Cold Morning (14 page)

An attractive couple, mid-thirties perhaps, she with a pointy freckled face and washed-out brown hair. He with a high forehead over sleepy blue eyes and a pronounced chin, a mouth with a mess of wrinkles around it. A broad-chested man, short, a street fighter with a bit of a scar under his left eye. They looked like they belonged together.

“You two plan on getting married?” I asked, disingenuously.

That surprised her, and she blushed, hurled a sidelong glance at Charlie, who chuckled. “I guess we are now.” He pointed playfully at Marielle. “Gotta listen to the customers, no?”

Laughing, embarrassed, she shook her head back and forth.

“Well, you should,” I said.

Marielle seemed pleased. I was the yenta she'd hoped for—a role I savored.

Aleck eyed me suspiciously. “Edna dear, why must all of your talks lead to matters amorous? The title of your biography will have to be—
Nothing Risqué, Nothing Gained
.”

I ignored him.

“You two married?” Marielle looked from Aleck to me.

Aleck spat out his brandy, choked, dropped his cigarette holder. “Please,” he howled, “can't you see I'm a man of utter discernment?”

That confused her, so she turned away and chose not to answer.

Enough of the tomfoolery, I thought. Willie would shortly be leaning on the horn, impatient. But I knew I'd won over these two young souls.

“We're reporters,” I began. “I'm Edna Ferber and this is Aleck Woollcott.”

Marielle sputtered. “Lord, Mr. Woollcott, I listen to you Sundays on the radio. Charlie, you know who this is? The Town Crier.” Charlie shrugged. “You're so funny.”

“Edna Ferber has written novels,” Aleck began slowly. “Doubtless you haven't heard of her.”

Marielle shook her head. “No, sorry.”

I plunged in. “No matter, my dear. We're researching the Lindbergh kidnapping case.” Marielle's face fell and she glanced at Charlie, who also attempted to look solemn. “We know that Violet Sharp, the maid from the Morrow estate who killed herself, was here with Ernie Miller the night of the kidnapping.”

Marielle's face closed up. “Yeah, we talked to the police already. They asked about it. We said, yeah, the four of them were here.”

“You remember her?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, when she spoke she had that English accent, and she heard my Irish one, and we laughed and she told me her name.”

“That night?”

A heartbeat. “Well, no. She was here before when I was working one night. Waiting tables. We talked and all.”

“She was a regular?” I wondered.

She nodded. “Well, not a regular. But she liked the place.”

“A drinker?”

“That was strange. Always coffee. Strong, black. No sugar. Like she was afraid. But everyone else with her liked a shot of whiskey and a beer. That was when we were a speakeasy. So we had to be careful.”

I held my breath. “She came with others?”

“Well, that one time with that guy and his friends. You know, the night of the kidnapping. That was what the cops asked about. But she came a few other times with two guys. The rich boys.”

“Rich boys?”

Marielle pulled up a chair and sat down, resting her elbows on the table. “Well, you know how she worked for the Morrows. Everyone did. She talked about that. Real proud of it, as she told me. She
loved
working there. And one day she comes in with their son, a boy named Dwight. I'd seen him before because he'd stopped in with friends. But she introduced him as her boss, then she giggled.”

I was perplexed. “Isn't that strange, a servant coming to a speakeasy with her employer?”

She looked toward Charlie, who stood behind the bar, grim-faced, uneasy. “Maybe so. Hey, in those days all sorts come into a speakeasy. It was like a place to go, no matter who you are. I mean, she was respectful and all. She even called him Mr. Morrow. I remember that. I thought it odd. He's drinking with his friend, and she's acting like she should serve them.”

I waited a second. “His friend?”

“Yeah, another rich guy. He came a lot. Dwight, now and then, and he always looked lost. Like he shouldn't be here. Now don't get me wrong. Violet Sharp only came a few times, maybe. I can't be sure. But it was clear she had a hankering for the other guy.”

“And he was?”

“Blake something. That's what he said to call him. He let everyone know he was rich, come from a great family and all. I mean, he made like he was friends with the owners of this place. Maybe he was. Angelo Riscinito, his name.” She whispered now. “He was cronies with regulars, guys named Irish Pete and another we called The Chink.” She dropped her voice even lower. “Mobsters out of Mulberry Street.” A sudden smile. “They don't come here no more—now that we're legal.”

