“The maid Violet Sharpe, who killed herself,” she continued, “and this older man, who was supposed to be a butler for the Lindberghs, they often come to that church. I think they were members.”
“One of the butlers was named Septimus Banks,” I said. My nerves were jumping, suddenly.
“I don’t think that’s the name.”
“Another was Oliver Whately.”
“That is the name.”
Evalyn set her coffee cup down clatteringly.
“This is important, Gerta!” I said. “Haven’t you ever told anybody this?”
She shrugged. “Nobody asked.” She lowered her head, embarrassed. “I didn’t want to get Richard in trouble.”
“In trouble?”
“If they knew his friend Fisch knew those Lindbergh people…well…Carl thought we should say nothing.”
“But this helps confirm Hauptmann’s claims about Fisch.”
She shook her head, sadly. “Nobody believed the ‘Fisch story.’ How could this help? It could only hurt.”
My head was reeling. “Where was this church?”
She drew back the curtain and pointed. “Just across the street.”
“Across the street?”
“Izzy always say it was very interesting. They call it the One Hundred Twenty-Seventh Street Spiritualist Church…Mr. Heller? Nate?”
I was standing; looking out the window. My heart was racing. “Is it still there?”
“I don’t think so. I think they move it…”
“Thank you, Gerta, you’ve been very kind.” I nodded to Evalyn, who got the point and got up. “We may be back…”
“I’m sure Carl would be glad to talk to you,” she said, following along after us. “If you need to talk to me, alone, Nate, I’m here all day by myself, most days…’less I’m helping Anna.”
At the door I took Gerta’ s hand and squeezed it and soon we were down on the sidewalk and Evalyn was saying, “What’s the rush? What’s going on?”
“I could kick myself,” I said. “How could I not make the connection?”
“What connection?”
I got in the trunk of the Packard and opened my suitcase and fumbled for my packet of field notes from ’32. 1 thumbed through the notebook pages quickly, like a jumbled card hand I was trying to make sense of.
“Here,” I said, my finger on the line. “The address is 164 East 127th. Damn! How could I not put this together.”
“Put what together?”
I got my nine millimeter out of my suitcase, slipped it in my topcoat pocket, shut the trunk back up.
“Come on,” I said. I cut diagonally across the street, getting honked at by a cabbie, to whom I displayed my middle finger, as Evalyn hustled along behind me, doing the best she could in her heels.
Then we were standing before a storefront; it was a shoe-repair shop. The number was 164.
“This used to be a spiritualist church,” I said, “run by a pair called Martin Marinelli and Sarah Sivella. They were the spiritualists who, a few days after the kidnapping, made some startling ‘predictions’ about the case.”
“Oh my. I think I remember you telling me this…”
“They conjured up the name ‘Jafsie’ before Condon was on the scene, before Condon claimed he’d even thought of the moniker. They predicted a ransom note would be delivered to Colonel Breckinridge’s office. They even predicted the body of a baby would be found in the Sourland Mountains.”
“Good Lord! And Isidor Fisch was in their congregation? And Violet Sharpe? And Whately?”
I nodded. I put a hand on her shoulder. “We have to find those fakers, Evalyn. Today.”
And I got lucky, fast: the guy behind the shoe-repair counter knew where the church had been relocated. It was called the Temple of Divine Power, now.
“Over on 114th,” the guy said. “Near the East River.”
“That’s not far, is it?”
“Hell, no. You could walk it.”
We drove.
32
The Temple of Divine Power announced itself in white letters against a large front window painted a vivid blue; the meeting hours were “2-6-8-10 P.M., Friday through Sunday.” The sign stuck in the window said “Closed,” with a phone number for “Personal Consultations” below, as well as the name “Rev. M. J. Marinelli.” Three steps led up to a similarly blue, painted-out door labeled in white letters, “Entrance.” The temple was only half a storefront: the other half was taken up by a small Italian deli.
Behind a couple garbage cans was a walk-down to a basement apartment; I went down the steps and knocked on the door and got no response.
