Cold Morning (24 page)

Schwarzkopf hissed, “Yet bringing up her name in such a way can only start tongues wagging.”

“Her name will be part of the trial.”

Schwarzkopf bit his lip. “Your columns are a distraction. Listen to Winchell—
you
he's talking of. Do you believe there should be sympathy for—for Bruno?”

“I want sympathy for Violet Sharp.”

“Of course her name will be mentioned, Miss Ferber,” said Lindbergh. “But hasn't my wife's family suffered enough? I never wanted those servants questioned”—Schwarzkopf shot him a mean look—“but it had to be done. I trusted them all. The focus must now be entirely on Bruno.”

Something happened as he delivered that plaintive line. For a second that innocuous smile had the ah-shucks bumpkin demeanor so beloved by Americans, the bashful boy aviator I remembered
Time
magazine named the 1927 Man of the Year, so wholesome and
nice
. But then it was as though a switch had snapped on: the lips became razor-thin, hard and white, a look of utter contempt covering his features. That face closed in, angry. I fairly lost my breath.

“Colonel…”

His voice cracked. “Violet Sharp had nothing to do with the horrors I've been through. As I've said, I'd expressly told the authorities”—he glanced again at Schwarzkopf—“not to bother the servants at the Morrow estate.”

“I made no accusation.”

He spoke over my words. “But you
do
, Miss Ferber. We're not stupid. To bring up the dead girl now—to suggest a
secret
. She was an hysteric, you know, a gal given to fits of spleen, of…”

“Surely you know reporters want to probe all aspects of your…your tragedy.”

“Yes, and damn them.”

“Colonel…” Breckinridge began.

But Lindbergh raged on. “What exactly do you want to know, Miss Ferber?” But it wasn't a real question, spoken as it was through clenched teeth.

A lock of his blond hair fell onto his brow and he threw back his head.

I chose my words carefully. “Violet Sharp liked to go to speakeasies.”

He looked puzzled at my sentence. “I know, I know. And so she lied to my mother-in-law, something of a prude, so she wouldn't know about her running around.”

“Rumor has it that she was taken with Blake Somerville.”

Silence at the table.

“Who?” asked Breckinridge.

“What are you talking about?” From Schwarzkopf.

Only Lindbergh didn't flinch. “From the nearby Somerville family?”

“Wealthy neighbors, no?” And then, “A close friend of your brother-in-law, Dwight.”

He deliberated what to say. “I'm not talking about this. Violet Sharp was the help. Dwight and this…this Blake…”

“You know him?”

“Actually I never met him. I
heard
of him. If you must know, the Morrows and the Somervilles are not close and, I gather, Blake is a black sheep, someone Dwight probably met at Amherst College. I understand he'd visited Dwight at New Day Hill, the Morrow mansion, but Mrs. Morrow stopped it.” He looked dazed. “What are you getting at?”

Schwarzkopf broke in. “Enough, Colonel. Miss Ferber is searching for tabloid fodder for a column. Why tell her anything?”

He shot back. “Violet Sharp was a servant. She had nothing to do with Dwight—or this…this Blake Somerville.”

“Dwight found her body,” I noted.

“She fell at the foot of the stairs after poisoning herself. Someone called for help.”

Breckinridge interrupted. “I'm not following this. No more, Charles.”

But I saw something in Lindbergh's face. “Rumor has it Violet was seen with Blake at a speakeasy.” I purposely omitted Dwight's name.

No one said anything.

The maid tiptoed into the room and began clearing dishes. She looked at Lindbergh. “Sir?”

He waved her off. “Not now.” A coldness in his voice.

She rushed away.

I waited a heartbeat. “I gather that Blake is a troubled man. He spent some time with Dwight at an asylum.”

Lindbergh stood. His fingers drummed the table. “My brother-in-law has some emotional problems that have nothing to do with Violet Sharp.”

Breckinridge said at the same time. “Miss Ferber, if you pursue this line of thought in a future column, you'll be in trouble. Not only that, you'll hurt an already grieving family.”

“This is just conversation,” I offered.

Colonel Schwarzkopf slammed his fist down on the table. “Like hell, lady.”

I jumped.

Breckinridge motioned to Lindbergh. “Sit, Charles.”

Lindbergh debated what to do, but finally sat back down.

Calm now, I watched the three men who'd planned an inquisition at luncheon, but I'd refused: I hadn't planned on introducing—hinting at—the stories that Violet Sharp had written about to her cousin Annabel, but…so be it. Out there. Purposeful. Deliberate.

For a few seconds we watched one another. Lindbergh relaxed, though his eyes were hard.

A phony laugh. “Miss Ferber, you
are
a fiction writer.”

I nodded. “I am that. But I'm also a journalist.”

His lips quivered. “Bruno Hauptmann stole and killed my baby boy, Miss Ferber.”

I said nothing.

