“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.”
“Make it Frank.”
“Okay, Frank. I can always use a friend in the IRS.”
“Just keep an eye on Schwarzkopf. He’s a rank amateur. Don’t let his military bearing fool you-between graduating West Point and falling into law enforcement, he served a hitch as a department-store floorwalker.”
“Impressive credentials.”
“He’s never patrolled a beat or arrested a criminal in his life. He’s in way over his head, Heller.”
“Well, if he starts going down for the third time, I’ll throw him something nice and heavy.”
“That would be my advice,” Wilson said.
After I’d hung up, I joined Schwarzkopf, who was conferring with the bullet-headed Welch. “Any sign of our wandering sailor boy?” I asked.
“Yes,” Schwarzkopf said. “He’s arrived.”
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“You noticed the contractor’s shack just inside the gates?”
The small shack had been used as a guard outpost for troopers, primarily to keep reporters and sightseers at bay.
“Sure,” I said.
“We’re going to question him there.”
“Away from the house and Colonel Lindbergh, you mean.”
“Right.” Schwarzkopf gestured to Inspector Welch. “I want you two men to start fresh. I can’t have any animosity among my men.”
I was his man, now? Lindbergh must’ve really lowered the boom.
“No hard feelings,” I said, and extended my hand to Welch.
We shook hands, exchanged insincere smiles and followed Schwarzkopf to a patrol car. A trooper drove us to the weatherbeaten shack, the inside of which wasn’t much bigger than an outhouse. Two troopers stood guard over a man in a straight-back chair. The troopers looked spiffy; the man did not. It was cold and everybody’s breath smoked.
Husky, freckled, his hair a dark reddish brown not unlike my own, Betty Gow’s sailor looked tired and frazzled; in his early twenties, ruggedly good-looking, he wore a light-blue work-shirt and dark-blue trousers, clothes obviously slept in.
“The Hartford police have turned you over to us, Johnson,” Schwarzkopf said, planting himself before the suspect like a cop directing traffic. “You know why you’re here.”
“I don’t know nothing’ bout Lindbergh kidnap.” He had a thick, rather melodious accent-Swedish or Norwegian or something.
“You’ll have to prove that,” Welch said, poking him in the chest with a hard finger.
“Tell us where you were,” Schwarzkopf said, “and what you did on the night of March first of this year.”
Johnson sighed, wearily. “Oh kay. On night of kidnap, I meet friend of mine, Johannes Junge, ’bout eight o’clock.”
“Who is this Junge?”
“He live in Englewood. Husband of seamstress at Morrow house. We take short drive in my car-sometime ’round quarter of nine, I call here and ask speak to Betty.”
“How did you know she was here?”
“I had date with Betty for Tuesday, but I call earlier and learn Betty would not be in Englewood that night. Baby have cold. Lindberghs, they decide best not to make baby make trip between two homes.”
“So you called Betty Gow.”
“Yes. She ask, what’s big idea? I said, oh, I just thought I call you up and tell you I’m sorry not to be seeing you tonight. She say, oh, I see. I say, how is baby? She say, I think he going to be all right. I say, uh, when you think you get back? She say, I don’t know; please don’t call here anymore-they might not like it. She hang up. I hang up.” He shrugged.
“Then what did you do?”
“Junge and me, we go to Plaza Theater in Englewood to see movie. When we come out of show, we go to ice-cream parlor. Had couple those chocolate nut sundaes. Then I went home to my room at boardinghouse.”
This guy sounded like a hardened criminal, all right.
“When was this?”
“Sometime ’bout midnight.”
Schwarzkopf seemed stumped by the forthrightness of the suspect. He looked at Welch, who said, “Mind if I take over?”
I knew what that would amount to-rubber-hose roulette. So I said, “Excuse me, Colonel. Could I ask Mr. Johnson a few questions?”
Schwarzkopf, rather stiffly, said, “Certainly. Johnson, this is Detective Heller of the Chicago Police.”
“Hi, Red,” I said.
“Hello.”
“You smoke?”
“Yah.”
I looked at Welch. “Get this man a smoke, would you?”
Welch dug out his own Camels and reluctantly lit the sailor up. The boy sucked the smoke in eagerly.
I just stood there, letting him smoke and relax.
Then I said, “How much did you spend on that long-distance call, Red?”
“Pardon?”
“You called from a public phone?”
“Yah.”
“From Englewood to Hopewell. How much money did you feed the pay phone?”
“Was thirty-five cents.”
I looked at Welch, who was standing there like a fireplug, and looking just about as intelligent. I made a writing motion with my finger and he looked at me blankly for a moment, then nodded, and took out his notebook and wrote down what Johnson had just said.
“What movie did you see, Red?”
“Saw two. Don’t remember names. Sorry.”
“Who was in the first one? What was it about?”
“Uh, funny movie. That fat guy and skinny guy.”
“Laurel and Hardy?”
He nodded vigorously.
“What about the second feature?”
“Fighter and little kid. Sad picture.”
I looked at Welch. “The Champ.”
Welch smirked and scribbled.
“You know where that ice-cream parlor is?”
Johnson nodded and reeled off the address; Welch wrote it down.
“What about this milk bottle they found in your car?”
He shrugged. “What ’bout it?”
“What was it doing there?”