Cold Morning

by Ed Ifkovic

  “Of what? I’m a bus driver from Closter, New Jersey. A simple guy.”

  He bunched up his face. He was a tall, willowy man with sloping shoulders, a shock of fair hair cut in a tight military style. A freckled, pale face, long and bony. Dressed in a misshapen wool sweater, faded blue and green, some threads loose at the collar, he stared at me with hard, gray eyes that reminded me of a child’s playground marbles. Rough hands, weathered, a scar across the back of his right wrist, which he fingered nervously. Then, reaching into the pocket of a worn gray overcoat he’d slung over the back of the booth, he took out a pack of Old Gold cigarettes and tapped one out, lit it, and closed his eyes dreamily, relaxing.

  “Mr. Miller?”

  His eyes popped open. “I was just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  A wistful smile. “About the way fate hands you a rotten hand.”

  I pursed my lips together. “Tell that to Bruno Richard Hauptmann.”

  The wrong words to say, doubtless—he froze, looked away, checked to see whether diners at a nearby table heard me.

  “For Christ’s sake, Miss Ferber. You do know how to make a man jump.”

  “Yes, I pride myself on that talent.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  I reached into my purse and extracted a twenty-dollar bill. “For your troubles.”

  He grabbed the bill and tucked it into the cellophane of the pack of cigarettes, though his fingers lingered on the paper, tapping the money. “A man has to get by, you know.” A nervous smile. “Charlie Chan smokes Old Gold, you know. I seen the ads on the billboards.”

  “Nice to know.”

  “Ain’t it, though?” Again, he tapped the money. “This damned Depression and all. Roosevelt says…”

  A waitress came to take or orders: spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, and wine. Miller smiled as I ordered for both of us.

  “I‘d like to ask you a couple questions.”

  He drew his lips into a thin line. “Yeah, I assumed that.”

  “Tell me about Violet Sharp.”

  A heavy sigh. “I told it all already.”

  “Again, please. Humor me.”

  He looked over my shoulder. “Well, you musta read about what I told the cops. I mean, I went to them when I read about it. They were surprised.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I was driving one day and I thought I recognized this girl, so I stopped. We thought we knew each other, but she…like, gave me her number. And I called her. I liked her. You know, that highfalutin English accent, real charming. And she was a flirt, that girl. I mean, she worked for prim and proper folks, but she liked her good times. So I called her up and suggested we go to the movies or to a speakeasy back then when you couldn’t—like, drink.”

  “Of course, that’s why she first lied to the police—or forgot. She said she went to the movies, not the speakeasy.”

  “Well, Mrs. Morrow is old-fashioned.”

  “And Violet wasn’t?”

  He grinned. “She was a little flirtatious. I mean, she’d wink at guys walking by.”

  “She got hysterical when the police questioned her.”

  “Yeah, I read all about that. They interrogated me and my friends. The four of us went out. Catharine Minners and Elmer Johnson. Easygoing friends. We had a good time, the four of us. She acted like she liked me. But she liked to talk—she told outlandish stories to us.”

  “About what?”

  “Oh, about how rich people act, phony-like. She liked to put on airs.”

  “Why?”

  “I read that when the cops finished talking to her and let her go, she winked at a secretary sitting there. The police caught that.”

  “Yes, I read that. But that could have been nervousness or, I don’t know, she thought, well, this is finally over with.”

  He got serious, leaned in. “But she wouldn’t have anything to do with kidnapping. That was the night it happened. She was with me and my friends from eight till we dropped her off at the Morrows’ at eleven. Even Mrs. Morrow told the police that Violet served dinner up till eight and she saw her return at eleven. She wasn’t in, you know, Hopewell or anything.”

  “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t involved in the kidnapping.”

  He started. “Why?”

  “Well, Mr. Miller, she knew that the Lindberghs had decided to stay one more night in Hopewell and not return to Englewood—that the boy was sick. Anne Lindbergh called the house and reached Violet that morning, asking that Betty Gow be driven to Hopewell to help out. Violet knew that. Perhaps she called someone.”

