Stolen Away (38 page)

“Another was Oliver Whately.”

“That is the name.”

Evalyn set her coffee cup down clatteringly.

“This is important, Gerta!” I said. “Haven’t you ever told anybody this?”

She shrugged. “Nobody asked.” She lowered her head, embarrassed. “I didn’t want to get Richard in trouble.”

“In trouble?”

“If they knew his friend Fisch knew those Lindbergh people…well…Carl thought we should say nothing.”

“But this helps confirm Hauptmann’s claims about Fisch.”

She shook her head, sadly. “Nobody believed the ‘Fisch story.’ How could this help? It could only hurt.”

My head was reeling. “Where was this church?”

She drew back the curtain and pointed. “Just across the street.”

“Across the street?”

“Izzy always say it was very interesting. They call it the One Hundred Twenty-Seventh Street Spiritualist Church…Mr. Heller? Nate?”

I was standing; looking out the window. My heart was racing. “Is it still there?”

“I don’t think so. I think they move it…”

“Thank you, Gerta, you’ve been very kind.” I nodded to Evalyn, who got the point and got up. “We may be back…”

“I’m sure Carl would be glad to talk to you,” she said, following along after us. “If you need to talk to me, alone, Nate, I’m here all day by myself, most days…’less I’m helping Anna.”

At the door I took Gerta’ s hand and squeezed it and soon we were down on the sidewalk and Evalyn was saying, “What’s the rush? What’s going on?”

“I could kick myself,” I said. “How could I not make the connection?”

“What connection?”

I got in the trunk of the Packard and opened my suitcase and fumbled for my packet of field notes from ’32. 1 thumbed through the notebook pages quickly, like a jumbled card hand I was trying to make sense of.

“Here,” I said, my finger on the line. “The address is 164 East 127th. Damn! How could I not put this together.”

“Put what together?”

I got my nine millimeter out of my suitcase, slipped it in my topcoat pocket, shut the trunk back up.

“Come on,” I said. I cut diagonally across the street, getting honked at by a cabbie, to whom I displayed my middle finger, as Evalyn hustled along behind me, doing the best she could in her heels.

Then we were standing before a storefront; it was a shoe-repair shop. The number was 164.

“This used to be a spiritualist church,” I said, “run by a pair called Martin Marinelli and Sarah Sivella. They were the spiritualists who, a few days after the kidnapping, made some startling ‘predictions’ about the case.”

“Oh my. I think I remember you telling me this…”

“They conjured up the name ‘Jafsie’ before Condon was on the scene, before Condon claimed he’d even thought of the moniker. They predicted a ransom note would be delivered to Colonel Breckinridge’s office. They even predicted the body of a baby would be found in the Sourland Mountains.”

“Good Lord! And Isidor Fisch was in their congregation? And Violet Sharpe? And Whately?”

I nodded. I put a hand on her shoulder. “We have to find those fakers, Evalyn. Today.”

And I got lucky, fast: the guy behind the shoe-repair counter knew where the church had been relocated. It was called the Temple of Divine Power, now.

“Over on 114th,” the guy said. “Near the East River.”

“That’s not far, is it?”

“Hell, no. You could walk it.”

We drove.

The Temple of Divine Power announced itself in white letters against a large front window painted a vivid blue; the meeting hours were “2-6-8-10
P.M
., Friday through Sunday.” The sign stuck in the window said “Closed,” with a phone number for “Personal Consultations” below, as well as the name “Rev. M. J. Marinelli.” Three steps led up to a similarly blue, painted-out door labeled in white letters, “Entrance.” The temple was only half a storefront: the other half was taken up by a small Italian deli.

Behind a couple garbage cans was a walk-down to a basement apartment; I went down the steps and knocked on the door and got no response.

I joined Evalyn on the sidewalk.

“You could try the phone number,” she suggested. “You could ask about them at that little food market next door.”

