by Jack Martin
“Colonel, I shouldn’t be troubling you at this time. I know you’ve told your story to the other agents, but would you please tell it to me one more time? Afterwards, I can leave you to recuperate your strength.”
“There isn’t much to tell, Bierce. I’d gotten home late from the bank, so it was after dark. Didn’t notice anything as I parked the Buick out front. Of course, I had no reason to suspect anything was wrong. No lights were on in the house, but that wasn’t strange. My cook and maid live in town, and always leave around sunset. No, wait. Damn it, there was something! The porch light was out. The maid always leaves it on if she goes home before I get back, so I don’t have to fumble with the key. Goddamn it! I never would have missed that detail in the War.”
“Don’t blame yourself, sir. This is rural Oklahoma, not the Marne. I’m sure most people hereabouts don’t even lock their doors at night. Go on.”
“Well, it took me a few moments to open the door. I step inside to find the switch for the parlor light when I’m grabbed from behind and someone jams a damn sack over my head. I try to get free, but someone hits me with something hard, maybe a gun barrel. I don’t think I lost consciousness altogether, but I was sure as hell stunned. By the time my mind was clear, they had tied my hands behind my back and were hustling me out the kitchen door.”
“How did you know it was the kitchen door?”
“Kitchen floor’s covered with linoleum, makes a distinctive crackling sound when you walk on it. Then they hustle me into a car they’d hidden out back, and took off like a bat out of hell. During all this, they never said a word.”
“Pity you couldn’t see the car. That could have been a real help.”
“Can’t tell you the color, but I can tell you for sure it was one of those new Ford V-8s.”
Surprised, Bierce asked, “How do you know?”
“Sound was that of a big engine, but it was the rough roar of the new Fords, not the smooth sound of a Packard or Cadillac. Anyway, the Ford is the only cheap car with an eight, and I don’t figure kidnappers would draw attention to themselves with a expensive car that would draw stares.”
“Do you have any hints as to where they held you?”
“Like I told the other agents, they drove me for what seemed like an hour to an hour and a quarter, then the road turned rough for a couple of minutes, and then we stopped. They hustled me into some abandoned farmhouse.”
“How were you certain of that, sir?”
“They kept me there the next few days, and during that time they kept a hood over my head and my hands tied behind my back. Gave me bits of bread and water from time to time, slipping it under the edge of the hood, so I could never get a clear look at them. Still, they couldn’t keep me from noticing that there were no sounds coming from the outside, either passing traffic or animal noises. Had to be an abandoned farmhouse.”
“So, as I understand it, it took them about four days to arrange for the family to collect $200,000 in cash. Did you overhear any of their calls to your family?”
“Nope. They must have made calls from payphones. Nevertheless, I did hear them talk from time to time. Pretty sure there were only three of them; two men, and a woman. Gave me some bad moments towards the end.”
“How was that, sir?”
“It was after they had collected the ransom. Some real arguing broke out. The woman—Kathryn the men called her—said that as they now had the money, they should bump me off, to make sure I could tell the police nothing. Strange, it was the men who wouldn’t have it. One man whose name I never got said he hadn’t signed on for murder and he wasn’t going to fry, not even for his share of $200,000. The other joker—George, the others called him, so I guess he was Machine Gun Kelly himself—agreed with him and started a real cussing contest with the woman. I suppose the other palooka snuck off unnoticed while they were fighting, because the woman screamed that he was gone and they needed to grease me now and scram. Thought my time had well and truly come. But then I heard the sound of someone getting her chops slapped, and Kelly said there would be no cold-blooded murders on his watch. They would take the money and skidoo, leaving me to work myself free as best I could. Then I heard the faint noises of them loading the Ford, gunning the engine, and taking off like a bat out of hell. When I was sure that they were gone, I started squirming along the floor until I worked the hood off, then managed to get to my feet by bracing my back against a wall. Then I was able to find a door-jamb where a missing piece of wood left a sharp edge. After about four hours, I was able to wear through the rope and free myself. Then I started walking. It took me half an hour to reach the county road, and an hour more to come across a working farm. The good people there didn’t have a phone, but they treated me right kindly, and drove me into the county seat in their Model T. The rest you know.”
