Stolen Away

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 Trib and the paper cup of coffee I’d brought up from the deli downstairs.

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.”

“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 is a Chicago ‘end’ to this case. And I’m well aware of your role in the early days of the investigation. You witnessed a lot. You came into contact with Curtis, Means, Jafsie, Marinelli and his common-law wife Sarah Sivella, and so many others. You’re the ideal person to conduct this eleventh-hour inquiry.”

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 not the lone kidnapper.”

“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 News.

“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 you money?”

“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 not connected.”

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