“So the State of New Jersey,” Evalyn said, eyes narrowing, “acknowledged that you were in fact in touch with the kidnappers.”
Curtis nodded. “The language of the court was ‘the actual kidnappers of the Lindbergh baby numbering seven or eight, and including a member of the Lindbergh household.’”
Early on, the position of Schwarzkopf and Inspector Welch and others was that Violet Sharpe’s suicide was an admission of guilt; by the time of Hauptmann’s trial, that stance had been conveniently forgotten.
“It seems to me,” Evalyn said, her gloved hands folded in her lap, “that if the Hauptmann conviction was correct, your conviction should be set aside, Mr. Curtis…and your record cleared, and the fine you paid refunded.”
“And if your conviction was correct,” I said to Curtis, “then Hauptmann’s conviction should be set aside, and he should he a free man again.”
“You might think that,” Curtis said, with a wry, world-weary smile. “It was the same courtroom, one of the same prosecutors…. Did you know that I offered to testify against Hauptmann?”
“I’d heard that,” I said. God, was I glad he brought it up. “That’s one of the things I hoped to ask you about.”
The intermittent whine of a power drill in the outer work-area provided an uncomfortable edge to the conversation.
“I told them I thought I could positively identify Hauptman as the ‘John’ I dealt with,” he said, blandly. “There’d been much speculation that ‘Cemetery John’ and the rumrunner John I encountered might be one and the same.”
“Did you recognize Hauptmann?” I asked. “Was he your ‘John’?”
“From newspaper pictures and newsreels I’d seen,” Curtis said, “he could have been. I told Wilentz and crew that I would testify against Hauptmann in exchange for full exoneration and the return of the thousand-dollar fine. Schwarzkopf thought it was a swell idea, and couldn’t have cared less if I was telling the truth or not. But Wilentz was afraid to put me on the stand.”
“Why?” Evalyn asked.
“Because my story, the story I’d been telling all along, which was true, did not fit the tale they were spinning, this fantasy of Hauptmann being a lone-wolf kidnapper.”
Curtis’s yarn, I remembered, involved a large cast of characters, Sam and Hilda and Nils and Eric and Larsen and assorted rumrunners.
“Would you have testified against Hauptmann?” I asked.
“Yes,” Curtis said.
“Even if you didn’t really recognize him?” Evalyn asked, dumbfounded.
“Probably,” he said. “I’m not proud to admit it, Mrs. McLean. But at the time, it looked as though they had so much evidence against Hauptmann, it looked so convincing reading the papers, he seemed so undoubtedly guilty, I didn’t see the harm.”
Evalyn fell into a dark silence.
“I was at wit’s end in those months,” he said. “Several years ago, before my involvement with the Lindbergh case, I suffered a nervous breakdown, having to do with anxiety related to business difficulties. I was very near that point again.”
“That’s another reason they kept you off the stand,” I said bluntly.
“Perhaps. And perhaps they knew there was at least some chance that, face-to-face with Hauptmann in a courtroom, under oath, I might not point the accusing finger at him. I might simply tell the truth. And my truth is something the State of New Jersey has never been interested in.”
“You’re saying that had you ID’ed Hauptmann,” I said, “you most likely would’ve withdrawn that identification, in time.”
“Perhaps,” he said, nodding. Then he shrugged. “But perhaps not—had my good name been restored, and my thousand dollars, the better part of valor might have been to fade into respectable obscurity. I can only tell you, truthfully, that today, with my full mental faculties at my command, I would not wrongly testify against that man. Or any man. And having studied the case in some detail—and having had a firsthand view of Jersey justice—I’ve become convinced that poor bastard was railroaded. Pardon my French, Mrs. McLean.”
“Let me back up, just a second,” I said. “Do I understand you to say that now, today, with your ‘full mental faculties’ at your command, you claim the story I heard you tell Lindbergh was true? That you were in contact with the kidnappers, or at least with an extortion group that had inside information about the kidnapping?”
“I lied about one thing,” he said, raising a cautionary finger. “I said I’d seen ransom bills—that I was able to check serial numbers. I never did. I embellished the truth, because I was afraid that otherwise Colonel Lindbergh wouldn’t believe me when I said I was in contact with the kidnappers.”
