The Year of Fear Page 12

  He resigned himself to the fact that he most likely would never return from Kansas City. He wrote a good-bye letter to his wife with instructions to deliver it to her if he hadn’t returned by Tuesday.

  6

  THE DELIVERY

  With the members of the press decamped, the Urschel neighborhood was eerily silent as darkness fell on Saturday night. Kirkpatrick, the Seeligsons and a deputy sheriff armed with shotguns hid in the bushes and shrubs in the mansion’s backyard along the driveway. From an upstairs bedroom window, Berenice peered down at the scene below, awaiting delivery of $200,000 ($3.6 million in contemporary value) in used $20 bills from the First National Bank of Oklahoma City. It was a staggering amount of money. More cash than even a woman of her means had ever seen collected in one place. Arthur Seeligson had gone to herculean efforts to raise it and catalog it. It was now being transported secretly across town by bank employees without the benefit of a police escort or any real protection. If the car was hijacked or the money stolen along the way, it was doubtful she’d be able to secure an equal amount in time to save her husband’s life. No one had ever agreed to pay so high a ransom, and she knew Charley would be embarrassed that she had.

  She nervously scanned the street behind the house, and when the designated car surreptitiously appeared, she flashed a light indicating it was safe to proceed. The car pulled into the drive and a banker from the car stepped out, walked toward the shrubs, handed the bag to Kirkpatrick, turned and left.

  Kirk brought it inside and opened it for Berenice. After checking the contents and double counting the amount, Kirkpatrick took it and a second bag with cut-up newspapers in the same shape and weight as the money bag to the Oklahoma City train station. There he was joined by Catlett, and the two walked to their reserved seats in the observation car of the Katy Limited due to depart for Kansas City at 10:10 p.m. But already there was a complication in the plans. Two extra cars had been added to the train to accommodate tourists bound for the World’s Fair in Chicago. The Chicago-bound passengers would have to change trains in Kansas City. Because the train was traveling at night and there was nothing to see anyway, the railroad men had added the extra cars behind the observation car, which normally would be the last car.

  As an expensive diversion to the wearying Depression, the World’s Fair in Chicago was proving to be a remarkable success. Attendees were flocking there from all over the country and the world. With the theme “A Century of Progress,” it celebrated the city’s astonishing growth and accomplishments from the time it was incorporated as a village in 1833 with a population of fewer than 400 people to its status in 1933 as the fourth-largest city in the world, eclipsed only by New York, London and Tokyo. It was the transportation center of the nation, with the world’s largest rail hub and shipping access to the Great Lakes and the Mississippi River. It was the most technologically advanced city in the nation and a gleaming example of the beauty of modern architecture. But it was also famous for its colorful gangsters, wild nightlife and criminality of all degrees. That, too, was attracting throngs to the fair.

  Kirkpatrick and Catlett moved anxiously to the end of the train and outside, onto the cramped exposed vestibule of the last car, hoping to use it as a substitute and also hoping that the spotters would see them there and not think something fishy was going on.

  “Do you think this will foul up their plan, Kirk?”

  “I wish I knew,” he replied, explaining that he planned to stay outside, under the signal light, so he could be seen by the kidnappers or their lookouts and try to spot the fire as the train rolled on.

  When the train left the station, a porter came back and said no one was allowed to ride outside.

  “My friend and I just want to do a bit of quiet, social drinking,” Kirkpatrick responded, slipping a few dollar bills into the porter’s palm. “Think you can forget we’re out here?”

  “Sure can,” he said, heading back into the car. A short time later he brought two stools for them to sit on. The two sat, talking, chain-smoking and staring off the right side of the train, checking for the signal fire.

  When they approached a town or a station, Catlett would slip inside the car to be out of sight and Kirkpatrick would stand under the light, cigarette ablaze, hoping to make himself visible to anyone who might be checking for his presence.

