Elsie brought me my coffee, and Betty the cream and sugar. Normally I drank mine black, but I stirred some sugar in, and cream, too. We’d both had Elsie’s coffee before.
“I understand your friend Red Johnson is dropping by today,” I said.
“I don’t think ‘dropping by’ is exactly how I’d put it.”
“He hasn’t been arrested.”
“No. But he’s in custody.” She added more sugar, stirred, looked into the muddy liquid.
“I hope you don’t mind talking, a little.”
Her smile was tight and pretty and sarcastic. “Do I have a choice?”
“Well, sure. You’re free, white and twenty-one…barely. And Colonel Lindbergh has asked me to help look into this.” Of course, he’d have me on the next train out of here if he knew I was ignoring his request to leave the help alone.
“It was my understanding,” she said, “that the Colonel only wants to get his son back. That pursuing those responsible is not his inclination, at this point.”
“I think that’s right. But I’m a cop, Miss Gow. I’d like to try to understand what happened that night.”
She sipped her coffee; her eyes looked right past me, cold, unblinking, and a bit bloodshot.
“You talked to Red Johnson on the telephone, didn’t you?” I asked. “The night of the kidnapping?”
She nodded. “He called me about eight-thirty. I tried to call Henry on the telephone at Englewood, before I left for Hopewell, but I couldn’t reach him-he wasn’t at his boardinghouse. So I left word for him to call me, in the evening, at Hopewell.”
“And he did.”
“Yes. We’d intended seeing each other that evening, but when he called, I told him how it happened that I wasn’t at the Morrow house. I told him…told him the baby had a cold.”
“How long had you known Johnson? When did you meet him?”
“I met him last summer. He had a job as a deckhand on the
“Lamont yacht?”
“Thomas W. Lamont. He and the late Mr. Morrow were partners in J. P. Morgan and Company. The banking house? Last summer, last August to be exact, the yacht was anchored off North Haven, Maine, where the Morrows have a summer home. I was there with Mrs. Lindbergh and the baby. Henry used to play cards with the Morrow chauffeurs. One of them introduced us and we hit it off. Then, in the off-season, the
“Were you two serious, Miss Gow?”
She shrugged; sipped her coffee. “We dated quite often. Boating, movies, dancing-the Palisades Amusement Park was nearby.”
“Were you engaged?”
“No. I like Henry, Mr. Heller. He’s a good-hearted bloke. I don’t think he’s capable of being involved in something like this. I know there’s speculation that he…used me to get information. I just don’t believe it.”
“Where does your loyalty lie, Miss Gow? With the Lindberghs, or with Henry Johnson?”
Her smile was thin as a razor slash. “Who do you think told the police where Henry could be found? If you’ll excuse me.”
She went into the servants’ sitting room; I followed her.
“Thanks for your time, Miss Gow,” I said.
She was sitting absently paging through a film magazine; she didn’t look up, didn’t respond.
I went outside.
The usual barely controlled chaos was afoot in the command-post garage; troopers were going through the mail, bags of which were piled against one wall. Inspector Welch, the hard-nosed, potbellied flatfoot who’d confronted me shortly after my arrival, met me as I was about to step inside.
“Are you still around?” he said.
“I seem to be. Where’s Schwarzkopf?”
“That’s Colonel Schwarzkopf to you, sonny boy.”
“That’s Mr. Sonny Boy to you, bud.” I brushed by him.
Schwarzkopf was leaning over the telephone switchboard, having a word with the trooper at that post. “Ah,” he said, spotting me, “Heller.” Almost glad to see me.
“Any news from the front?”
“Henry ‘Red’ Johnson is due here momentarily. Would you like to sit in on the interrogation?”
“Yes, thanks,” I said, realizing he wouldn’t have made the offer if Lindbergh hadn’t requested it. “Tell me, Colonel…is there any reason to think there might be a connection between this case and New Haven, Connecticut?”
That damn near startled him. “Actually, yes.”
That damn near startled me. “No kidding,” I said.
“Why do you ask, Heller?”
“That psychic in Virginia Beach mentioned New Haven.” That made him less interested, but he said, “A number of the workmen involved in the construction of this house were from New Haven. They were among the first people we questioned. Detective Heller, I realize you have a low opinion of the New Jersey State Police. But we have been, and continue to be, running a first-class investigation. Within the first forty-eight hours after the crime, we interrogated three hundred and twenty people, in New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut.”
“That’s a lot of interviews. I didn’t know you had the manpower.”
“We were, and are, stretched to the limit.”
“Who were those people you questioned?”
“The Lindbergh and Morrow household staffs, neighbors, delivery boys, carpenters and various workmen involved in the construction of the house…we’ve been very thorough.”
“Yeah, it sounds like it. Say, you think you could arrange an open phone line for me, Colonel?”
“Certainly.”
He walked me to one of the tables where troopers were manning phones and cleared a space for me. He stood there for a moment, until he realized I wasn’t going to place the call until he left.
I used the number Lindbergh had given me and got Treasury Agent Frank J. Wilson on the first try.
“What’s going on out there, Heller?”
“We’re about to have a talk with Red Johnson.”
“The Norwegian sailor? Found a milk bottle in his rumble seat, I hear.”
“Right. You boys checking up on him?”
“Not us, but I understand J. Edgar’s crew is checking on his immigration status.”
“Not a bad idea. Would you like a lead?”
“Why not? We’re not getting any help from Schwarzkopf, that’s for damn sure.”
“You found Capone’s boy, Bob Conroy, yet?”
“No.”
“You said witnesses put Conroy in New Haven, Connecticut, that night, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, apparently this house was built by workers from New Haven. Schwarzkopf was suspicious enough to send his state cops in there doing an investigative sweep.”
“That is interesting.”
“Also-and this is a long shot, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t ask me my source…but see if you can find an Adams Street and/or a Scharten Street, in New Haven. And maybe a section of town called Cordova.”
The line went silent; he was writing it down.
“Okay,” he said. “Anything else?”
“If you get anything, call here and leave word for me to call you. If there is an Adams or a Scharten Street, I’ll give you more specifics.”
“Fair enough. I appreciate your cooperation, Heller.”
“That’s okay, Agent Wilson.”
