The Lindbergh Kidnaping Case: The True Story of the Crime That Shocked the World

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Text originally published in 1961 under the same title.

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

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THE LINDBERGH KIDNAPING CASE:

THE TRUE STORY OF THE CRIME THAT SHOCKED THE WORLD

BY

OVID DEMARIS

Author of LUCKY LUCIANO

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 5

CRIME OF THE CENTURY 7

AUTHOR’S PROFILE 8

CHAPTER ONE 9

CHAPTER TWO 16

CHAPTER THREE 20

CHAPTER FOUR 26

CHAPTER FIVE 31

CHAPTER SIX 36

CHAPTER SEVEN 43

CHAPTER EIGHT 46

CHAPTER NINE 53

CHAPTER TEN 58

CHAPTER ELEVEN 62

CHAPTER TWELVE 69

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 77

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 85

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 92

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 98

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 106

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 112

CHAPTER NINETEEN 119

CHAPTER TWENTY 123

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 126

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 129

CRIME OF THE CENTURY

From the beginning, the Lindbergh kidnaping case was different from any other....

Violet Sharpe, a maid, was never really involved, yet she committed suicide. Gaston B. Means, bagman for the corrupt forces in the Harding administration, forced his way into the picture as an unofficial go-between.

Salvatore Spitale and Irving Bitz, nationally known gangsters, were brought in as ambassadors to and from the underworld. John F. Condon, a mild, retired teacher acted as the ransom pay-off man, catapulting himself into prominence under his code name Jafsie.

Even the Purple Gang and the Al Capone mob were thought to be involved, but only one man—a lone wolf—was ever implicated...the infamous Bruno Hauptmann.

AUTHOR’S PROFILE

Ovid Demaris was born in Biddeford, Maine and holds an A.B. degree History-English from the College of Idaho and an M.S. degree in Journalism from Boston University. During World War II, he served in the Air Force as a personnel officer.

After the war he worked as a reporter on the Boston Daily Record, then as a Boston Bureau staff man for United Press, finally becoming Ad Copy Chief of the Los Angeles Times.

Mr. Demaris’ books have been translated and published in 10 foreign countries and his recent successes include the Monarch Americana bestseller LUCKY LUCIANO.

CHAPTER ONE

MARCH CAME IN like a lion that year. Dark ominous clouds hung low in the sky, blanketing the mid-afternoon sun. The wind, which had begun mildly the evening before, now suddenly erupted into a ferocious howling beast, bending saplings in half, ripping dead limbs off trees, tugging in its wake, as it swept across the bleak, desolate countryside, a huge billowing dust cloud that completely obscured the rugged Sourland Mountains in the distance.

Perched majestically atop the crest of a knoll, dominating five hundred acres of this undulating terrain, was the handsome French manor home of Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh. It was a new home, built of field stone, whitewashed with cement, two and one half stories in height. To the north and west of the house stretched a tangled woodland reaching all the way to the Sourland Mountains, and to the south and east were a mixture of rich rolling meadows and dark ugly swamplands.

The home site had been selected by Colonel Lindbergh as a refuge from the demands of a clamoring public. Here, with his wife, Anne Morrow, and his twenty-month-old son, Charles, Jr., he could enjoy the peace and serenity best suited to his modest nature. The birth of his son on June 22, 1930, had created a public excitement transcended only by the hysteria which had followed his much celebrated flight to Paris on May 21st, 1927.

At about one-thirty on that afternoon of March 1st, 1932, a black limousine rolled quietly up the blacktop drive leading to the entrance of the new home. Betty Gow, the young English nursemaid to the Lindbergh baby, sat morosely beside the chauffeur, a tiny frown creasing her smooth forehead.

Betty was unhappy. The urgent call from Mrs. Anne Lindbergh that noontime had spoiled her plans for the evening. And just when things were becoming serious between her and Red Johnson. They had had a date the evening before and had one planned for that evening. After receiving Anne Lindbergh’s call, Betty had tried to reach Red but had been unable to locate him. Unless she reached him before evening he would think she had stood him up.

The fact that the baby might be ill also disturbed her. Anne Lindbergh had sounded upset on the telephone. The very fact that Mrs. Lindbergh had decided against returning to her mother’s estate in Englewood as planned and had remained at the new home in Hopewell for another day, made it all the more serious in Betty Gow’s mind.