  They passed through the little burgs of Arcadia, Luther, Fallis, Carney and Tryon and into the lands where Tom Slick made his first fortune: the Cushing oil fields. Kirkpatrick, a former newspaper reporter and student of history, reflected on his good fortune in joining up with the great Tom Slick, even though it had led him to this dreadful predicament, in which he was convinced he would soon meet his death by assassination.

  As they crossed the Cimarron River, Kirk pondered the ironic circumstance he found himself in, entering the territory of the notorious Western outlaws of the recent past.

  The Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad, the M-K-T (later shortened in the popular vernacular to “Katy,” after its stock symbol, K-T), was the first to penetrate into Texas after the Civil War and now stretched from Houston to Kansas City and St. Louis. The Katy was a popular target for train-robbing outlaws Jesse James, the Daltons and the Al Spencer gang.

  Kirkpatrick considered the legendary train robbers respectable professionals—“gentlemanly miscreants,” he called them. Nothing like the loathsome scum in the current-day Snatch Racket.

  Under the clear night sky alive with a thousand stars, Kirkpatrick and Catlett passed the time making small talk about hunting and fishing. Catlett was a crack shot with a hunting rifle. He was one of the Urschel team that knew his way around tough situations—and how a quickly drawn sidearm and a well-placed round could get you out of them. Kirkpatrick was glad to have him around; he added immensely to his comfort level. Something of the poet, Kirkpatrick mused about the Indian burial grounds the train was cutting through and how they were once punctuated with tribal signal fires, hoping he’d see his own critical signal fire light up the night. But it never did.

  As they headed into the Osage Hills—current-day gangland hideout territory—their hopes were raised. Surely this was the most likely spot for the kidnappers to signal the train. But as they passed through Bartellesville, Dewey and Coffeyville there was nothing.

  The sun began to rise and Kirk began to believe they’d been played. The grimy soot from the engine exhaust was caking on his face and the dust clung to his suit. He was well into his third pack of cigarettes and god knows how much coffee. He was tired and panicky. If they’d lied to them here, would they do it again? Would he be snatched along with the ransom and held by the kidnappers as protection against any lawmen who might be in pursuit?

  The train was approaching Union Station in Kansas City, where just a month earlier, four lawmen and their prisoner, Frank Nash, had died in a fusillade of machine-gun fire.

  Were he and Catlett walking into a similar trap?

  They disembarked and headed warily across the platform, through the great hall and waiting room and out onto the plaza, virtually the same path taken by the federal agents as they marched Nash to the car in which he would die.

  But today would go without incident. They grabbed a cab to the Muehlebach Hotel, a beautiful, twelve-story luxury spot favored by presidents dating back to Teddy Roosevelt. Babe Ruth had been a recent guest, as had most of the notorious gangsters and playboys of the ’20s, who flocked to the city to enjoy the burgeoning jazz and blues clubs, along with the more scandalous delights the city offered. Kirkpatrick registered under the assigned alias of E. E. Kincaid, as instructed. Catlett registered in another room, but joined Kirkpatrick in his suite. The two played cards to pass the time as they awaited further instructions.

  Shortly after 10:00 a.m., Kirkpatrick’s phone rang and a bellman announced the arrival of a telegram. He would bring it right up.

  It was from Tulsa, addressed to E. E. Kincaid. It read:

  UNAVOIDABLE INCIDENT KEPT ME FROM SEE YOU LAST N
IGHT. WILL COMMUNICATE ABOUT 6:00 O’CLOCK.

  E. W. MOORE

  The two repaired to the lobby café for breakfast, coffee and more cigarettes. They hadn’t slept all night, and when Kirkpatrick returned to his room, he still couldn’t. He lay in bed and worried about Charley’s fate. He worried about his own fate. He wondered whether it had been a bad idea to bring Catlett along. The man had kept him reasonably sane and calm, but had he spooked the kidnappers? How was Berenice holding up? His mind raced as Sunday morning church bells rang out and the classical strains of Schubert and Mendelssohn wafted through the halls from the Muehlebach’s pianist playing in the lobby.

  At 5:45 p.m., he picked up the ringing phone.

  “Who’s talking?” demanded the voice on the other end.