“You don’t mention that you collapsed at that farmhouse, and they rushed you to the hospital first,” said Bierce gently.
“That didn’t matter much,” replied Urshel gruffly.
“One final thing, sir, before I leave you to rest up from your ordeal. When the man and woman were getting ready to flee, did you hear any words that might give a clue as to their destination?”
“Nothing that seemed important,” came the old man’s reply. “Oh, over the days I heard them talking about their plans after they got the ransom. Those plans weren’t too solid. Sometimes they talked about getting to Mexico, other times to Cuba or Barbados, that kind of thing. Kelly did seem smart enough to know they would have to lay low for months; the border crossings and ports would be watched for some time. Once he said that they could rest up in the hideout he had rented. Said to that Kathryn bitch that it would be plenty safe to go out to the store and the park after dark, so they wouldn’t have to stay cooped up.” The old man turned thoughtful for a moment. “Hold on. I think he once said something about Overton being safe at night. Does that mean anything to you, Bierce?”
The agent seemed lost in thought for a moment. He then favored his old commander with a smile and said, “It may very well. I will need to check on a few things.”
“Care to tell an old man where your train of thought is headed?”
“With respect, sir, I would like to hold off until I’m certain. I never like to make claims until I am certain of the facts.”
Urshel chuckled. “I remember that well and how it used to drive Pershing near insane. He used to damn you to hell one minute, then grumble that if you weren’t correct one hundred percent of the time, he’d have courtmartialed you. That was a good team we had, Bierce. Damn good men.”
Bierce rose. “Sir, I have bothered you long enough. Do take care of yourself. I want you around for many years to come.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Bierce, but that’s not up to me.” Urshel extended his hand and Bierce shook it firmly. Then Bierce took two steps back, saluted the old man formally, then turned and left the room.
Every so often Rorer shot a glance at his passenger and frowned at the way Bierce sat placidly, his attention obviously turned inward. Since leaving Urshel’s place, they’d been driving in silence for a quarter of an hour, Bierce volunteering nothing about how he and the old banker knew each other. Rorer’s fingers gripped the steering wheel until they were white, as if the not-knowing was coiling up inside him in a hot ball of anger.
Suddenly Bierce spoke and Rorer nearly jumped out of his seat, jerking the wheel as if he’d been shot at. “You and your men must accompany me to Memphis. There is a night train we can catch from Oklahoma City.”
“Why the hell should we do that?” Rorer yelled, attempting to get the car back under control.
“Because that is where Machine Gun Kelly is. We are going to take him, preferably alive. I promised you and your people credit for the collar, and I live up to my promises. It would be hard to assign credit to you if you are not there.”
Rorer started to say something extremely rude, but thought better of it. Something about the way old Urshel h
ad treated Bierce warned him that the young agent was someone with whom he should not trifle. Instead, Rorer asked a simple question.
“Why Memphis?”
“Because of something Colonel Urshel told me. He said that Kelly and Kathryn had talked of going to places like Mexico, Cuba, Barbados.”
“Yeah, so? Makes sense that someone with two-hundred grand would skip the country, and head to a place from which we are unlikely to ever extradite them.”
Bierce favored the driver with a tight smile. “Notice that the places mentioned are all easily accessible by water. The best place to take ship to any of those places is New Orleans, but the criminals dare not board a vessel immediately. All the police are on the lookout for them. They will wait a month or so until more recent criminal activity occupies the authorities’ attention.”
“But why New Orleans for sure? Why not a smaller port, like Mobile or Galveston?”