The Lindberghs usually spent only weekends at the new home in Hopewell. During the week, they lived at the Morrow estate in Englewood, which was more convenient to New York City and the colonel’s work. Soon now, though, the private landing strip behind the new home would be completed and the colonel would be able to fly to and from work. Then, Betty thought, they might live permanently in the new home. She wasn’t sure she cared too much for that arrangement. The house was in the middle of nowhere. At least three miles by dirt road to Hopewell and from there a good eight miles to Princeton and fourteen miles to the state capital, Trenton. What could a body do on a day or evening off? She wasn’t even sure there was a cinema in Hopewell.

Betty thanked the chauffeur and raced up the front steps, her body bent against the fierce wind. The door was locked and she rang the bell. Moments later it was opened by the butler, Oliver Whately. Betty rushed past him into the small reception hall, stopping before the entrance to the immense living room with the two huge fireplaces at each end. Crackling fires cast flickering fingers of light across the darkened room. Betty hurried to one of the hearths and shuddered as she rubbed her hands together.

What a beastly day, she said.

Whately smiled urbanely and nodded his head. You look especially beautiful today, my dear. The wind has given you a tinge of color that is terribly appealing.

Oliver, Betty said. You’re getting to sound like Septimus.

Don’t be nasty, my dear. I’m terribly fond of you.

I’m famished, she said. Is your wife in the kitchen?

Her name is Elsie, he said stiffly.

I know, Betty said, smiling coyly. And she’s a marvelous cook.

You don’t fool me for a moment, Whately said. Not a moment. With that remark, he turned smartly on his heels, and strode out of the room.

Betty Gow smiled and bent forward to rub her cold legs. My God, she thought. Not even two o’clock and it’s as dark as night outside. Beastly day. Just simply beastly. She straightened up and went out to the kitchen.

Elsie Whately prepared lunch for Betty and the two women sat facing each other at the kitchen table. Elsie had tea and dry sugar-coated cookies.

How is the baby? Betty enquired.

Oh, my, he’s not well. Not well at all. The poor darling is coughing and his little nose is running and he just feels miserable.

Did he ask for me?

My, yes. He was chasing around earlier this morning and he came in here two, three times asking for you.

What a beautiful child, Betty said.

Oh, that he is. Looks just like his father. Same big blue eyes, same sandy hair, and the same kind of little smile, too. He’s going to be a real charmer, that one.

Betty finished eating. Did he eat all his lunch?

My, yes. Brought it up to his room an hour ago. Mrs. Anne fed him.

It doesn’t sound too serious, Betty said.

Elsie smiled warmly. Well, you know Mrs. Anne. She’s not going to let anything harm that boy.

Betty nodded. Is she with him now?

No. The baby’s down for his nap and the Mrs. went out for a walk.

Outdoors? Betty exclaimed, horrified at the thought. Elsie slapped her heavy thighs and laughed. Well, you know the Mrs.

When Betty Gow went upstairs, she found the baby sound asleep. She leaned over the crib and gently wiped his nose with a soft handkerchief. He was a beautiful child, she thought. A lovely child. She sat next to the crib and opened a book. Perhaps if she kept him dry and warm he would be better by morning and they would all be able to return to Englewood.

Colonel Lindbergh arrived a few minutes after eight that evening. Oliver Whately was astounded to see him.

But, sir, he said. Weren’t you supposed to speak at the Alumni Federation of New York University this evening?

Colonel Lindbergh returned an equally astounded look. My goodness, he said, it completely slipped my mind.

I’m sorry, sir, Whately said.

The colonel smiled thinly. Well, now maybe they can enjoy their dinner.

Will you wish to telephone your regrets? Whately suggested.

Yes, please, Oliver. Will you get them on the line for me?

Colonel Lindbergh extended his apology to the chairman of the federation and then quickly went in to dinner where Anne Lindbergh explained the baby’s condition in detail.

Betty put him to bed at seven, she said. We rubbed his chest with oil and dressed him warmly. Betty made him a flannel shirt to go under the bunting. The poor darling was so exhausted he went right to sleep.

If he’s not better by morning you better call the doctor. It’s just a slight congestion at the moment but it makes him so uncomfortable. I think I will call the doctor unless it’s completely cleared up by morning.