  “Kincaid.”

  “This is Moore. Did you get my wire?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, are you ready to close the deal?”

  “I should be, if I knew that I was dealing with the right parties.”

  “You ought to know by now,” came the reply. “Listen now, follow these instructions. Take a Yellow Cab, drive to the LaSalle Hotel, get out, take the suitcase in your right hand and start walking west.”

  Catlett was standing across from him, gesturing and silently mouthing a request to ask if he could come along.

  “I have a friend who came up here with me. May I bring him along?”

  “Hell, no! We know all about your friend, we saw him on the train last night. You come alone and unarmed.”

  “I’ll be there at 6:20.”

  When Kirkpatrick hung up, Catlett insisted he go with him, but Kirkpatrick wouldn’t have it.

  “It might be a fatal error.”

  Similarly, he waved Catlett off when he offered to go in his place. He stuck a .380 Colt automatic in his belt, slipped on his suit coat, grabbed the Gladstone bag with the money and was off.

  When he stepped from the cab onto Linwood Boulevard, he tried to look casual and nonchalant. Lighting a cigarette, he tipped his head back to exhale and scan the street. Two large cars were parked across the street with three men in each. From the corner of his eye he saw another with the window down and what looked like a shotgun barrel resting on the doorframe.

  Walking toward him was a tall, stylishly dressed man in a fashionable summer suit wearing a turned-down Panama hat. He wore two-tone shoes and a two-toned shirt with a perfectly knotted tie. He approached Kirkpatrick on his right.

  “I’ll take that grip,” he said looking past Kirkpatrick to see if the fool had brought his buddy along or some federal Cub Scout for protection.

  Kirkpatrick hesitated.

  “Hurry up!”

  “How do I know you are the right party?” he asked, trying to stall.

  “Hell, you know damned well I am.”

  “Two hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money. We are carrying out our part of the agreement to the letter. What assurance have we that you’ll do what you promise?”

  “Don’t argue with me.”

  “Tell me when we can expect Urschel home. I am going back to the hotel to telephone his wife. What shall I tell her? Tell me definitely what I can tell Mrs. Urschel.”

  “Urschel will be home in twelve hours. Now you turn and walk to the LaSalle Hotel and don’t look back.”

  Kirkpatrick, his mind racing with second thoughts, doubts and worries, did just that. He had just handed over the largest ransom in American history and now he was walking away without Charley or his money. He lacked the nerve to turn and see what scene was unfolding behind him. He’d rather just get shot in the back and not see it coming. When a car door slammed and the cover cars sped away, throwing dust and gravel as they made furious U-turns, he almost collapsed with relief. He had to steady his shaking hand to light a cigarette. At the LaSalle, he grabbed a cab to the Muehlebach. After relating the events to Catlett, he called Berenice.

  “I closed the deal for that farm,” he said. “I will require about twelve hours for the lawyers to examine the abstracts, then the title will pass.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and hung up.

  Catlett and Kirkpatrick checked out and headed back to Union Station. Catlett was bound for Tulsa, and Kirk would get back on the Katy Limited to Oklahoma City for what he prayed would be a jubilant homecoming.

  But when he arrived on Monday morning and made his way to Nineteenth Street, his heart sank. The press horde had returned and renewed their vigilant stakeout. Clearly, they had not been reporting about Charley’s safe return.

  Berenice met him at the door.

  “Charley’s not here,” is all she said. The mood inside the home had turned positively funereal.

  Kirkpatrick tried to put a good spin on it. “The kidnappers probably want to wait until after dark, and besides, they may have held Charley a long way away. He’ll probably show up after dark.”

  Gus Jones began grilling Kirkpatrick for details, descriptions, observations—anything he could put into his notes to make the prosecution stick.

  After an hour or so, he’d gotten all he could. Kirkpatrick asked him, “What do you think? Will they release him?”