That had been the part of Curtis’s story that had been the most compelling to Lindbergh.
“He seemed reluctant to get involved,” Curtis went on.
“You were there, Mr. Heller, you should remember this. I did it for his own good. To get him off the dime.”
“Otherwise, your story was true.”
“One hundred percent,” Curtis said. His eyes were hard and clear; his voice was the same. “I’m not a liar. I’m an honest man.”
“You were ready to lie about Hauptmann,” Evalyn said. Her eyes were hard, too, in a different way.
“And I lied about the ransom bills,” he admitted, and shrugged again, and sighed. Then he smiled, sadly. “But I’ve been honest with you about both of those things. And I’ve been honest with you about the mental strain I was under.”
“Is that why you confessed?” she asked. “Why you ‘admitted’ everything you’d said was a hoax, when in fact everything you’d said was true?”
“But not everything I’d said was true. I was kept awake for days, dragged here and there by the police, not allowed to get a change of clothes, rarely fed, and yes, under great mental strain. After a while, I admitted that one thing: that I hadn’t really seen any ransom money. And that, Mrs. McLean, was when the fun began.”
“I’d like to hear about that,” I said. “But from the beginning.”
Curtis told us how, while on Cape May for a meeting with “Hilda,” his contact with the kidnappers, he’d been informed by phone of the discovery of the body of Charles Augustus Lindbergh, Jr., in a shallow grave in the Sourland Mountains. How he had driven at breakneck speed through a rainstorm and arrived at Hopewell at 2:00 P.M. Here he was questioned, politely, but in a manner that already indicated he was something of a suspect, by Schwarzkopf, Inspector Welch and Frank J. Wilson.
Curtis had suggested they wait for Colonel Lindbergh to arrive, but the interrogators pressed on; he also suggested that if they were going to question him, he ought to have his “memoranda” brought to him—some were in a lockbox in a New York hotel, others were in his bag on the ketch, the Cachalot, still more with his secretary in Norfolk. This request was ignored.
He answered the questions to the best of his ability, though he was tired and emotionally wrung-out; and they pressed for auto license numbers, house numbers, phone numbers, none of which he could guarantee the accuracy of without his notes being brought to him.
“When Colonel Lindbergh finally arrived,” Curtis said, “he seemed pleased to see me. You can imagine my relief at seeing a familiar, friendly face. He asked me what I made of this…meaning the discovery of the child in the midst of negotiations for its return from Hilda and Sam and the rest. I said I couldn’t fathom it, and pledged I’d do anything in my power to help. And I suggested if we moved fast, because Hilda and Sam were on land, we could nab them.”
“How did Slim respond?” I asked.
“Very positively,” Curtis said. “But he went into his library with Schwarzkopf and Wilson and did not come back.”
Inspector Welch and various troopers and plainclothes officers, including at times Wilson, questioned him all night, taking a lengthy statement despite his requests that he be allowed to have his notes brought to him for the sake of accuracy. The tone was one of suspicious, insistent interrogation, and Curtis k
new he was in deep trouble.
Finally he convinced his captors to take him to Cape May, where he might lead them to the various locations where he’d made contact with the kidnappers. At dawn Inspector Welch and a trooper set out with Curtis in a squad car. Curtis led them to three houses, two of them vacant cottages, one of them occupied by a family named Larsen, the last name of one of the gang. But the Mrs. Larsen who answered the door said she didn’t know any “George Olaf Larsen” and Welch let it go at that.
They were back at the Lindbergh house in Hopewell by nine that night. Welch informed all concerned that the trip had been a waste of damn time and that Curtis was a goddamned liar. Another statement, under increasingly hostile conditions, was forced out of Curtis, who continued to request his notes.
After this, Curtis was driven to the Hildebrecht Hotel in Trenton, where he was registered under a false name and remained essentially a prisoner; he slept three hours, and the next day was spent successfully leading two Newark cops to the Scandinavian neighborhood where one of the meetings had taken place. But he couldn’t lead them to the exact house; he asked them to come back at night, as that was when he’d been driven there. At the Newark police station, he went over mug photo books and found a shot that might have been Nils. The suspect was in custody at Morrisville on another matter, and Curtis would look at him the next day.
