Cold Morning

by Ed Ifkovic

  “Really?”

  “You don’t believe he’s guilty.”

  “You’ve heard me say that?” I asked him.

  “No, you never did, in fact, but Willie and I talk about your—excursions. Montclair Manor. Hopewell. He’s heard Mr. Woollcott discussing you with Kathleen Norris.”

  “I can just imagine that chat.”

  “He thinks you can’t put all the pieces together. A mystery that bothers you. Something missing. And it has nothing to do with Hauptmann.”

  “He’s going to die.”

  “Of course.”

  “But why?”

  “Somebody has to die for the crime. It might as well be him.”

  I laughed an unfunny laugh. “My, my, the younger generation is more cynical than I thought.”

  “That’s because we read Hemingway.”

  I tapped the back of the front seat. “You read Hemingway?”

  “Being a driver means you gotta sit and wait long hours. Willie reads the New York Mirror. Walter Winchell is his god.”

  I grumbled, “Well, he’s worshipping a false idol there.”

  Marcus chuckled. “I was in Europe after the war. I saw the lost generation.”

  “Are you lost, Marcus?”

  “I hope so.”

  He sped up, wove his way though a snarl of traffic, and mumbled about the weather as a sudden sweep of sleet covered the windshield. He switched on the wipers. He peered through the opaque window, his lips moving in a silent curse. He was through talking.

  In Manhattan, I sipped bad coffee at the Times offices with the young woman who coordinated the columns on the trial, and I listened patiently as she eagerly spoke of the response my work had garnered. “Controversy,” she hummed, ecstatic. “A brilliant idea to publish your work and Mr. Woollcott’s next to each other. We hadn’t expected such brouhaha.”

  “A wonderful idea,” I said, but my sarcastic tone made her eyes pop.

  “What?”

  “No more columns,” I told her.

  “But…” she sputtered.

  I held up my hand. “My work is done. The jury is probably returning with a verdict as we sit here. I watched them file out, heads averted from that poor sap.”

  “Mr. Woollcott, I gather, has agreed to write the captions with commentary for a series of photographs for Look magazine.”

  “Yes, well, once his vitriolic faucets are turned on, the bile runs forever.”

  She smiled thinly. “He has become quite adamant.”

  “A madman, that one.”

  “I wish you’d reconsider. I thought your portrait of Violet Sharp, as well as your paragraphs on Anna Hauptmann, well, they were touching. Invisible women made eerily visible.”

  “Thank you but—no.” I stood. “I have to get back. Loose ends. I’m checking out tomorrow morning. Frankly, I hope never to return to Flemington, New Jersey.”

  “A quaint town.”

  “A phrase used over and over in the press.” I looked into her face. “To me, it has the power to incite a digestive surprise.”

  Before I left she handed me a burgundy accordion file. “You got more letters, Miss Ferber. Our readers have things to tell you.”

  “Oh, joy.” I took the file from her and glanced inside: perhaps fifty handwritten or typed envelopes. Miss Ferber, New York Times. Important, said one. I’ll bet. Harangues and threats and recriminations and—and maybe a few heartfelt congratulations and huzzahs. Bedtime reading as the sun went down in Flemington.

  Outside Marcus opened the back door and reached for the file. “No,” I said, “it’s not that heavy, although the contents may weigh me down.”

  He laughed. “They give you homework at the Times?”

  I laughed back. “Only detention, young man. A dunce cap in a corner.”

  That puzzled him but he shrugged and slid into the driver’s seat.

  I debated reading the mail, but thought—no, why ruin a pleasant ride? But as Marcus adroitly maneuvered the car out of the city, cruising through northern New Jersey farm fields, swamp land, and pitiful industrial blight, I found myself dozing off, exhausted, spent.

  I startled myself awake with an embarrassing yelp, and heard Marcus chuckle. A rush of nightmarish images flooded me, traces of snapshots from my subconscious: a locked room with a door that wouldn’t open, a snow shower that blinded me, pellets of sleet that turned to stones, screaming from the walls of an asylum. A kaleidoscope of frightful images that smashed together, clamored for attention and then dissipated.

