taking along his digitalis, and nearly scared him into heart failure. Then all our questioning put further strain on him.”
“Just ask him, Agent Rorer. Tell him Harry Bierce would like a word with him, if he feels up to it.”
Rorer shrugged, then walked off into the interior of the house, leaving Bierce and one of Rorer’s silent musclemen standing in the entryway. Within a few moments, Rorer was back, a strange look on his face.
“He most definitely wants to see you. In fact, he demands to see you. Gus, take up your regular position, I’ll escort Agent Bierce to Urshel.” Gus went to a chair by a side window that had an excellent view of the road, sat down, and stared out intently, saying nothing. Rorer led Bierce into the back parlor.
Seated in a padded wingchair with a t
able at his side cluttered with books, medicine bottles, and a carafe of water, a gray-faced, white-haired man sat with a heavy blanket covering his legs.
“Agent Harry Bierce, Mr. Urshel,” announced Rorer.
To Rorer’s astonishment, Urshel replied, “I know him. Please close the door behind you.” Bemusement written on his features, Rorer opened his mouth to say something, then apparently thinking better of it, he closed it and exited the room, slamming the door behind him a bit more loudly than was necessary.
Gesturing to the room’s only other chair, Urshel said, “Be seated, Captain Bierce. It’s been a long time.”
“Nearly fourteen years, sir,” responded Bierce as he sat down.
Urshel looked carefully at Bierce’s face. “Hard to believe. You don’t look like you’ve aged a day.”
“How are you holding up, Colonel?”
“Better now. There were times I thought my bum ticker was going to give out. Still, it wasn’t that bad. Not like some of the things we saw working intelligence under Pershing.”
“Let’s not think on those things, Colonel. They are long past. I’m here to help Hoover’s local people catch the thugs who dared do this to you. With your heart ailment, they might have killed you, even if they intended you no physical harm.”
The old man wheezed as he laughed. “Those punks scare me to death? Hell, they couldn’t hold a candle to what we saw the Huns do, and what the Hun scientists had in mind for our troops. If I was still the man I was during the War, I would have slapped the Thompson out of that inbred cracker’s hands and spanked him with it.”
Urshel burst into laughter, but the laughs quickly became breathless coughs. Bierce started to rise to come to the old man’s assistance, but Urshel waived him off. Instead, he poured some water into a small glass, then as carefully as his coughing allowed, dropped six drops from one of the medicine bottles into the water. He raised the glass and knocked back the contents like it was whiskey, then leaned back in his chair, exhausted and grey-faced. Bierce was normally an emotionless man, but he felt a pang of pity for his old commander, imprisoned in a failing body.