“Charles…” Breckinridge began.

Schwarzkopf snapped at me. “Charles is my friend, Miss Ferber. There is nothing I would not do for him. There is no oath I would not break to help him.”

“Would that include lying?” I asked, and smiled.

Lindbergh held up his hand, his chin quivering. “Can you imagine what it is like to stand outside the cemetery wall and hear that monster call to Dr. Condon, ‘Hey, Doctor'? That miserable German accent. Two and a half years ago, and I hear it echo in my head every day. Every night. ‘Hey, Doctor.' ‘Give me my money.' And he knew my son was already dead. People say to me—how can you identify a man, send him to the chair, based on two words? ‘Hey, Doctor.' I wasn't close by, they say. It was night, they say. I was in a car with the windows closed.” His voice seethed with fury now. “They are etched on my heart, Miss Ferber.”

“I'm so sorry, sir. I mean no…”

A bitter laugh. “Oh yes, you do. Look. I want it all over. Over. Done with. For me and for my poor wife. Over.”

“Of course.”

“Do you really understand? Over. My wife, my new son, my family. Over. I want him dead and out of memory. I want to leave this country and hide away with my wife and son. Exile from a land that claims to love me.”

“Charles…” Breckinridge said softly.

Lindbergh shook his head. “You're not out for justice, Miss Ferber. I've read all your columns. Every one. You're out for sensation. You write romantic novels about heroines who fall in love with ne'er-do-wells. My wife told me that. She warned me. You've taken Violet Sharp, that pitiful girl, and turned her into one of your heroines. And who will be the villain, Miss Ferber? I ask you that.” His voice roared across the room. A vein on his pale neck jutted out.

He stood. Schwarzkopf signaled to me. I stood.

Lindbergh's hand fluttered in the air.

“Goodbye, Miss Ferber. Do your dirt as you will.”

“Colonel Lindbergh.”

His eyes narrowed as he stared down at me. Six feet tall, towering over five-foot me. “Ferber.” He waited a heartbeat. “A Jewish name, no?”

“Charles,” said Breckinridge.

“You're Jewish.” A smile that broke at the edges.

I stepped away from the table.

Chapter Twenty-four

The trial was almost over.

The jury was out, deliberating.

The final summations were over. Edward Reilly pleaded that the jury use “horse sense,” “motherly intuition”—how could one man do this foul deed alone? He blamed Isidor Fisch, Betty Gow, the butler, and—Violet Sharp. “Colonel Lindbergh was stabbed in the back by those who worked for him.” Bruno was a “mastermind” one minute—gloves and no fingerprints in the nursery—and in the next—a “dumb man who talked face-to-face with Dr. Condon.” “Servants Slew Baby, Defense Charges”—a headline. “Turns Guns on Violet Sharp”—another.

Prosecutor Wilentz screamed out that Hauptmann was “a fellow that had ice water in his veins, not blood, the filthiest and vilest snake that ever crept through the grass, lower than the lowest form in the animal kingdom, Public Enemy Number One of the world.” Hauptmann killed the baby in the cradle. “Money, money, money.” He pointed at Hauptmann. “Murderer! Animal! Evidence, evidence, evidence, mountains of evidence, evidence which shrieks to heaven and this murderer of a baby cries, ‘Lies!'”

Judge Trenchard had given his final instructions—seventy minutes long—to the twelve men and women, a lengthy summation of the evidence and, it seemed to me, wonderfully skewed to convict the hapless Hauptmann. Over and over he stated one bit of evidence, followed by a dramatic pause and stressed:
Do you believe that?
That struck me as undercutting the work of the defense. Translated, in my mind:
Can you believe the defense would try to offer such twaddle as evidence
? In earshot Damon Runyon mumbled, “He just strapped Bruno in the chair.”

Bruno was led out, his face pale as a ghost, his deep-set eyes hollow. Bloodless.

The watch was on, reporters lolling in the rooms, cigarettes and cigars stinking up the corridors.

At one point Aleck Woollcott sidled by me and hissed in my ear, “Hangman, where is thy noose?”

A jibe that was made worse by Marcus as he drove me late that morning into the city. “Mr. Woollcott demands my services at five this afternoon,” he announced as I sat in the backseat and we sped out of Flemington.

“What fresh new hell is he planning tonight?”

Marcus glanced in the rearview mirror. “You don't sound happy, Miss Ferber. I thought you two were close.”

My voice snippy. “You thought wrong, young man.” Then I relented. “We've had a falling out. We have them periodically, our celebrated feuds that delight the tabloids. He can be—acerbic.”

Marcus chuckled. “And you?”

“Insightful.”

“I thought so.”

