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

*In recounting the movements of the Barker-Karpis gang and John Dillinger’s final journey, I summarized from accounts in the Chicago Tribune, the New York Times, and FBI files. And I am especially indebted to Bryan Burrough, whose riveting Public Enemies: America’s Greatest Crime Wave and the Birth of the FBI, 1933–1934 is essential reading for those seeking deeper understanding of that desperate time in American history.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

VIGILANCE AT THE GAS PUMP

New York City

Friday, September 14, 1934

Walter Lyle met all kinds of people without going very far. That was the nature of being the day manager at a big service station in Upper Manhattan.

The week seemed to be ending on a good note. It was cloudy, and there might be light showers in the afternoon. But the temperatures promised to be in the high sixties, ideal for working outdoors, manning the pumps, checking oil, and cleaning windshields. The station was a busy one, taking up an entire block on the east side of Lexington between 127th and 128th streets.

Lyle, who was thirty-three, was happily married. He and his wife had a seven-year-old daughter. Life was good, especially considering the hardships that some Americans were enduring. Lyle knew he was fortunate to have steady employment. On this very Friday morning, newspapers were full of disturbing reports about strikes against textile factories from Rhode Island to the mid-Atlantic states and into the Deep South.

There had been numerous deaths and injuries. Only a week before, six strikers had been shot to death in Honea Path, South Carolina, in a pitched battle between pickets and workers who sided with management. Other incidents were almost as ugly, with governors in some states blaming the labor actions on Communists and other “red agitators” and calling up National Guardsmen to maintain order at bayonet point.

The violence was ugly enough to cause thoughtful Americans to wonder what was happening to their country.* Was the nation tearing itself apart?

Of course, Lyle knew that dealing with the enormous problems he read about in the newspapers was beyond his place. What he didn’t know was that this day was to be one of the most important of his life.

Lyle and his assistants were on the lookout for counterfeit money, particularly gold certificates and bills of large denominations. The chain that owned the station wouldn’t put up with being swindled. That’s why Lyle and the other men who pumped gas were instructed to be alert, writing license-plate numbers on bills when customers didn’t seem quite right.

Just lately, there had been some bad bills passed in the neighborhood, Lyle and his coworkers had been warned. The alert had gone out to all service stations in the area as well as retail merchants.

It was around 10:00 a.m. when a dark Dodge sedan pulled in.

Fill her up? Lyle asked the driver routinely.

“Five gallons will be enough,” the driver said.

“That’ll be ninety-eight cents,” Lyle told him.** Lyle had noticed that the man had a German accent. He pumped the gasoline and was surprised when the driver handed him a ten-dollar gold certificate. “You don’t see many of these anymore,” Lyle said.***147

“Ah, yes, you do,” the motorist said a bit boastfully. “I’ve got a hundred of them left at home.” After taking nine one-dollar bills and two pennies for his change, the driver started his engine and drove off—but not before Lyle wrote his license number on the ten-dollar gold certificate: 4U-13-41.

Then Lyle approached two station attendants, Joseph McCarthy and John Lyons, who were working nearby, and shared his suspicions about the motorist: Who the hell brags about having a bunch of gold notes at home? And why pay with a ten when you’re buying less than a buck’s worth of gas?

What Lyle and his coworkers did not know was that the general warning to watch out for suspicious money was not aimed just at counterfeiters. The warning had been issued because, after a lull, money from the Lindbergh ransom was appearing again in Upper Manhattan and the Bronx. In recent weeks, a twenty-dollar gold certificate from the ransom money had been used by a man buying a pair of shoes in the Fordham section of the Bronx.

On the morning of Monday, September 17, the deposits from the service station where Lyle worked were tallied at a branch of the Corn Exchange Bank at Park Avenue and 125th Street. A ten-dollar gold certificate bearing the notation “4U-13-41” was identified as being from the Lindbergh ransom.**** Bank officials notified the Justice Department, which in turn notified the police in New York City and New Jersey.

The New York motor vehicle agency quickly determined that the license-plate number was assigned to a car owned by Bruno Richard Hauptmann, who lived in a rented apartment at 1279 East 222nd Street in the Bronx with his wife, Anna, and their infant son, Manfred. A special squad was immediately assembled to track Hauptmann’s whereabouts. Then several investigators called on Walter Lyle, who confirmed that he was the man who had jotted the license number on the bill.

Yes, Lyle remembered the guy who bragged about having a hundred of these notes. And, sure, he could describe him.*****

The investigators noted that the general description offered by Lyle corresponded with that offered by John Condon, who more than two years earlier had come face-to-face with the man who took the ransom money.

Please keep quiet about this, the investigators urged Lyle. They had decided that, instead of arresting Hauptmann at once, they would follow him to see if he might lead them to accomplices. But by Tuesday night, the surveillance had produced no clues, and lawmen decided to arrest Hauptmann, lest he sense that he was being watched.

On the morning of Wednesday, September 19, about seventy-five police officers and federal agents were ready to ambush Hauptmann. Some surrounded the house where he lived, while others sat in cars in neighboring streets.

Hauptmann was seen emerging from his house and getting into his car. When he had gone