  Then, like a blow to the face, I felt that I knew something—right there, nagging at the edge of my consciousness. But what? Something revealed in that mishmash of nightmares. What? I knew something, but it was out of reach. The car cruised along, hit a bump, jarred. Whatever it was slipped away.

  As we neared Flemington, I got restless, angry that I couldn’t pinpoint whatever I understood that I knew.

  “You looked like you were far away, Miss Ferber,” Marcus commented, staring at me through the rearview mirror.

  I didn’t answer.

  Idly, watching the stream of cars headed into Flemington, doubtless to await the verdict—I assumed the jury was still out, given the lack of horn tooting and celebratory fireworks and picnics in the empty courtroom—I rifled through the file. I tore open one long crumpled envelope and glanced at the block letters: Your not America are you. Cant you see that monster is a killer a German. I pushed it aside. No, not this. God, no.

  A long manila envelope was mixed in with the rest. A note from George Kaufman scribbled on it: doubtless he sent it via messenger to the Times. Edna, someone remembered your man, played a bit part with him, and knew his real name. Stage name rang a bell. Had his agency send info. Hope it makes you happy. Cheers. George.

  Big bold lettering across the envelope: ELIOT TANNICK TALENT AGENCY. And an address on the seventh floor in a building on Forty-first Street. I never heard of it.

  Marcus was mumbling. “Look at this traffic.”

  I glanced up. A steady stream of cars headed toward the courthouse. Marcus slowed down and inched along. “Lord.” He glanced into the backseat. “Hope you’re patient.”

  “What choice do I have?”

  I ripped open the envelope and slipped out an eight-by-ten black-and-white glossy photograph of an actor named Danny Winter. Someone had scribbled at the top: Blake Somerville.

  I caught my breath.

  Marcus skirted the traffic and pulled over to the curb, braked. Glancing up, I could see a crowd of people gathered in front of the Union Hotel and the courthouse, a block away. Quiet, though—a crowd that waited. The street was blocked.

  Marcus turned to face me. His eyes drifted down to the photograph in my lap.

  “I was waiting, Miss Ferber. It was just a matter of time.”

  “Marcus,” I managed to choke out.

  “You can call me Blake.” He laughed. “Or Danny Winter. Or Summer.”

  “But…”

  “I knew you’d finally put it together.”

  “I don’t understand.” Wildly, I looked back toward the Union Hotel.

  “Of course, you do.”

  Then, in a flash, that growing seed rushed back at me—that inkling I’d had as I struggled to wake up. Riding in the car…yes…riding in the car with Marcus during the first days of the trial. Now, in a small, faraway voice, I said, “England. You mentioned England. When I asked you about Annabel’s murder and the piece in the local paper, you said she should have stayed in England. The article said Chicago. No mention of England.”

  Grinning, he pointed a finger at me. “Very good. I slipped up. I didn’t catch that myself.”

  My mind roiled. “Then…then.” Yes, a flood of snapshots that came together. “You were avoiding Dwight Morrow, weren’t you?”

&
nbsp; “Of course.”

  “That time he was on the corner when he was with his sister. You turned off the street, that shortcut that wasn’t. Had we driven by slowly, he might have looked into the car and…”

  “And seen me. Of course.”

  “Montclair Manor.” My voice shook. “You backed out of being the driver.”

  “Very good. Old friends there, dangerous to be seen chauffeuring you and that fat fool. ‘Hello, Blake. You driving famous people now?’ No, no, no.”

  “But why come here?”

  A piercing, harsh laugh, a little crazy. “This is a spectacle hard to miss, true, but I had to be sure I could keep my party going.”

  “Your party?”

  “The thrills.” His face hardened. “And that greedy bitch Annabel threatened that.”

  It all made sense—or did it? I snarled, “Well, I’m afraid the party’s over, Marcus or whoever.” I reached for the door latch, but Marcus’ hand suddenly jutted between the front seats. He was holding a revolver, and it was pointed at me.

  “I suggest you not move, Miss Ferber.”

  A chill ran up my spine.

  “Marcus, you cannot think that you can do this in broad daylight—people all around.”