We shared a soft, welcome laugh, and I was grateful my leisurely drive into Manhattan wasn't provided by the garrulous Willie. Marcus would talk quietly, if asked to. Silent, if demanded. I watched his attractive profile as he turned to check an intersection: The hint of a new moustache, very dashing and manicured, very John Garfield. He removed his chauffeur's cap and placed it on the seat next to him, a gesture not allowed. But I approved—he was telling me something about his ease with me. I liked that.

“The jury is out,” I said to his back.

He nodded. “Not for long.”

I smiled. “You know the verdict.”

“So do you.”

“Well, that's true. Bruno is doomed.”

“Probably not justice but a form of justice.”

His words surprised and intrigued. “What do you mean?”

He waited a long time, his head tilted to the side as though unsure of his answer. Finally, softly, he avoided my question. “This was a spectacle I would not have missed.”

“A circus, really.”

“If you will.”

“Do you think he's guilty, Marcus?”

“I'm not on the jury.”

“But everyone else has an opinion. I've heard from Willie over and over. He…”

Marcus swung his head back. “Willie believes whatever the newspapers tell him.”

“And you don't?”

“I'm a driver.” A chuckle. “For important people like yourself.” A flip of his hand. “I hear what important people say in the backseat of this car.”

“And they all say the same thing?”

He gripped the wheel tightly, leaned forward. “All except you.”

“Really?”

“You don't believe he's guilty.”

“You've heard me say that?” I asked him.

“No, you never did, in fact, but Willie and I talk about your—excursions. Montclair Manor. Hopewell. He's heard Mr. Woollcott discussing you with Kathleen Norris.”

“I can just imagine that chat.”

“He thinks you can't put all the pieces together. A mystery that bothers you. Something missing. And it has nothing to do with Hauptmann.”

“He's going to die.”

“Of course.”

“But why?”

“Somebody has to die for the crime. It might as well be him.”

I laughed an unfunny laugh. “My, my, the younger generation is more cynical than I thought.”

“That's because we read Hemingway.”

I tapped the back of the front seat. “You read Hemingway?”

“Being a driver means you gotta sit and wait long hours. Willie reads the
New York Mirror
. Walter Winchell is his god.”

I grumbled, “Well, he's worshipping a false idol there.”

Marcus chuckled. “I was in Europe after the war. I saw the lost generation.”

“Are you lost, Marcus?”

“I hope so.”

He sped up, wove his way though a snarl of traffic, and mumbled about the weather as a sudden sweep of sleet covered the windshield. He switched on the wipers. He peered through the opaque window, his lips moving in a silent curse. He was through talking.

In Manhattan, I sipped bad coffee at the
Times
offices with the young woman who coordinated the columns on the trial, and I listened patiently as she eagerly spoke of the response my work had garnered. “Controversy,” she hummed, ecstatic. “A brilliant idea to publish your work and Mr. Woollcott's next to each other. We hadn't expected such brouhaha.”

“A wonderful idea,” I said, but my sarcastic tone made her eyes pop.

“What?”

“No more columns,” I told her.

“But…” she sputtered.

I held up my hand. “My work is done. The jury is probably returning with a verdict as we sit here. I watched them file out, heads averted from that poor sap.”

“Mr. Woollcott, I gather, has agreed to write the captions with commentary for a series of photographs for
Look
magazine.”

“Yes, well, once his vitriolic faucets are turned on, the bile runs forever.”

She smiled thinly. “He has become quite adamant.”

“A madman, that one.”

“I wish you'd reconsider. I thought your portrait of Violet Sharp, as well as your paragraphs on Anna Hauptmann, well, they were touching. Invisible women made eerily visible.”

“Thank you but—no.” I stood. “I have to get back. Loose ends. I'm checking out tomorrow morning. Frankly, I hope never to return to Flemington, New Jersey.”

“A quaint town.”

“A phrase used over and over in the press.” I looked into her face. “To me, it has the power to incite a digestive surprise.”

Before I left she handed me a burgundy accordion file. “You got more letters, Miss Ferber. Our readers have things to tell you.”

“Oh, joy.” I took the file from her and glanced inside: perhaps fifty handwritten or typed envelopes.
Miss Ferber, New York Times. Important
, said one. I'll bet. Harangues and threats and recriminations and—and maybe a few heartfelt congratulations and huzzahs. Bedtime reading as the sun went down in Flemington.

Outside Marcus opened the back door and reached for the file. “No,” I said, “it's not that heavy, although the contents may weigh me down.”

He laughed. “They give you homework at the
Times
?”

I laughed back. “Only detention, young man. A dunce cap in a corner.”

That puzzled him but he shrugged and slid into the driver's seat.

I debated reading the mail, but thought—no, why ruin a pleasant ride? But as Marcus adroitly maneuvered the car out of the city, cruising through northern New Jersey farm fields, swamp land, and pitiful industrial blight, I found myself dozing off, exhausted, spent.

