“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I wish I could have done more.”
“You wanted to. Sometimes…I wonder how things might be different, if I’d listened to you.”
“Not much. Frankly…if you’ll forgive my bluntness, Colonel, it’s obvious your son died the night of the kidnapping. Nothing we could have done differently would change that.”
“Those evil bastards would be in jail now.”
“Maybe. But this clown Hauptmann will cough up his accomplices. Wait and see.”
I heard him sigh. Then he said: “That’s what we’re counting on. I understand you’re in private practice, now.”
“That’s right. A-l Detective Agency. I’m the president. Also the janitor.”
He laughed. “Same old Nate. If I ever need a detective, I know who to call.”
“Right,” I said. “Frank Wilson.”
He laughed again, wished me well, and I wished him and Anne and their new son the same. And that was that.
It felt strange, sitting on the sidelines, after having been in the midst of this famous affair, early on. Not that I minded. Sometimes I thought about Lindbergh; fairly frequently I thought about Evalyn. Bittersweet memories.
Nonetheless, it was reassuring knowing that this case was behind me—that it was, in fact, virtually solved.
3
THE LONE WOLF
MARCH 13–APRIL 4, 1936
26
It was a little after nine o’clock on a morning that, judging by what I could see past my scenic view of the el, was overcast and unpromising. Friday the thirteenth—not that I put much stock in luck, bad or good or otherwise. Looking back, though, I’d have to say that this particular day lived up to its reputation.
When the phone rang on my desk, however, right next to my crossed feet in their argyle socks with holes that only showed when my shoes were off, which they were, I was blissfully unaware of anything except the sports section of the
I damn near spilled the coffee and about knocked the phone off the desk with my feet. That misshapen black object didn’t ring that often. I had a large office, but it was just the one big room, which I also lived in, on the fourth and final floor of a building at Van Buren and Plymouth that additionally housed a palm reader, an abortionist and two or three shysters, among other agents of free enterprise, with a flophouse next door. Most of my business, these days, was established—primarily retail credit checks for the suburban financial institutions who were the backbone of my bankbook. There was also the occasional divorce job, but for some psychological reason, those were almost always walk-ins: some sad man, or woman, but usually man, would stumble in red-eyed, feeling guilty as Cain, and hire me to confirm his or her worst fears. With photos.
I slipped my feet into my shoes—wouldn’t do to greet business in my socks, even over the phone—and said, “A-1 Detective Agency, Nathan Heller speaking.”
Before I’d even gotten those words out, I realized the static in my ear was announcing that rarity of rarities: a long-distance call.
“Mr. Heller,” a female voice said, operator-efficient, “can you hold the line? We have a call for you from the governor.”
“The governor?” I sat up and straightened my tie. I had no respect for any politician, but I didn’t get calls like this often. Make that, ever.
“Hold please,” she said again.
And I listened to the scratchy sound of taxpayers’ money drifting carelessly away. What the hell would Governor Homer want with me?
“Mr. Heller,” a reassuring baritone voice intoned; even over the crackly wire, it was an impressive voice. “This is Governor Hoffman.”
I’d heard him right, but nonetheless, stupidly, I said, “Governor Homer?”
“No,” he said, with the faintest edge of irritation. “Hoffman. I’m calling from Trenton.”
“Oh! Governor Hoffman.”
I wasn’t speaking to the governor of Illinois; I was speaking to the Governor of New Jersey. I recognized his name not because I was politically astute, but because I’d seen it in the papers recently.
“As you may know, Mr. Heller, an inordinate amount of my time and energy, over the past several months, has been wrapped up in the Lindbergh case. Or, to be precise, the Hauptmann case.”
“Yes, sir.”
Governor Hoffman was the center of a controversy that extended well beyond New Jersey state lines. The convicted kidnapper—actually, convicted murderer—found responsible for the Lindbergh crime had been taken under the governor’s wing, so to speak. A month or so back, Hoffman had granted Bruno Hauptmann a thirty-day reprieve.
‘The prisoner’s reprieve ran out several days ago,” Hoffman said; his voice conveyed both sadness and frustration. “And I’m not going to issue another one.”
“I see,” I said, not seeing at all.
“The new date for execution has been set for March thirtieth. I intend to see that the time we have remaining is well used.”