  Jones shook his head and lamented that it wasn’t very likely, especially if the kidnappers thought Charley could identify the hideout. If so, he said, “he doesn’t stand a chance. They told you he’d be home within twelve hours. He isn’t. Their letter said they were going to hold him until all the money had been examined and exchanged. That could take weeks. The longer they hold him, the more dangerous it becomes for him. Dozens of things could happen that might make it seem necessary to kill him and get him off their hands.”

  “Then you don’t think he’ll make it back?”

  “No, I won’t say that. But I will say that if he’s not back by sunup tomorrow, he won’t be back.”

  Kirkpatrick’s heart sank. He headed back to the living room and did his best to keep a game face on as the hours dragged by. It had been raining for most of the day and, as the afternoon slipped into the evening, it continued, adding a pall to the house. The phone had stopped ringing. The occupants could think of nothing else to say, and the gloomy silence began to deafen.

  In an attempt to lighten the mood, Kirkpatrick decided to do a little extermination work. There had been a mouse running around on Charley’s expensive carpets, and he would have hated that. He decided he’d make a great show of bringing the rodent to justice and grabbed a mousetrap from the kitchen, baited it and brought it to the sunroom to slip under the divan. As he did, it snapped, scaring the bejesus out of the already jangled Kirkpatrick, who screamed an obscenity as he jerked back, flinging the trap skyward. As it flew through the air, the group shrieked and broke into a round of uncontrolled, spontaneous laughter—including Berenice, who hadn’t smiled in more than a week. She made a few wicked remarks at Kirkpatrick’s expense and decided it was the appropriate moment to head off to bed.

  * * *

  Back in Paradise, Kathryn was also fretting about the return of her husband. He should have collected the ransom and been home by now. She’d stayed behind to make sure Urschel stayed in place and nobody stumbled across him. She didn’t trust Mother and Boss with that job, and certainly that nitwit Potatoes could not be left to do any thinking on his own.

  She ground out yet another cigarette in the ashtray that contained dozens and looked up angrily at Boss.

  “Where the hell are they?” she demanded. “I should have gone up there with them, and I would have, too, if I could have trusted you to take care of things on this end.”

  “Take it easy, Kat. They’ll be here.”

  Bates and Kelly had been delayed by a persistent rainfall nearly all the way from Kansas City back to Texas. After years with virtually no rain at all, the kidnappers were being confounded by inextricable downpours at the most inopportune moments. With rain slowing their escape, they rerouted further and further off course and onto muddy back roads to avoid detection.

  When they
finally rolled in at about 2:00 p.m. on Monday, Kelly parked the car, Bates grabbed the Gladstone bag and they sprinted through the rain to the front porch, where Kathryn greeted them.

  “Did you get the money?”

  “Every nickel, baby. Every nickel,” he said, grabbing her around the waist and scooping her up. “We pulled it off, Kit! Two hundred thousand bucks, baby.”

  “It was the smoothest deal we’ve ever made,” he said. “Kirkpatrick was scared half out of his skin. He only hesitated a second before handing over the money.”

  In the house, they dumped the loot on the chenille bedspread in Kathryn’s room.

  Two hundred neatly bound packets of $20 bills, each about four inches thick. They’d done it. Pulled off the most successful kidnapping in modern history. There it was, just lying on the bedspread, a fortune in used $20 bills. A small fortune, sure. But enough money to live like kings down in Juarez. No more small-time bank jobs, no more petty bribes to greedy cops. Kathryn swooned.

  “Oh, George!” she sighed. “Think of the fun we’re going to have with this!”

  She picked up one of the $20 bills and kissed it. “This one is for Kit’s new shoes. Mama needs a new pair of shoes, baby.” Mimicking her, Bates picked up a twenty and kissed it. “I know a mama who needs a few things too.”

  Bates began scooping the packs up and started restacking them.

  “I don’t like them just laying out like this.” He wanted to divvy things up and get back on the road, away from the hot farm.

  “Suits me, Al,” said Kelly. “I have a nut to come off the top. It’ll cover that Buick we had to get rid of and the money I laid out for the Kansas City boys to cover us during the ransom delivery. Comes to $11,500.”