“Uh…how so, Governor?”
“I’ve had several independent investigators working on this case, for several months, and I don’t intend to stop my efforts. In fact, with your help, I intend to step up those efforts.”
“My help?”
“You’ve come highly recommended, Mr. Heller.”
“Surely you haven’t run out of investigators out on the East Coast, Governor Hoffman. Unless there’s something that needs doing on the Chicago end…”
“You’re one of the few people alive aware that there
Eleventh-hour inquiry!
“Governor…if I may be frank?”
“Certainly.”
“The Lindbergh case was one of the most frustrating, convoluted, hopeless affairs I ever came in contact with. I’ve considered myself damn lucky to be out of that stew.”
There was a crackly pause on the line.
Then the baritone voice returned, stern now: “There is a good chance, Mr. Heller, that Bruno Richard Hauptmann is innocent. And it is a damn-near certainty that he was
“Maybe so…but from what I read, he probably was involved. Could be he’ll still talk, when all his legal parachutes have folded up. And finger the rest of his mob.”
The words came quickly now: “Mr. Heller, come to Trenton. Allow me to make my case. You’re under no obligation. I’ll wire you the money for your train tickets. You can settle your affairs in Chicago and travel on Sunday. We’ll meet in my office first thing Monday morning.”
“Governor, the Lindbergh case is the last thing I want to get involved with.”
“I can offer you a retainer of one thousand dollars against your standard fee. Which is?”
“Uh, twenty-five dollars a day,” I said, doubling it and then some, “and expenses.”
“Done,” the governor said.
“Done,” I said, and shrugged.
We both hung up.
I put my feet back up on the desk, loosened my tie, and said to nobody, “Isn’t this the damnedest turn of events?”
After spending the rest of the morning doing credit checks by phone, I treated myself to the finnan haddie at Binyon’s around the corner, heading down around eleven-thirty to beat the luncheon crowd. That was where I ran into Hal Davis of the
“Hey, Heller,” Davis said, cheerfully. “Eating regular and everything.” He was a small man with a big head and bright eyes; he looked about thirty, though he’d never see forty again. “Who died and left
“I got a client.”
“That is news,” Davis said. He took off his fedora and joined me, even though he was on his way out, raincoat over his arm. “Buy me a cup of coffee?”
“Yeah,” I said, “if you’ll buy me a beer, after.”
“Sure.” He waved a waiter over. Binyon’s was all dark paneling, wooden booths and businessmen. “So—what do you hear from your pal Nitti?”
I grimaced; the sweet taste of the fish went sour. “Davis, I told you a hundred million fucking times. I am
Davis smirked. “Yeah, yeah. Everybody knows Frank Nitti likes you, Nate. You done him favors.”
“I’m an ex-cop,” I sighed. “I know some Outfit guys. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“Ever since you testified in Nitti’s favor that time…”
“Drop it, Hal.”
“Okay, okay! What do you hear from Barney?”
He meant Barney Ross, the boxer, welterweight champ in fact, who was a friend of mine since we were kids together on the West Side, and who incidentally was my landlord. We discussed Barney’s flourishing boxing career —he had just KO’ed Lou Halper in Philly in eight—and half an hour later we were in the Shamrock, the bar next to the Dill Pickle. Barney used to own the place, and boxing and other sporting-world pics still decorated the dingy walls.
Davis must have smelled a story, because he bought me a total of four beers. And on the fourth, something in the back of my mind clicked—or maybe snapped—and I decided to let him in on my new client. The thought of the publicity, and what it might do for my business, suddenly sounded as good as the hardboiled egg I was eating.
“Governor Hoffman, huh,” Davis said, his eyes glittering. “You don’t really think that kraut Hauptmann is innocent, do you?”