“Dwight?” I prompted.

“Dwight kept his mouth shut, the few times he was here, talking quietly to everybody, real polite to me, but Blake boomed and roared.”

“What did he say?”

“It wasn't so much
what
he said, but the
way
he said it. That was one good-looking man, let me tell you, slick as all outdoors. Suave, like a movieland star. Dressed to the nines, hoity-toity, slicked-back hair all shiny and polished. Pointed black Italian shoes. A diamond stickpin. Always an expensive cigarette holder between his fingertips.”

Charlie walked out from behind the bar and slid into a chair. He'd been listening to the conversation. “I didn't like him,” he added.

“Why is that?” asked Aleck.

“He looked down on everyone. Even the Morrow kid, who was like a dumpy kid you beat up on in school. Treated
him
like a servant. Get me this, do that, stop talking, listen to me. He ruled the roost, that one.”

Marielle spoke up. “Dwight was meek, like a follower.”

“You say Dwight rarely came here?”

“Yeah, not much.”

“Did you tell this to the police when they talked to you?”

Her eyes got wide. “No, should I have? All they asked was about the night of the kidnapping. Everything was about Ernie Miller. So she came with her boss two or three nights. Nobody's business, and it ain't related to killing that baby. That I'd bet on.”

“What did the police ask you?”

Charlie answered. “They also wanted to know if she was here with Bruno Hauptmann or Isidor Fisch. They flashed pictures of both of them. I never seen this Bruno, tell you the truth. Isidor, yes. But I don't think Violet Sharp knew either one. Leastwise, as I saw. She sat with Dwight and this slimy Blake, very polite like, proper. Not smooching or cuddling, but I could see this Violet had it bad for Blake.”

“How did he treat her?” I asked.

Charlie sighed. “Like he was this matinee idol and she was a shop girl swooning over him. He liked that, I could tell.” A long pause. “She was a fool, that girl.”

“Tell me about Blake,” I said.

Marielle smiled. “A charmer, but real phony. Disloyal.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He came here one night, got a little plowed with the rotgut they served then.” She looked at Charlie apologetically. “You know it's true, Charlie. Back then. Anyway, I overheard him blarneying this girl he was with. I never seen her before. But he's talking about Dwight, calling him a simp, a milquetoast. How when he snapped his fingers, Dwight would jump. Then he said Dwight was in a nut house just over the Hudson in New Jersey. That he
worked
at the nut house and that's how he met him.” She looked into my face. “That confused me. Here he's acting like a rich boy, a friend of Dwight from another wealthy family, and then he says he worked in a nut house. Nothing added up. But I figured he was just making things up.”

Charlie added, “One of the customers told me that Blake was the black sheep of his family. He wasn't allowed to go back home. He lived in New York, was even an actor on Broadway for a bit, worked as an elevator operator in some hotel somewhere, who knows? A spoiled, rich boy who got thrown out by his parents. He kept coming back—his mother loved him—but daddy kept sending him into exile.” Charlie laughed out loud. “In his thirties and he's still playing the bad boy. Toot-toot-tooting the night away on the pennies in his pocket. Always looking for a good time. Thrills.”

Marielle was eager to add something. “God, I just thought of something funny. I mean, we all knew Dwight was the brother-in-law of Lindbergh, but he never talked about it. Like it was a forbidden topic. Blake once told someone that Dwight hated Lindbergh.”

“Do you know why?” From Aleck.

Marielle grinned wide and winked at Charlie. “Lindbergh likes practical jokes, I guess. It seems one time he sent a letter to Dwight when he came back from college up in Massachusetts. Christmas break, after finals, I guess. There was a formal letter telling him he'd flunked his courses and he was on probation. Dwight got real depressed, crying and all. I mean, his whole family went to that school, it seems. Daddy and all. It turned out that Lindbergh put that letter together. When Dwight found out it was a fake, he refused to come home for weeks.”

“Did he confront Lindbergh?”

Marielle nodded. “Dwight's a tiny man, you know. He shoved Lindbergh, who's real tall, and Lindbergh just laughed and laughed.”