“Because even after the heat is off, they are most likely to be noticed in a small port with few departures. They are more inconspicuous among the confused bustle of a port such as New Orleans. Furthermore, it will be easier for them to get there with less chance of being recognized along the way. Just a straight shot down the Mississippi on a barge to the Big Easy, a few dollars to a deck hand, and they are home free.”
Rorer frowned. “What makes you so certain that they will go down the river, that they won’t drive or take the train?”
Once again, Bierce showed his tight, humorless smile. “There are greater chances of being recognized on the road or train then on a single river barge, where they won’t have to stop for gas or food. More importantly, they are hiding out virtually on the river. During your talks with Colonel Urshel, you must have heard him say how Kelly mentioned relaxing in Overton.”
“Yeah, but that didn’t seem to mean anything useful.”
“Agent Rorer, I am very familiar with the states of Kentucky and Tennessee, and with their principal cities. For Mr. George Barnes, Overton can only mean one thing. I am certain the gangster was referring to Overton Park, the largest park in Memphis, overlooking the Mississippi.”
George Barnes peeked through the curtains of the parlor window of the run-down bungalow and noted that the last traces of sunset were disappearing behind the treetops of Overton Park.
“It’s dark, Kathryn. Should be safe to take a stroll across the street. No one will recognize us at night.”
The redheaded, hard faced woman lounging on the run-down sofa emitted a most unladylike snort. “Another walk in the park? George, I swear, I’ll go bat-shit crazy if I don’t get some real night life.”
With a sigh, Barnes turned away from the window and studied his wife, briefly wondering how different his life would have been if he had not hooked up with such a greedy, selfish bitch. “I’ve told you time and again, we can’t appear in public during the day. Our mugs are in the papers more than Babe Ruth’s.”
Kathryn picked up a pack of Camels from an end table, shook out a cigarette, and lit it with a wooden match. Blowing smoke through her nostrils, she said, “Why don’t we make the run down to New Orleans, then? Hop on a boat to Havana or Jamaica? With two hundred grand, we’ll be on easy street for life.”
Barnes counted to ten before speaking. “Don’t you remember what that Louisiana shyster said? We wait until he gives us a call at this house to tell us which barge has been squared, then we hop on the barge to the Big Easy, pay him his twenty percent cut, and he’ll put us on a boat to Havana with fake passports—simple and easy, with most of the risks taken care of.”
Kathryn sighed and ground out her cigarette in the ashtray. “If you say so,” she muttered, “but no walks in that goddamn park tonight. I’d rather screw.”
As his wife slowly revealed her impressive assets, button by tantalizing button, George remembered why he put up with her.
Bierce and Rorer watched as the lights blinked out in the decrepit bungalow. They stood in the shadow of a tree across the street, hidden from view by the gangsters in the house, but watched warily by a dozen men and women—homeless refuse of the Depression—settling down for the night in the park, clutching about them filthy blankets if they were lucky, discarded newspapers if they were not.
“Your men are certain Barnes and his wife are the ones inside the house?” asked Bierce quietly.
“They are certain about George Barnes, less so about the woman. Last night the two went out to the market to buy some food. My men ambled in, and while pretending to make some purchases got a good look. It was Barnes, no question.”
“Your men are to be commended for not trying to make an arrest then. The two of them would have been on the alert and certainly armed. Your men might have been injured or killed. Perhaps even other shoppers.”
“Don’t like making the collar in the night,” muttered Rorer. “Chance of confusion and identifying wrong targets is too great. We should wait for morning.”
“Your concerns do you credit,” replied Bierce. “On the other hand, they will be least alert in the wee hours of the morning. Also, I have unusually good night vision and will be in the lead. You’ve told your men who are stationed around the back of the house that you and I will go in at midnight on the dot?”
“Yeah, and that they shouldn’t go into the house, just nab anyone coming out.”
“Fine. Now all we have to do is wait.”