That night they returned to the Scandinavian neighborhood, but Curtis could still not zero in on the specific house, and suggested a house-to-house canvas. At the hotel Curtis was sent to bed at 2:30 A.M. and was woken at 7:00. His requests to have fresh laundry sent from New York were denied, as were his requests to call his family, though he was allowed to shave.
The next day the house-to-house canvas began, without any success, and the suspect at Morrisville was viewed; but the suspect proved noticeably shorter than Nils, despite a strong resemblance. This day, too, ended around 2:30 A.M., and at 7:00 Curtis was hauled back to Hopewell.
“I wandered all morning around the grounds,” he said. “I was given the silent treatment, except for a few troopers who on the sly gave me a sympathetic comment or two. Some of the troopers seemed sore at Lindbergh for wanting to run the investigation himself. They said they should be at ‘headquarters,’ not in this ‘godforsaken place.’ I wasn’t given anything to eat. Finally a trooper passed the word to me: Schwarzkopf and Welch were planning to arrest me. I asked to talk to Lindbergh. Pretty soon he came out.”
Curtis had asked Lindbergh, “What’s this all about, my being arrested for ‘obstructing justice’?”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Lindbergh had said. “I do know that a phone number you said you called in Freeport, Long Island, did not check out.”
“What number?”
“Five-six-three-oh.”
“I said, five-six-four-oh. Colonel, I’ve been asking from the start that I be given the opportunity to consult my notes! I’ve been up day and night for practically the last ten days, and I can’t recall numbers like that—I’m not sure I could if I were rested!”
Lindbergh nodded, went into the house, didn’t come back.
“I wandered, and waited. Sat on the running board of Colonel Lindbergh’s car, feeling pretty goddamn low and dejected. Then something happened that should have been a warning flag, but I didn’t recognize it as such: Inspector Welch came by and was nice to me. It was hard to accept, this kindness from so cruel a man, but I grasped it, like a life jacket. He asked if I’d care to play a game of checkers. I said I’d like that. We played and he talked about what a great weight I must have on my mind.”
“And you admitted lying about seeing the ransom money,” I said.
“Yes,” Curtis said, nodded, lips tight across his teeth. “He trotted me inside and had me admit that to the Colonel. I did, and Lindbergh gave me a cold look, a look to kill that I will never forget. He nodded to Welch, who dragged me out of there. I was taken to Schwarzkopf’s office, where I made a statement adding this new fact. Then I was taken into the basement of the Lindbergh home, and the beatings began.”
They started at 10:00 in the evening, the beatings; ended at 4:30 A.M., when the final, most complete of the several statements he signed, he signed. Then he was left tied up in the dank basement laundry room. He was not yet under arrest, or even formally accused of any wrongdoing.
“The next morning, unshaven, in filthy clothes,” he said, lips trembling, “I was dragged into Colonel Lindbergh’s library. A court of arraignment was waiting—the justice of the peace was there, so was Breckinridge, Lindbergh, Wilson and Prosecutor Hauck. I was charged with obstructing justice and taken away to jail. I stayed there until the trial. I couldn’t afford the bail. My wife came and brought me a change of clothes.”
Evalyn believed him. The tears in her eyes said so.
I believed him, too. I knew all about cops beating confessions out of suspects—having been both a cop and a suspect, at various times.
But what was more important, I believed he’d been telling the truth all along: I didn’t know who exactly Sam, Hilda, Nils and the rest were…nor whether they were in on the kidnapping, or just interloping extortionists.
But I was convinced they existed.
“One thing I don’t understand,” Evalyn asked earnestly. “Why weren’t Admiral Burrage and Reverend Dobson-Peacock accused and brought to trial?”
“Admiral Burrage never had any direct contact with the gang,” Curtis said. He had calmed himself, but it was a surface calm, only. “Also, the Admiral’s friendship with Colonel Lindbergh protected him. His only public comment, incidentally, has been ‘no comment’—and he has never responded to my calls or letters.”