Charlie looked confused. “But all this got nothing to do with the kidnapping. Or Violet Sharp. Ernie Miller ain't involved. They got this Bruno fellow with the ransom money hidden in his garage. Really.”

I glanced at Aleck. “Most likely not. Curious anecdotes about the famous.”

“Tell me something,” Aleck said. “After the night of the kidnapping, did Blake or Dwight come back here?”

Both shook their heads, but Marielle answered. “No, all the staff talked about that. The police came and talked to us about Violet and Ernie and
that
awful night. No one mentioned Dwight. No reason to. Lots of rich boys come here. They bring rich girls who get drunk.”

Charlie broke in, “Bring poor girls who get drunk.”

Marielle sat back. “No, this place became No Man's Land for that crowd. For lots of folks—except for the crazies who read about it in the papers.”

“Blake disappeared?”

Both nodded.

I looked at Charlie. “You said that Isidor Fisch used to come here.”

Both nodded quickly. “Yeah, a bad apple,” Charlie noted. “But we told the cops about that. They did ask about Bruno. No one ever saw him, true—but Izzy, yes.”

“What can you tell us about him?” I asked.

Charlie said nothing, but went behind the bar and returned with another brandy and another martini. “On the house.”

He sat down. “As I was saying, we read about Isidor in the paper afterwards, like his connection with Bruno. But he was just a slimy little con artist, a little Jewish weasel, who sized you up. Could he get a dollar off of you, that kind of look.”

“He was a sick man, I remember,” Marielle added. “Always coughing in your face, spitting up on the floor. It's a wonder we ain't all in a TB ward somewhere.”

“Who was he with?” Aleck asked.

Charlie tilted his head, thinking. “Well, I only spotted him a couple times. He tried to move some fake bills, and he was told not to come back.”

“Hot money?” I asked, and Aleck's eyebrows rose.

Charlie grinned. “You know about hot money?”

“I know about a lot of things.”

Aleck stared at me. “Edna, what in the world?”

Charlie explained. “Isidor was a sham. He claimed he traded furs or pelts, was a skilled fur-cutter, worked with this Bruno guy, but I only read about that later. A gambler, he was, a nervous Nelly, always pacing the floor, watching people. He moved money around. Bad money. Hot money. Fake and real. Tried to get folks to invest in a pie company that never existed—I read that it was all fake, like he even had a fake letterhead printed. A cheat.”

“Did he ever mention Bruno?” I asked.

“Not in my earshot. And I told the cops I never seen Bruno in here. Never. We talked about it afterwards. Izzy probably played Bruno for a dupe. Maybe Bruno was in on it, maybe he knew the money was hot—maybe even from the kidnapping. Bruno strikes me as a greedy man, cold, anything for money. But Isidor lied about his business ventures. That's what the papers said. This scheme, that one. Lots of money in his pocket, or none at all, begging for a quarter.”

Marielle went on. “Maybe Bruno ain't lily white in this story, but I bet he was tricked by Isidor.”

“Who drops off a shoebox of fourteen grand and then boards a boat for Germany?” Alex wondered.

“Where he dies. Tough luck.” Charlie shrugged his shoulders. “Somebody said he was blackmailing Bruno because Bruno was here illegally. Maybe he did.”

Marielle summed up, “Fourteen grand, hidden by Bruno. And they're saying he did it alone. Come on. Think about it. Then where is the rest of the fifty grand ransom? Tell me that. Ask Isidor. Oh, you can't. Probably hidden somewhere in an attic in Germany. Or in somebody's pocket right here in America.”

I stood. “We have to get back. We have a driver waiting.”

“He's paid to wait, Edna. They also serve who sit and wait.” Aleck glanced toward the doorway.

“Enough, Aleck.”

Aleck stood, arching his back. “So be it.”

When Aleck took out his wallet, Charlie waved it away. “On me.”

Marielle addressed Charlie. “Were you here the night Blake came in with this guy, a wiry man who annoyed everyone.”

“Isidor?” I asked.

“No, I told you I never saw them together, those two.”

“Go on.”

“A quirky guy, short, fawning, rushing up to Blake and then rushing away, getting him drinks, laughing at anything he said. That night Blake was dressed for dinner, white cravat, a black cutaway jacket, like he was going to a cotillion at a country club. But this other guy was sloppily dressed, a Hooverville hobo.”