I startled myself awake with an embarrassing yelp, and heard Marcus chuckle. A rush of nightmarish images flooded me, traces of snapshots from my subconscious: a locked room with a door that wouldn't open, a snow shower that blinded me, pellets of sleet that turned to stones, screaming from the walls of an asylum. A kaleidoscope of frightful images that smashed together, clamored for attention and then dissipated.

Then, like a blow to the face, I felt that I knew something—right there, nagging at the edge of my consciousness. But what? Something revealed in that mishmash of nightmares. What? I knew something, but it was out of reach. The car cruised along, hit a bump, jarred. Whatever it was slipped away.

As we neared Flemington, I got restless, angry that I couldn't pinpoint whatever I understood that I
knew
.

“You looked like you were far away, Miss Ferber,” Marcus commented, staring at me through the rearview mirror.

I didn't answer.

Idly, watching the stream of cars headed into Flemington, doubtless to await the verdict—I assumed the jury was still out, given the lack of horn tooting and celebratory fireworks and picnics in the empty courtroom—I rifled through the file. I tore open one long crumpled envelope and glanced at the block letters: Your not America are you. Cant you see that monster is a killer a German. I pushed it aside. No, not this. God, no.

A long manila envelope was mixed in with the rest. A note from George Kaufman scribbled on it: doubtless he sent it via messenger to the
Times
.
Edna, someone remembered your man, played a bit part with him, and knew his real name. Stage name rang a bell. Had his agency send info. Hope it makes you happy. Cheers. George.

Big bold lettering across the envelope: ELIOT TANNICK TALENT AGENCY. And an address on the seventh floor in a building on Forty-first Street. I never heard of it.

Marcus was mumbling. “Look at this traffic.”

I glanced up. A steady stream of cars headed toward the courthouse. Marcus slowed down and inched along. “Lord.” He glanced into the backseat. “Hope you're patient.”

“What choice do I have?”

I ripped open the envelope and slipped out an eight-by-ten black-and-white glossy photograph of an actor named Danny Winter. Someone had scribbled at the top: Blake Somerville.

I caught my breath.

Marcus skirted the traffic and pulled over to the curb, braked. Glancing up, I could see a crowd of people gathered in front of the Union Hotel and the courthouse, a block away. Quiet, though—a crowd that waited. The street was blocked.

Marcus turned to face me. His eyes drifted down to the photograph in my lap.

“I was waiting, Miss Ferber. It was just a matter of time.”

“Marcus,” I managed to choke out.

“You can call me Blake.” He laughed. “Or Danny Winter. Or Summer.”

“But…”

“I knew you'd finally put it together.”

“I don't understand.” Wildly, I looked back toward the Union Hotel.

“Of course, you do.”

Then, in a flash, that growing seed rushed back at me—that inkling I'd had as I struggled to wake up. Riding in the car…yes…riding in the car with Marcus during the first days of the trial. Now, in a small, faraway voice, I said, “England. You mentioned England. When I asked you about Annabel's murder and the piece in the local paper, you said she should have stayed in England. The article said Chicago. No mention of England.”

Grinning, he pointed a finger at me. “Very good. I slipped up. I didn't catch that myself.”

My mind roiled. “Then…then.” Yes, a flood of snapshots that came together. “You were avoiding Dwight Morrow, weren't you?”

“Of course.”

“That time he was on the corner when he was with his sister. You turned off the street, that shortcut that wasn't. Had we driven by slowly, he might have looked into the car and…”

“And seen me. Of course.”

“Montclair Manor.” My voice shook. “You backed out of being the driver.”

“Very good. Old friends there, dangerous to be seen chauffeuring you and that fat fool. ‘Hello, Blake. You driving famous people now?' No, no, no.”

“But why come here?”

A piercing, harsh laugh, a little crazy. “This is a spectacle hard to miss, true, but I had to be sure I could keep my party going.”

“Your party?”

“The thrills.” His face hardened. “And that greedy bitch Annabel threatened that.”

It all made sense—or did it? I snarled, “Well, I'm afraid the party's over, Marcus or whoever.” I reached for the door latch, but Marcus' hand suddenly jutted between the front seats. He was holding a revolver, and it was pointed at me.

“I suggest you not move, Miss Ferber.”

A chill ran up my spine.

“Marcus, you cannot think that you can do this in broad daylight—people all around.”

“Shut up now.” A nervous twitch to his voice. Then an insane giggle. “You're gonna have to die, I'm afraid. I
have
found you amusing, you and that fat piece of taffy, Woollcott.” A pause. “You more than him. I appreciate cleverness, the way your mind works. You're probably the only intelligent woman I ever did battle with. Most women wilt—I don't think you allow that in yourself. Noble, really. As for Woollcott—he's like a box of soft candy you want to step on.”

“Should I thank you for the compliment?”

“You can do whatever you want.”

I tried to remain calm. “Tell me what this is all about. At least let me know what brought it all about.”