  “Like Hauptmann, the German guy?”

  “Someone. Someone had to know the Lindberghs had changed their plans.”

  A spurt of anger. “Violet was not that sort of girl.”

  “You don’t know that. You only met her once.”

  “I was gonna call her again but, well, the kidnapping sort of changed the way things are. Especially for her.”

  “Were you surprised at her suicide?”

  He nodded vigorously. “God, yeah. I mean, she was filled with life, talked of going back to England with a pocket full of savings. She’d been squirreling cash away. She had plans.”

  “Do you think the police scared her?”

  He deliberated a long time. “They terrorized her, them cops. They pushed her, threatened, went after her over and over. They probably accused her. I mean, she just got out of the hospital having her tonsils out or something. She was weak, nervous. God, the kidnapping must have thrown everybody off. And then to have them cops down your throat like that. She was the sweetest thing.”

  I agreed. “A sad story, that ending.”

  “Tell me about it. Damn cops.”

  “But her name is going to come up now at the trial.”

  “Yeah, the defense is gonna say it was an inside job.”

  I waited a heartbeat. “Maybe it was.”

  His voice rose sharply. “But not by her. Maybe some other servant. The nurse, Betty Gow. What about that chauffeur, that guy named Ellerson, who drove Betty to Hopewell? Everyone seen him around the Fort Lee speakeasy—the Sha-Toe—where the gamblers hang out, lots of bucks thrown around.” He stopped talking as the waitress placed food on the table. Miller poured wine into a goblet, then broke off a crust of thick bread, munched on it.

  “Some folks say Violet had a lot of romances,” I said.

  “Yeah, I heard that. So she saw a few guys. Nothing serious. She was a nice girl. Christ, at the speakeasy that night we all had beer and whooped it up. Violet had a cup of coffee. Imagine that. In a speakeasy drinking coffee.”

  “Why?”

  He rolled spaghetti around a fork and swallowed it. “I don’t think she wanted Mrs. Morrow or the other servants to smell beer on her breath. Jobs are hard to get in the Depression, you know. She wasn’t no fool. But she liked to go out. So what? We’re young. That’s what young people do, Miss Ferber.”

  “I vaguely remember.” I smiled at him.

  He eyed me curiously, gauging my humor. “I bet.”

  “What did she talk about that night?”

  “I can’t remember. I mean, we covered everything. She did like to talk.”

  I broke a crust of bread and took a sip of wine. “She must have mentioned the Lindberghs. She worked for wealthy people. Anne Morrow had married the most famous man in the world. The American hero.”

  “Well, we all knew that. We kidded her about that, and I could tell she was tickled. But I guess Lindbergh sort of ignored her at the house. Yeah, they talked, but he…like looked right through her. I sensed she didn’t care for him that much. She said he was a little—like a hick. Blew his nose into his hands. He spit all over the place—a hayseed. He was mean to Anne—told her to shut up once. Called her s
tupid. Got ice cold. God, how we laughed at her stories. Anne, the wife, well, Violet liked her a lot.” A long pause. “And she even mentioned the baby…how cute he was, blond curls, stumbling around the house, babbling baby talk.”

  I shifted the conversation. “Did she mention Anne’s younger brother, Dwight?”

  He bit the inside of his mouth. “Funny that you mention his name. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I know exactly what she said. She thought he was a little odd—like he had some emotional problems, was always breaking down, being sent away, trouble for the family. Unstable. I guess his mother ignored him, favored the sisters all the time. He was quiet most of the time, she said. But he saw things, like visions. His mother would walk by him, like he wasn’t there. But Violet liked him. He was nice to her.”

  “How do you remember that?”

  “Because she got all moon-eyed talking about this friend of his. God, I can still see her. She didn’t say much, because I got to frowning. After all, she was with me that night. But I guess he was this wealthy neighbor, flashy as all get-out, some slick operator that ordered Dwight around like a puppet. But she said he was real kind to her, sought her out. Smiled at her a lot. My friends was real curious, her living the high life at the mansion. But not me. I shut her off, angry a bit, saying she was a fool to listen to some rich guy with coins in his pocket. A slick car in the driveway.”