“Maybe they’re in the church, closed or not,” I said, shrugging, and went up and knocked on the narrow Entrance door. Nothing. I could hear something going inside, something that sounded like a motor. I put my ear to the door and there was definitely something going on in there. I tried a second time, knocking so hard the glass rattled. Then I could hear the motor stop.

And the door cracked open.

“Yes?” she said.

She was still very pretty, though she had a double chin now; the eyes were just as brown, flecked gold, the face creamy pale, the lips full and sensuous, though untouched by lip rouge at the moment.

“Hi, Sarah,” I said.

“Do I know you?”

“Yes. Just a moment.” I walked down the steps to Evalyn and said, “See that little café across the street? Get yourself a cup of espresso.”

“But Nate—Nathan!”

“I have to handle this one alone.”

Evalyn’s mouth formed a thin tight line; she wasn’t used to being told what to do. But she nodded, and I watched her cross the street, her heels clicking. A cabbie honked and she gave him the finger. A gloved one.

“That’s my girl,” I said under my breath.

I returned to Sister Sarah Sivella, watching me from the cracked-open door of her storefront temple.

“I remember you,” she said, and her smile was very faint. “I remember that night with you.”

I grinned at her. “I thought you might. Your husband home?”

“No.”

“Good. You want to talk in your apartment downstairs, or in the church?”

Her eyes tensed. “How did you know the downstairs apartment was ours?”

“Well, I could be psychic,” I said. “Or just a detective.”

She let me in. Pleasantly plump now, she was wearing a simple black frock, the sort of thing Evalyn might wear, if she had only a buck ninety-eight to spend and no jewelry. A Hoover stand-up vacuum cleaner leaned against the wall—that had been the sound I’d heard through the door. The walls were stark, as blue as the painted-out window, up to the chair rail, then whitewashed above. There were half a dozen rows of hard, stiff chairs, facing a pulpit, with a blue curtain behind. It looked more than a little like the death chamber at the New Jersey state prison.

She shut the door; locked it. “I didn’t expect to ever see you again.”

“Working the same old case,” I said, hat in my hands.

Her unplucked eyebrows met in thought. “The Lindbergh kidnapping…?”

‘That’s right. Let’s sit down, shall we?”

Rather tentatively, she did, pulling up one of the chairs. I pulled mine around so I could face her.

“But the man who did that is in jail,” she said.

“Is he?”

She moved her head to one side, to avert my gaze. “Actually—in the trance state, Martin says I’ve said otherwise.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’ve said, in a trance, that this German is not the kidnapper. That there were many persons in this plot. Four who did the kidnapping. One of them a woman. One of them dead.”

“Is it the woman who’s dead?”

She shrugged shyly; her long dark hair bounced on her shoulders. “That’s all I know. I only know what Martin tells me. I have no memory of what I say, in that state.”

“Well, you could’ve meant Violet Sharpe.”

Her eyes flickered. She said nothing.

“Violet was in your congregation, wasn’t she?”

She swallowed.

I reached out and squeezed her arm; not quite hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make a point. “Wasn’t she?”

She nodded.

“Sometimes she came to services,” she said. “I’m not sure she was a member.”

“Who else?”

“So many people.”

I stamped my foot on the floor. The chairs bounced. So did she.

“Who else, Sarah?”

She swallowed again, shook her head. “That funny-looking little man, Fisch. He was a member.”

“Don’t stop now, Sarah. You’re getting hot.”

“There was a man named Whately. A butler, I think.”

“A butler, you think. Anyone else? Think hard, now.”

She shook her head, no. “I don’t think so.”

“Remember back in that hotel room, in Princeton? You mentioned a name.”

“I don’t remember what I said in the trance state…”

“You said ‘Jafsie.’ You said you saw the letters J-A-F-S-I-E.”

“I remember Martin told me I said that.”

“Was Professor John Condon a member of the One Hundred Twenty-Seventh Street church?”

“No…no.”

“No?”

“But…”

“But what, Sarah?”

“But…he did attend a few times.”

I felt myself trembling; I smiled at her—it must’ve been a terrible smile. “Tell me about it, Sarah. Tell me about Jafsie….”