The time passed with agonizing slowness. Impatiently, Rorer checked the luminous dial on his wristwatch every few minutes, grunting from time to time. Bierce did not check his own timepiece—an old-fashioned gold pocket watch—nor did he ever ask Rorer for the time, but just as Rorer was about to tell Bierce that midnight had come, Bierce drew a large Colt .45 from under his coat, working the slide to bring a round into the chamber.
“It is time, Agent Rorer. Follow me.” Without a backward glance, Bierce began to run across the street, leaving a surprised Rorer in a rush to keep up, clumsily drawing a revolver from beneath his own coat. Rorer had expected Bierce to at least slow down as he reached the bungalow’s front door, but the small agent hurled himself at the door without slowing. To Rorer’s amazement, Bierce knocked the door clean off its hinges, and ran with undiminished speed into the black interior of the house.
As Rorer reached the threshold, he heard Bierce shout “Federal Agents! Surrender or be killed!” The voice shocked Rorer, it was much deeper and far louder than Bierce’s normal speaking voice, yet was undoubtedly the voice of the small agent. Rorer scrabbled his free hand against the wall to the left of the doorway, found the switch, and flicked on the lights. Although the bulbs were weak, Rorer was blinded for a moment by the contrast with the night’s inky blackness. He heard a crash from the direction of the kitchen door, and his two agents, ignoring their orders, stumbled into the living room. Simultaneously, from what must have been the door to the darkened bedroom the sound of a man’s voice, high with terror, erupted.
“Don’t shoot, G-men! Don’t shoot!” Barnes shouted in a squeaky, terrified voice as he stumbled out of the bedroom, bleary eyed, hands high over his head, naked as a newborn babe. From behind him came the voice of a woman muttering curses, followed by the sound of a bolt being drawn back on a machine gun. In his impossibly deep voice, Bierce shouted, “Everyone hit the floor!” He then knocked the terrified gangster to the ground as he literally barreled over him into the dark bedroom. The single, deep boom of a .45 rang out, rapidly followed by a series of most unladylike obscenities. Rorer’s two men came up beside him, confusion written on their faces. Bierce called out in a more normal voice that he had everything under control.
Gruffly Rorer said, “Cuff the prisoner.” Then he sidled into the bedroom, revolver at the ready, and switched on the bedroom light to reveal Barnes’s wife, sprawled on the floor, tightly clutching her stomach, swearing like a sailor. He glanced over to Bierce, who was holding a Thompson submachine gun, carefully examining the weapon’s breach, which seemed to be damaged.
“Bi
erce, we need to get this woman to a hospital, pronto!”
Bierce shifted his attention to the senior agent and favored him with a wintry smile. “Mrs. Barnes’ most serious injury is to her pride. When she tried to turn the Thompson on me, I fired. My bullet hit the breach of the weapon, driving it hard into her stomach, and forcing her to drop it. I imagine it felt like being slugged by Joe Louis. Best have your men cuff her and take her down to the Federal building. She will recover from her shock soon enough, and she impresses me as a more dangerous customer than her husband.” Bierce carefully uncocked his automatic and restored it to his shoulder holster.
“I have to give it to you, Bierce,” said Rorer with grudging admiration. “Hitting the breach of the Tommy gun without putting a scratch on her is quite a feat of marksmanship.”
“I fear I do not deserve your praise. I was shooting to kill. Her gun just got in the way.”
Still handcuffed, George Barnes sat dejectedly in an interrogation room in the Memphis Federal Building. Across a steel-grey table from him sat an expressionless Harry Bierce, studying the gangster impassively.
After a long silence, Bierce finally spoke. “Well, George, you know you are very likely to get the chair.”
The prisoner’s head jerked up, eyes wide with panic. “But I didn’t kill nobody!”
Bierce shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Congress came down very hard on the issue of kidnapping after the death of the Lindbergh baby. The Lindbergh Act permits the death penalty even if no one died in the commission of the kidnapping. You know, George, it’s best for those determined to live a life of crime to keep track of the laws they break.”