The Kidnap Years: by David Stout (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📕

the bridge game, the stock market had reached its highest level of the year—only to plummet for three straight days, with Friday’s trading the heaviest since October 30, 1929, when the economy had begun its spiral into the Great Depression.

It is likely that Charles Urschel and Walter Jarrett felt some sympathy for the thousands of speculators whose accounts had been emptied in Friday’s trading. As oil men, Urschel and Jarrett knew what it meant to take big risks in business.

And there was disturbing news from abroad. Philip Zuckerman, a businessman who lived in New York City and traveled often to Leipzig, Germany, where he owned a business that imported furs from America, had been badly beaten a few days before by Nazi storm troopers. His wife had also been injured.

The Zuckermans and two relatives had been watching a parade of storm troopers when several marchers broke ranks and attacked, punching and trampling them. “One of my relatives wears a long beard, making it easy to pick him out as a Jew,” Zuckerman said from his hospital bed in Berlin where he had gone for treatment.95

George S. Messersmith, the American consul general in Berlin, filed a protest with German government authorities, who promised “the most stringent action” against anyone found to have taken part in the assault. The Nazis, under Chancellor Adolf Hitler, had been in power less than six months, so perhaps it was too early to draw conclusions about them.

In the midst of the bridge game, Berenice Urschel thought she heard a car stop near the driveway. Moments later, as if in a dream, the door to the sunporch opened, and two men carrying machine guns entered. One was heavyset, the other more slender. The intruders were careful to stand in the edge of the light so their faces could not be seen clearly.

“Don’t move or make a sound or we’ll blow your heads off,” the heavy intruder said. “Which one is Urschel?”96

Neither Urschel nor Jarrett replied. In their private lives, as in business and bridge, they had learned to hold their cards close to the vest.

“Well, come along,” the heavy intruder said. “We’ll take both of you.”

The women watched in shock as their husbands were steered off the sunporch at gunpoint. The wives waited until they heard a car start and move away. Then they rushed to an upstairs bedroom, locked themselves in, and called the police.

Berenice recalled the Time article about kidnapping and that it had mentioned a new national hotline to call. She found the article and dialed the number: National 7117.

An operator answered, inviting her to go ahead. Understandably breathless, Mrs. Urschel said she needed to report a kidnapping. At that point, according to at least one account, a man’s voice broke in. “This is J. Edgar Hoover, Mrs. Urschel. Give me every detail you can.”97

The car had gone only a short distance when the driver said to his partner, “Floyd, give me a cigarette.”

Jarrett had picked up the driver’s extra emphasis on the name “Floyd.”

A little farther on, the car stopped, and Jarrett was put out.

“If you want to help Urschel, don’t tell anyone which way we’re headed,” one kidnapper said. “On your honor, if you have any honor.”

Soon, Jarrett was able to hitch a ride back to Oklahoma City where he found Urschel’s wife and daughter nervous but composed. There was nothing to do but wait for the kidnappers to name their price—and no one doubted that it would be steep.

“The ransom demand is expected to be one of the greatest ever made,” a Texas newspaper, the Austin American, predicted two days after the kidnapping. “Few, if any, wealthier men have been held for ransom anywhere.”98 Not only were the Urschels wealthy, but their friends included some of the richest men in the oil industry, men who could be counted on to contribute toward Urschel’s freedom.

The kidnappers probably didn’t fully understand the kind of men Charles Urschel and Walter Jarrett were. Both had shrugged off losses and triumphed. They were tough, remarkably cool thinkers under pressure.

Jarrett remembered what the kidnappers had said to each other: “Floyd, give me a cigarette,” was one phrase. A few more times, the name “Floyd” was uttered, a bit louder than necessary.

Sure, Jarrett thought, smiling to himself. They’re trying to put the blame for this latest kidnapping on Pretty Boy Floyd. His name had begun to surface in the Union Station Massacre, which had taken place only weeks before.

Jarrett had seen pictures of Floyd, and he was soon telling the police and reporters that neither of his captors looked a bit like him.

For the rest of his life, Charles Urschel would remember the cold, empty feeling in his stomach as he lay on the floor of the sedan, his eyes taped shut. After a long while, the car stopped. From the smells, he thought he was in a garage. Then he heard faint metallic sounds. They’re changing license plates, he thought.

He was put into another vehicle and told to lie down. After a few hours, the car stopped at a gas station. He was warned to keep quiet. He did and overheard a snatch of conversation.

“How are the farm conditions around here?” a kidnapper asked.

“The crops around here are burned up,” a woman said as she pumped the gas.

Remember this, Urschel told himself. The information may be useful.

More hours went by. Finally, he was taken from the car and led through a gate into a house. He was placed on a cot. He heard one of his jailers lie down on a cot next to him. The prisoner heard the voices of a man and a woman. Then his ears were filled with cotton and taped over.

He was led to a second house and into a room where he was told to lie on some blankets in the corner. More voices, different from before. A handcuff was placed on one of his wrists, and the other hand was fastened to a chair. He slept