A resonant male voice behind me said, “He was only an occasional visitor.”

I turned and Martin Marinelli, wearing a black turtleneck and black slacks, looking like a priest who lost his collar if not quite his calling, had entered through the curtain behind the pulpit. His head was as bald as ever, though his eyebrows had grown out and were wild and woolly, not plucked for effect; he still wore a devil beard. He had a small paper bag tucked under one arm.

He walked slowly to us and handed the paper bag to Sarah, who appeared on the verge of tears. “Here are the supplies you requested, my dear.”

I could see as she set it on a nearby chair that in the bag were various cleaning products, cleanser, disinfectant, soap flakes.

Marinelli pulled a chair up and made it a threesome. “We’re the janitors of this building, Mr. Heller. That’s how we keep our rent down.”

“You remember my name,” I said. “I’m impressed, Reverend.”

“I’ve had to keep an eye on the Lindbergh case,” he said, with a little flourish of a gesture. “We’ve been harassed so many times, it’s become a necessity to be well informed.”

“I like to be well informed, myself. Tell me more about this star-studded congregation of yours.”

“There’s nothing to tell. As far as Dr. Condon is concerned, he’s a philosophy instructor, with quite an avid interest in spiritualism. I’m sure we’re not the only spiritualist church he’s visited.”

“Condon taught school in Harlem,” I said. “Either one of you happen to attend Old Public School Number Thirty-Eight?”

Sarah closed her eyes; she began to rock back and forth slowly.

Marinelli put his hands on his knees; they were powerful-looking hands. “I don’t see that our schooling has anything to do with anything, Mr. Heller.”

“Then let’s change the subject. Tell me about Isidor Fisch, and Violet Sharpe, and Ollie Whately. They were in your congregation, Reverend. Surely you must’ve got to know them on a personal basis.”

“We had many parishioners on One Hundred Twenty-Seventh Street in those years. That was a larger church. People walked in off the street all the time. One night we had a Chinaman!”

“I’m not interested in the Chinaman, Rev. How did Violet and Whately wind up in your church?”

He shrugged. ‘They found their way to me. I never ask my flock about their pasts, unless they offer it. But one, or both of them, had been interested in spiritualism before coming to this country.”

“One of ’em, at least, had been involved in a spiritualist church in England?”

“Yes. I believe it was Whately. I think Violet had lost her parents, and had hoped to contact them, through the spirit world. We helped her do that.”

“Did you. You and Sarah and old, what was that Injun’s name? Chief Yellow Feather?”

Sarah, eyes shut tight, twitched.

“As for Fisch,” Marinelli said, ignoring me, “he lived across the street and down, in a rooming house. He wandered in off the street one night, curious, and became interested in what we do.”

“And what is it you do, exactly? I’ve never been able to tell.”

“We are dedicated to the cause of spiritualism, Mr. Heller, whether you believe that or not. We’ve not gotten wealthy, as you can see.”

“You’re doing all right. Better than most in these times, I’d say.”

“Now that I’ve answered your questions, Mr. Heller,” Marinelli said, folding his arms, “I would appreciate it if you would leave.”

“What about Bruno Richard Hauptmann? Was he in your church?”

“No. He never set foot there.”

“Still, Rev—I think the cops might be very interested in knowing that, back in ’32, your church on One Twenty-Seventh was a veritable hotbed of people associated with the Lindbergh case.”

Marineili shrugged. “They already know,” he said.

“What?”

“We were arrested in January 1934, Mr. Heller. On a fortune-telling charge. But we were questioned at length about the Lindbergh case, and we held nothing back. While we were indisposed, our lodgings were ransacked, an address book was stolen and so on. Typical police behavior.”

Sister Sarah was stone quiet, and motionless; eyes shut tight.

“What’s with her?” I said.

“You scared her,” he said, matter-of-factly. “She withdrew into the trance state.”

“Aw, baloney.”

“Mr. Heller, my wife is a genuine psychic.”

I got the nine millimeter out of my topcoat.