The colonel nodded. Sounds like the wind is getting stronger out there, he said. We’d better have Oliver close the shutters in the bedrooms.

That reminds me, Anne said. One of the shutters in the baby’s room won’t close.

Broken?

No, I believe it’s warped. Betty and I both tried to close it. The panels seem to overlap.

We’ll have to have it fixed.

After dinner Anne went to her room on the second floor, and the colonel retiring to his study which was directly underneath the nursery. He worked uninterruptedly for one hour. At one point, he was aroused from his concentration by a noise outside the window. He glanced toward the window, shrugged his shoulders and quickly resumed his work. The wind had probably cracked a bough. It was a mean night abroad.

At nine o’clock Betty Gow received a telephone call from Red Johnson. They talked for a few minutes and then Betty went to the servants’ living room above the garage, turned on the radio, and browsed through a magazine. The baby’s dog, a Scotch terrier, lay asleep at her feet. Whately came in and they talked for a time.

A few minutes after ten, she excused herself and hurried to the nursery in the east wing. It was her custom to visit the baby every night at that time. Carefully, she opened the door and tiptoed into the room. The light from the hallway allowed her to see into the room. The room seemed unusually cold and she plugged in the electric heater and waited a few minutes for the room to lose its chill. Crossing over to the crib, she leaned over it with her hands on the rail. Unable to hear the baby’s breathing, she bent down and lowered her hands, reaching out for the child.

The crib was empty!

She stood back, looking nervously about the room, then she smiled. Mrs. Lindbergh must have him, she thought, hurrying down the hallway. The boy certainly wouldn’t get out of the crib on his own. Somebody must have taken him out. Betty met Anne Lindbergh as she was leaving the bathroom.

Do you have the baby with you? she asked.

Anne looked surprised. No. Why? Isn’t he in his room?

No, he’s not. Well, where is the colonel? He may have him.

Downstairs in the study.

Betty Gow turned quickly and ran downstairs to the study. The colonel was sitting at his desk, reading. He looked up, smiling politely, his blue eyes slowly growing anxious as he studied the flustered nurse.

What is it? he asked.

Sir, is the baby here with you?

No. Isn’t he in his crib?

No, she said.

The colonel jumped up from his chair and raced up the stairs to the nursery. He looked wildly about the room, his tall lanky body tense, moving in jerky motions. He’s not here, he said. Not here at all.

He spun around and rushed into his wife’s room with Betty Gow and Anne right behind him. He opened a closet door and reached inside, coming out with a rifle. Then, his face drained of all color, he turned to his wife, his eyes grief-stricken, his voice trembling. Anne, they’ve stolen our baby.

He could have gotten out of his crib, Betty volunteered. Maybe he’s hiding somewhere.

They searched the room again but found no trace of the child. Tell Whately to call the police, the colonel cried. I’m going to have a look outside.

Outside, the wind screeched with rising fury, deafening the colonel against all other sounds. He stood in the darkness, alone and fearful, the blanket of night falling over him like a black shroud.

The first police officers to arrive at the Lindbergh home that fateful night were Harry Wolf, Hopewell’s police chief, and Constable Charles E. Williamson. Colonel Lindbergh met than at the front door with the rifle still in his hand.

While the three men stood talking, Major Charles Schoeffel of the New Jersey State Police arrived with Trooper Frank A. Kelly, a fingerprint expert. The five men quickly repaired to the nursery. The officers peered into the empty crib, inspected the warped shutter, studied a footprint on the window sill and clay-colored mud tracks leading from the window to the crib.

Then, suddenly, they saw the envelope which had been conspicuously left on the window sill.

Be careful of fingerprints, Colonel Lindbergh warned. Major Schoeffel raised his hand and nodded to Trooper Kelly, who quickly donned a pair of gloves.

We’ll check it before opening it, Major Schoeffel said.

Everyone watched Trooper Kelly tensely as he picked up the note and carried it to a table in the center of the room where he proceeded to examine the envelope for fingerprints. A moment later he shook his head. It’s clean, Major.

Somebody get me a knife, Schoeffel said. He turned to Colonel Lindbergh. Now, who do you want to see this note, Colonel?

Police Chief Harry Wolf, automatically ousted from command of the case by that simple phrase, stood