  “Was he around a lot?”

  “I dunno. As I say, I cut her off. A guy don’t need to hear that malarkey from a girl he’s taking out on the town.” A sly smile. “Even if she only orders coffee.”

  “Did she mention his name?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Blake Somerville?”

  “You got me. Could’ve been.” A pause. “I remember that she said those guys used to go to the Peanut Grill in Orangeburg sometimes. I think that’s what she said. I never seen them, and I went there a lot.”

  “They go with her?”

  “I doubt that, lady. Two rich boys with a servant? Come on.”

  “Possible?”

  He drained his glass of wine, sat back. “Naw. I think Violet liked him because he talked to her, yeah, but he always was…like this fast talker.” He gulped, “Yeah, I remember now, she said he was a thrill-seeker. I said, what the hell does that mean? And she said, ‘Poor people don’t understand that rich people like to do things for the thrill of it.’ I tapped her on the arm and told her, ‘Yeah, we poor folks, and that includes you, Missy, got no time for thrills.’”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “I dunno. I stopped listening. Rich people and their lives bore me.”

  “But she obviously enjoyed rich people.”

  “Yeah, and look where it got her.”

  “Tell me about this Peanut Grill.”

  “A ragtag speakeasy then, hidden under trees and paying off the cops. Mafia types all over the place. Everybody went there. Popular with the crowd from the Bronx from over the Hudson. The Palisades. Tappen.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He leaned in, confidential. “I told the cops I seen that guy Isidor Fisch there once. Leastwise I think it was him. I mean, they plastered his picture all over the papers.”

  I sat up. “Hauptmann’s corrupt business partner? The one who Bruno said dropped off a shoebox with the ransom money?”

  “Yeah, the one who skedaddled to Germany and died of TB there. Supposedly, according to Bruno hisself, Isidor never told him the box was filled with fourteen thou. ‘Keep it safe.’ Yeah, sure. So creepy Bruno found the money, so he said, and started spending it left and right. The trip to Germany for the missus, an expensive radio, spy glasses—how convenient!—and a new dark blue Dodge sedan. And him never working again after he found the money. Isidor was a con artist, true, a man who lied and tricked people. That’s how Bruno got caught, stupidly spending the ransom money. Not too bright, Miss Ferber.”

  “Maybe his story is true.”

  “Yeah, and I’m the King of England.”

  “But you saw Fisch?”

  He picked up his empty glass and stared at it. “Like, maybe. I guess Isidor was known throughout the Bronx and down into Jersey, working one scheme or another. Selling animal pelts, I heard. But I remember him from one night there because he was loud and made a fool of himself.”

  “How so?”

  “He come there with someone. But he tried to pass a counterfeit bill to the bartender, who bagged him good. They started yelling at each other, and that’s how I noticed him. The bartender knew him—called him Izzy. They threw him out on his…rear end, pardon me, Miss Ferber.”

  “I know what a rear end is, Mr. Miller.”

  Color rose in his face. “Sorry about that.”

  “You tell this to the cops?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, but I guess lots of folks told them they seen Isidor or Bruno here and there…taking a subway, walking in the cemetery. Strolling down the street. And I’m not sure.”

  “Of course you’re sure.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I suppose I am.” He watched me closely. “After he left, the bartender—hey, I know the guy, he’s Joe Morelli, a buddy from work years back—he tells me this guy Isidor deals in hot money.”

  “Hot money? I don’t understand.”

  He checked to see whether any diners nearby were listening. He lowered his voice. “Like counterfeit or stolen money. Like he buys it from someone, not at face value ’cuz it’s trouble, dangerous, and he starts to unload it. You know, pass it here and there. The seller makes a safe buck—Izzy has all the risk. He makes a buck or two. It’s dangerous but Isidor was a swindler, slippery as an eel.”