“What about Dobson-Peacock?” I asked.
“The Reverend refused to come to New Jersey for questioning,” Curtis said, “which was undoubtedly wise. His public stance was that I’d put one over on him—though he did have some contact with the kidnappers.”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“I hope you’re prepared to travel, Mr. Heller,” Curtis said. He smiled but there was nothing happy about it. “Like Colonel Lindbergh, the Reverend resides in England, now.”
Evalyn and I exchanged looks of quiet frustration.
“What else can I tell you?” Curtis asked.
“What about the allegations,” Evalyn asked, gently, “that all this was a hoax you concocted to sell your story to the newspapers?”
“I did have a deal with the Herald-Tribune,” he said forth-rightly. “But it was contingent upon the recovery of the child. No money exchanged hands.”
It was time to take another tack.
“Did you ever hear of Max Greenberg,” I asked, “or Max Hassel?”
“Yes,” Curtis said, and saw me perk up, and then stopped me: “Only in the papers. I understand Gaston Means identified them as bootleggers involved in the kidnapping.”
“Did you see their pictures in the paper at the time?”
“Yes. And no, I’d never seen them before.”
“What about this guy?”
I showed him the picture of Fisch that Gerta Henkel, who was also in the picture, had given me.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. Who is it?”
“The infamous Isidor Fisch,” I said.
“You’re in the right place for a fish,” Curtis said, with his wry smile. “But not that one.”
“Commodore,” I said, rising, offering him my hand, “thank you.”
“I don’t know what I’ve said that could be helpful,” he said regretfully, taking my hand. “The Hauptmann case and mine are apparently unconnected.”
“Commodore,” Evalyn said, straightening her skirt as she rose, “they’re connected in this way: if we’re successful in clearing Richard Hauptmann, you may well be vindicated, too.”
“I appreciate that,” he said heartily. “But if you don’t mind, I’m going to continue my own efforts. If it takes the rest of my life, I’m going to cl
ear my name through the courts.”
“I’m sure Hauptmann feels the same way,” I said. “Only the rest of his life is most likely a couple weeks.”
And we went out into the gray-blue world, where skiffs skimmed the water like ducks in a pond, and pointed the nose of the Packard north.
I had somebody to see at a nuthouse.
34
“Nathan Heller,” Gaston Means said, sitting up in bed, with his usual puckish smile, though his eyes had no twinkle, just a disturbed, disturbing glaze, and his dimples were lost in the hollows of his cheeks. He’d lost weight and his skin, which bore a yellowish cast from frequent gallstone attacks, had the loose look of oversize clothing. He wore a hospital nightgown, and was under the sheets and horsehair blankets of a bed in the prison ward in the Medical and Surgical Building of St. Elizabeth’s, a government mental hospital in Congress Heights, Maryland, near Washington, D.C. The window next to him had both bars and mesh, like the skylight near Hauptmann’s death-row cell.
Evalyn and I were standing next to his bed. Evalyn was wearing white, for a change, though the outfit was trimmed in black and her hat was white with black trim, too; she looked like a wealthy nurse.
“I never told you my name, Means,” I said.
“Ah, but you made an impression on me, Heller,” he said, and some twinkle almost cracked the glaze on the eyes. “Any man who puts a gun barrel in my mouth leaves his imprint on my psyche. Effective piece of psychology—I must compliment you.”
“Thanks.”
“I made a point to check up on you, yes indeedy. Like me, you’ve made your mark in the field of private investigation. You have certain acquaintances of influence in the underworld, as do I. You have, to put it mildly, quite a reputation, young man.”
“Coming from you,” I said, “I guess that’s a compliment.”
He looked at Evalyn warmly, placing a hand on his heart, as if about to be sworn on the witness stand, where he would of course lie his gallstones off.
“My dear Eleven,” he said, reverting to Evalyn’s long-ago code number, “you look charming. Are you lovely because you’re so rich, or are you rich because you’re so lovely? I’ll leave that question to the philosophers. At any rate, I want you to know that I harbor no ill feelings toward you.”
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