  “Shut up now.” A nervous twitch to his voice. Then an insane giggle. “You’re gonna have to die, I’m afraid. I have found you amusing, you and that fat piece of taffy, Woollcott.” A pause. “You more than him. I appreciate cleverness, the way your mind works. You’re probably the only intelligent woman I ever did battle with. Most women wilt—I don’t think you allow that in yourself. Noble, really. As for Woollcott—he’s like a box of soft candy you want to step on.”

  “Should I thank you for the compliment?”

  “You can do whatever you want.”

  I tried to remain calm. “Tell me what this is all about. At least let me know what brought it all about.”

  I glanced out the window, anxious to see someone walking by perhaps. Anyone—a stranger. I planned to pound on the window. If I could roll down the window—yell to the crowd at the courthouse. Maybe. Or, if Marcus got distracted, fly out of the car. Something. Anything. I had no intention of ending my life in the presence of a lout.

  “Well, quite simply, Violet Sharp.”

  “Tell me.” I kept my voice firm.

  “A foolish maid, easily prey to flattery and promises of impossible love. Quite pretty, really, though too plump for a young girl.”

  “And Annabel?”

  “Well, of course, I knew that Violet wrote constant letters to Annabel in Chicago, telling of her lovely position in the Morrow household, of this pleasure, that grace. Lah-di-dah crap. Intoxicated with wealth and status, of which she had none. Nor would she ever have any. But she could be fun. Illicit visits to speakeasies, forbidden moves in the rumble seat of a car, all things Mrs. Morrow would never tolerate. Such vampish conduct. Oh, my. So be it. I told her not to write to Annabel, made her promise, but I knew she did.”

  “But this kidnapping?”

  He scoffed. “Oh, that. A foolish prank, gone wrong. An insane prank, but then”—he grinned widely—“I was confined to a nuthouse for a bit by my myopic family.”

  “You and Dwight?”

  “Ah, misguided Dwight, so easily maneuvered into foolishness. ‘Nobody likes me, nobody likes me. Everybody likes that damned aviator.’ Tiresome, that mantra. And Colonel Lindbergh had no use for the namby-pamby brother-in-law who doted on his sister.”

  “Lindbergh played pranks on him?”

  “All the time. Lindbergh is himself a simple farm boy, cagey but simple, a dictator to his family. Happiest when he’s off the ground.”

  “But a little baby…?”

  “I convinced Dwight to do it. A lark. I mean, Lindbergh toyed with the baby—an emotionless slob. Christ, one time he dropped the baby in the tub—and laughed.” Marcus lowered his voice. ‘Make him a man.’ Another time he hid the baby from Anne. Yes, for a few minutes, but that gave me the idea.”

  “But why would you do it?”

  “Simple. I needed the money. As you’ve discovered, my family disowned me. I like to gad about, travel, live it up, fool people. I’m a schemer, Miss Ferber. The only joy I have. Of course, some would say I should be locked up in a loony bin, but I disagree. They already tried that. I add spice to prosaic lives.”

  “A little baby,” I stressed.

  “We had it worked out. Or, at least, I convinced Dwight it would work. He did whatever I said. He didn’t want to hurt the baby, of course—just the Colonel.”

  “You took the baby?”

  “Who else? Hauptmann? Really? A stranger in a dark room stumbling over furniture and screen? At nine at night? I’d been to Hopewell with Dwight when they were building it. I’d been in that nursery. I knew that shutter wouldn’t latch. I heard Anne complaining about it. I knew the routines of the Lindberghs. They’re simple people, though I only met Anne once—I avoided the Colonel.”

  “The ladder?”

  “Some old thing I found in the family barn. Not even a real ladder—a handyman made it for our childhood games years ago.”

  “But I don’t see…”

  “Violet called to say the Lindberghs were at Hopewell that night. After all, security at Next Day Hill was impressive. So I drove there. Dwight was at Amherst, of course. He didn’t know that was the night, if he even really believed we’d actually do it. He liked to talk about it. A mind game we played. I was going to take the little fellow, and Violet’s sister, Emily, would watch him for a week, maybe more—Mrs. Chilton was traveling in Europe that winter and the house was empty—until the ransom was paid—to me.”

