Yet he and his wife, May, were not fabulously wealthy like the Weyerhaeusers, Urschels, or Boettchers, families who had been victimized by kidnappers. Florence Freihage knew this, which may be why she voiced doubt that Ross and his family could come up with a quarter million dollars in a hurry.
Freihage was accustomed to conferring with her former boss every week or so. Ross kept up with company affairs and was in the midst of selling his interest in Carrington.
On this Saturday evening, Ross and his former secretary had dined at the Fargo Hotel in Sycamore, Illinois, and were heading back into Chicago proper when they were waylaid. Normally, Ross’s wife would have dined with them, but she had been taken ill.
After she shook off her initial shock and fear, Freihage drove Ross’s car to a nearby service station and called the local police, who in turn notified the Illinois State Police.
Then it was time to wait.
There was much going on in the wider world. Chancellor Hitler welcomed Benito Mussolini to Munich. The German dictator and his Italian counterpart seemed to be getting along famously. Dispatches from Germany reported, somewhat vaguely, that they would discuss how to preserve peace.
In the Orient, events were far more disturbing. Japanese bombers continued their attacks on the Chinese capital of Nanking. Hundreds of civilians were killed, and destruction was widespread. Other cities in China were also under attack, indicating that Japan was hoping to secure a quick victory in its war with China. The ruthless and relentless nature of the Japanese campaign could only make observers wonder how the Japanese would behave as conquerors.
As would be learned later, the kidnappers drove their captive into Wisconsin and across the state to Minnesota where, late on Sunday, they neared the hideout they had prepared near the community of Emily. The hideout was in the woods. It was a coffin-sized hole lined with wood chips.
On Thursday, September 30, five days after the abduction, a ransom-extortion letter was received by Harvey Brackett, a former business associate of Ross, in Green Bay, Wisconsin.
“Dear Dick,” the letter began. “I am being held for ransom.”185 The “Dear Dick” was proof positive that the letter was from Ross, as “Dick” was his affectionate, if improbable, nickname for his wife.
“I have stated I am worth $100,000 including the G. S. Carrington Co. stock held in escrow by First National Bank,” the letter went on. “Try and raise $50,000. Yours, Charles S. Ross.” The letter concluded, “Contact Harvey S. Brackett. Say nothing to anyone except Harvey.”
FBI agents deduced that the letter had been intended for May Ross but that the kidnappers had decided to send it directly to Harvey Brackett, along with another letter, this one addressed to Brackett and in Ross’s handwriting. It instructed Brackett to hire a motorcycle rider from Harley-Davidson who was to take $50,000 in unmarked, nonconsecutive bills of various denominations and deliver the money at night on a highway to be designated later.
When the money had been assembled and the motorcycle rider had been hired, an ad was to be placed in the “used cars for sale” section of the Chicago Tribune: “Dodge. Good cond. No defect. (amount)”
But the kidnappers were about to become increasingly elaborate in their demands. They acquired a typewriter on which they prepared additional demand letters. The next one was postmarked October 2 in Chicago and addressed to Olden Armitage, a friend who belonged to the same fraternal lodge as Ross.
“YOU are Chas. S. Ross’ last hope,” the letter said. “His own choice as middleman.” The letter demanded that the motorcycle delivery man dress in white, and it warned against any contact with “the feds.”
Yet another letter, postmarked October 6 in Chicago, was sent to Armitage. This one declared that Ross himself was “very incenced over delays” caused by “pied pipers and rat hunts,” apparently meaning the presence of federal agents in the investigation. Most significantly, it promised proof that Ross was alive and well. The proof could be obtained at a camera company on South Wabash Street in pictures left for Armitage.
Sure enough, eight photographs of Charles Ross were found at the camera company. They showed him amid a thicket of birch trees, looking haggard, wearing the clothes he’d had on the night he was kidnapped. Ross was holding up a late edition of a Chicago paper from Saturday, October 2, displaying that day’s college football scores.
Hope!
And the final message, received Friday, October 8, by Elton Armitage and postmarked two days earlier in Chicago: “EVERYTHING SET. LETS GO.” It laid out the long itinerary, some four hundred miles, that the motorcycle delivery man (dressed in white!) was to take before dumping the ransom money. “ROSS OPINES AS HOW THERES TOO MUCH VITAMIN G IN THIS MESS. WE AGREE.” The allusion to vitamin G apparently meant federal agents, or “G-men,” as they were beginning to be called.
That very night, the motorcycle rider set out. About six miles east of Rockford, Illinois, he became aware of a car close behind him. The car’s lights flashed—the signal for the ransom package to be thrown to the side of the road. After tossing it, the rider drove another few hundred yards and dismounted. One of the kidnappers emerged from the darkness, picked up the money, and vanished.
But where was Charles Ross?
We don’t know the moment when lawmen broached the subject with May Ross. But at some point, someone told her it was it was time to concentrate on catching the kidnappers. We can only imagine her emotions at that moment. On October 18, she issued a statement calling for her husband to be freed at once. The next day, the FBI distributed lists of the serial numbers on the ransom bills across the country.
In early January 1938, ransom bills began showing up at the