He stood and backed up, knocking over several chairs; she remained still as death.

“Izzy Fisch and Violet Sharpe and Ollie Whately,” I said, rising, “have a lot in common, don’t they? They’re all members of your church—and they’re all dead. Maybe we can have a little informal séance, and conjure ’em up.”

“What…what do you want from me, Heller? What do you want me to do?”

I inched forward, gun in hand. “Spill, you phony bastard. Spill it all or I’ll start spilling you…”

He was backing up; backing into the pulpit. “I don’t know anything!”

“Ugh,” someone said.

I turned and looked at Sarah.

She had begun to speak. “Who seeks Yellow Feather?”

“Aw, fuck,” I said, moving toward her. “I’m going to slap her silly…”

“No!” he said, moving forward. He touched my arm. “No. Whatever I am, Mr. Heller, Sarah is an innocent. And truly is genuinely psychic…”

“I can see a child,” she said, her voice a register lower than normal. “He is in a high place. There is a small house, low, with a high barn behind. The child is in the house. On the second floor. There is a bald-headed man, with pouches under his eyes. He is looking down at the child. There is a woman in the house, too. The house is on a hill.”

She shuddered, and her eyes popped open. It made me jump.

“I’m sorry,” she said, quietly. “Did I fall asleep?”

He went to her, touched her shoulder, gently. “You were in a trance, my dear.” He told her what she’d said.

“How can you see the baby,” I said, sarcasm hanging on my words like a week’s worth of wash, “when you already ‘predicted,’ accurately, its dead body on the heights over Hopewell?”

“She never said it was the Lindbergh baby’s body,” Marinelli said, his arm around his wife’s shoulder.

“First, she sees a dead baby in the heights, four years ago. And now she sees it alive, only now it’s a ‘child,’ not a baby, and it’s in some farmhouse?”

“It may not be the same child,” Marinelli said. “We can’t always know the meaning of what a medium says in a trance—interpretation is required, Mr. Heller. Will you put your gun away, please?”

He was standing there protecting his wife, who looked small and pitiful and, hell, I’d screwed her once upon a time, so maybe I owed them this one.

“All right,” I said. And I put the gun away. “Will you cooperate, if I need you to talk to somebody?”

“Certainly,” Marinelli said, summoning his dignity. “Who?”

“Governor Hoffinan of New Jersey,” I said.

He nodded solemnly.

I went to the door.

“Goodbye, Nate,” she said, quietly.

“So long, Sarah,” I said, shaking my head, and I went down to the sidewalk and stood there and shook my head some more and sighed. Evalyn, watching from the cafe across the street, came over and joined me.

“What did you find?”

“I’ll tell you all about it,” I said, “on the way.”

“On the way where?”

“We have one more stop this afternoon….”

The neat, trim two-story white clapboard in the Bronx was unchanged; so was the quiet residential street it was perched along. The lawn was brown, but evergreens hugged the porch.

I told Evalyn to stay in the car; she didn’t like it, but I made her understand.

“If there’s a witness,” I said, “this guy is liable not to say anything.”

The attractive dark-haired woman who answered the door did not recognize me at first.

“Yes?” she said, warily, the door only a third of the way open.

“Is Professor Condon in? Tell him an old friend’s dropped by.”

Her face had tightened. “Detective Heller,” she said.

“Hiya, Myra.”

The door shut suddenly—not quite a slam.

I glanced back at Evalyn, sitting in the Packard, and smiled and shrugged. She looked at me curiously, wondering if this interview was over before it began.

The door opened again and there he stood, in white shirtsleeves and vest and pocket watch, in all his walrus-mustached glory.

“Long time no see, Professor.”

“Detective Heller,” Dr. John F. Condon said stiffly. He extended his hand and I shook it; he squeezed to impress me with his strength, as usual. “I hope you’ve been well.”

“I’ve been okay. You’re nice and tan.”

“I have just returned from Panama.”

“So I hear. You took off, day before Hauptmann’s case came up before the Court of Pardons.”