  “Is there any chance Violet Sharp knew Isidor?”

  “I don’t think so. Why would their paths cross?”

  “True.” I thought of something. “I wonder if he ever came with his friend Bruno?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “’Cuz I talked to Joe after Bruno’s arrest and all. Christ, it was all over the papers—his mug shot. He said he’d remember if Bruno ever walked in. It never happened.”

  “But he remembered Isidor.”

  “As I say, everyone sooner or later bumped into Isidor. But you had to keep your hand on your wallet when he was around.”

  “But Violet…”

  He held up his hand. “I gotta go, ma’am. I think I talked enough. You know, all this scares the willies out of me, this talk. Christ, a baby died, Isidor died back in Germany, that butler Ollie Whately at Hopewell died, Violet died.”

  “Yes—” I started, but he was already sliding out of the booth.

  He spat out the words. “And this Bruno fellow is gonna die.” He stood up, waited for me to hand the waitress a few dollars, though he looked embarrassed that I paid the bill for dinner, and he placed his fedora on his head, pulled down over his forehead. He tipped it jauntily, and smiled, half-bowing. “My friends say I talk too much.”

  “I’m not complaining.”

  We walked out of the restaurant together and he said good night again, thanking me again for the twenty dollars. He offered to call me a cab, though I refused, bidding him good night. He headed north to a subway stop.

  Standing under a streetlight, gazing up at the light snow drifting across the murky lights, I breathed in. A beautiful night, but bone-chilling. I stepped into the street to hail a cab.

  Shivering from the cold, I pulled my scarf closer, covered my lower face, and turned away from a sudden blast of sleet. Distracted, I searched up Arthur Avenue, but saw no familiar taxi lights. I walked down to the corner, hoping the busy intersection was a better place to grab a ride downtown.

  A squeal of tires. A horn blared. I swiveled in time to see a dark car careening from
the opposite side of the street, a speeding car that maneuvered in front of another car—another blast of angry horn—and, to my amazement, the car sped across the busy avenue and headed toward me.

  Instinctively, I panicked, jumped back onto the curb but not in time to escape the fender of the car that grazed my side. I fell against the bumper of a parked car, staggered a second, righted myself, and watched the errant car, which didn’t pause but headed south, blaze through a red light, now back on the correct side of the street. I gasped for breath.

  “You all right, lady?” a man yelled out.

  I stammered, “Yes, I…”

  “Hey, maybe it’s me, but it looked like that car was aiming for you. Bull’s-eye.”

  “I don’t…”

  He laughed. “You got some enemies in this part of town, lady?”

  I didn’t answer. My eyes followed the taillights of the black car that was a block or two south now. It sped through another red light. Horns blared. A woman screamed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I barely slept that night, the brutal image of that shadowy car and unseen driver kept slapping me awake. I’d doze off, then sit up suddenly, snapped awake by a machine barreling toward me, purposeful, deadly. In the morning, showered but still droopy-eyed, I drank a cup of steaming coffee, ignored the conversation of my mother, and then went down to the lobby after the doorman called up to say my ride had arrived. Six a.m., the city waking up, and the town car idled in front. James opened the door and I slid in.

  “Good morning, Miss Ferber.” From Marcus, a little too cheerful for the hour.

  I wasn’t alone. In the rear seat sat two staff members from the Times—a photographer I knew as Sammy and Irma Selz, a talented young woman who did line drawings and got on my nerves because her caricatures of me always depicted me as a wild-eyed martinet. She once drew me with a lariat flying high about my head. Annie Oakley with a pronounced Semitic nose.

  I decided to sleep during the two-hour trek back to Flemington, though I feared Miss Selz might sketch me with my head lolling, mouth agape, puddles of drool gathering on the corners of my lips. And, given the scare I’d experienced last night, she’d probably catch the tension in my brow, the twitching of my hands in my lap. Worse, I’d probably babble in my sleep, some garbled nightmare that would be used to regale the editorial rooms of the Times for days on end. I didn’t care. I dozed off.