  “But the baby died.”

  “Unfortunately. The rung of the ladder broke and all fall down, as they say in nursery rhymes. The baby’s head was crushed.”

  I shuddered. “So the plans shifted.”

  “Dwight panicked, hid away in his rooms, cried, saw the devil wagging a finger at him, said never never never call him again. Violet cracked under the pressure. Especially because after the third interview I knew she’d give us away. So I told her she’d be getting the electric chair anyway—buzz hiss bang—and, well, it’s best if you check out, darling. Taste the silver polish. That’s a nice girl. It’ll only hurt for a second.”

  “But she’d already written to Annabel. She’d described the prank.”

  He banged the back of the seat. “Exactly. I knew she’d written letters—and one last letter in which she talked of the whole damned scheme.”

  “And so you came here.”

  “As I say, I don’t want my life interrupted.”

  “I don’t understand. The ransom note sounded like it was written by a German immigrant. And the meetings with Dr. Condon in the cemetery—he described a German or Scandinavian immigrant.”

  Marcus pointed to the glossy photo that still rested in my lap. “Danny Winter. And the agency said I was a lousy actor. I played a German immigrant in that dreadful farce, A Fraulein in Blue. A small part, failed. But I had to employ a vaudeville German accent. Achtung, honeybunch. After the war I lived with my father in Berlin, rebuilding that horrible country. I was young, and frankly I made many an impoverished fraulein, well, blue. The Germans are a miserable people, cocky, nasty, even though they lost a war. Christ, you look at them the wrong way and we are back at war. They should be exterminated. To a man. And every frau and fraulein. Frankly.”

  “So you posed as a German. You wrote the note—you met Dr. Condon in the cemetery.”

  He bowed his head. “My best acting performance.”

  “And poor Hauptmann is not guilty of murder.”

  “Well, he’s probably guilty of something. Everyone is.”

  “But not the murder of the Lindbergh baby.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it murder.
A dropped child. An accident.”

  “Murder,” I thundered. “And you are responsible for the murder of…Bruno Hauptmann.”

  “Calm down, lady. Your last moments should be serene.” A deep chuckle. “Bruno—one more expendable immigrant. And an illegal one at that. They’re all over the place. They have to have some use, no? Why not die for a rich boy? It’s happened before.”

  “So you had to kill Annabel?”

  “That greedy girl wrote a letter to Dwight. It began with a dramatic paragraph: ‘I know.’ Lovely girl. She wanted lots of money to shut her trap. Foolishly she said she’d be here, in Flemington, assuming he’d be a part of the trial. She’d meet him here. Make arrangements. Christ, she gave him her address! Or she could have a few words with Colonel Lindbergh! Of course Dwight was running scared, and called me. He told me she was here, but he warned me to stay away. I could tell he immediately regretted telling me. ‘Please stay away, Blake. For God’s sake. Enough. Enough.’ Not—not enough. The play still had another act or two.”

  “You had to come here?”

  “Of course. I lied—told him, sure, I’ll stay away. He foolishly thought she’d drift away. Maybe he’d give her a few bucks—I don’t know. He was rattled. No one knows a thing, he said. Except Annabel, I thought. That’s why I didn’t want him to spot me driving the car. You were clever with that, Miss Ferber. He’d have caused trouble for me.”

  “So you were the shadow watching her.”

  “Yes, in fact, I saw you that fateful morning. You really are a nosy woman, Miss Ferber.”

  “Yes, I’ve been told that.”

  “You also became a dangerous woman. But Annabel was more dangerous. She could mess up my life.”

  “Where is the money?”

  That surprised him. “Well, that was a wrinkle, especially when Roosevelt called for the gold certificates to be turned in. I was sitting on cash difficult to unload. So I sold a bunch of the gold certificates to Isidor Fisch, a man who played that game. I got my share, and away I went. He was greedy, too. And so he left them with Bruno. Or maybe Bruno was in on it all along—money in his pocket. Another greedy man. Lord, I’m surrounded by poor folks demanding money. What kind of world is this?”