The Kidnap Years: Read online

  As the remarks of Colonel Schwarzkopf and Major Schoeffel had hinted, there were signs of hope that the Lindbergh infant might be returned alive and well. For negotiations were taking place, and they involved a man who was the strangest person to wiggle his way into the investigation—and would be one of the most important.

  John F. Condon was a retired school principal and teacher who lived in the Bronx. He was seventy-two years old in 1932 and something of a community activist. He had a bushy mustache and a dramatic shock of white hair.

  Moved by the plight of the Lindberghs, he wrote a letter to a small newspaper in the Bronx in which he offered up his entire life savings of about $1,000 for the safe return of the child. He offered to act as an intermediary, using newspaper ads to communicate with the kidnapper. The ads would be signed “Jafsie,” the nickname he coined from his initials.

  The letter was printed in the Bronx newspaper on March 8. The very next day, Condon got a letter at his home. It purported to be from the kidnapper, who said Condon would be acceptable as a go-between. Within the envelope was another envelope, containing a message to Lindbergh reiterating the ransom demand, raised to $70,000 from the original $50,000. It was signed with interlocking circles, just like the original message left on the window sill. The interlocking circles on the notes, along with the exact wording the kidnapper had used, were known only to a very few investigators.

  At once, Lindbergh said he wanted Condon to act as his liaison. All right, Schwarzkopf said, but we’re going to tap Condon’s phone. Lindbergh overruled him, fearing that somehow the kidnapper would find out. Lindbergh’s lawyer, Henry Breckinridge, moved into Condon’s home to keep track of events. He would stay there for two months.

  There followed much back-and-forth between Condon and the kidnapper over the next several days, with Condon using newspaper ads on his end. A meeting was arranged in Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx for Saturday, March 12.

  That night, Condon was driven to the rendezvous by his friend Al Reich, a one-time prizefighter. Reich parked a few blocks from the cemetery. Nervously, Condon approached the entrance. He saw a slim figure emerge from the gloom inside the gate and climb over.

  Here, what actually happened can never be known. Condon later claimed that he pursued the man and eventually caught him. But some people involved in the case were immediately skeptical. Condon, after all, seemed to be a blowhard, and he was seventy-two years old.

  In any event, Condon and the man from the cemetery sat on a bench in Van Cortlandt Park. “Call me John,” the stranger said.

  As Condon recalled it, the man wore a topcoat and a hat, which he kept low over his forehead. Condon was bigger than the other man and understandably nervous. Yet he managed to say that the Lindberghs wanted proof that he really had the baby before they paid any ransom.

  There ensued a rambling conversation, the exact words of which can never be known, as Condon was prone to embellish the facts (or invent ones) whenever he recounted his role in the Lindbergh case, which he did often.

  But if Condon was to be believed, “Cemetery John” described himself as “only a go-between.” Then he said something chilling: “Would I burn if the baby was dead?”37

  Finally, John said that he and the people he was working for would provide proof that they had the child.

  Then he stood up and melted into the dark.

  On Wednesday, March 16, a package containing a baby’s sleeping suit arrived at Condon’s house. The Lindberghs confirmed it was the one worn by the baby at the time of the kidnapping. They saw that the garment had been laundered. What did that mean?

  Finally, a meeting was arranged for delivery of the ransom. This time, the meeting between Jafsie and the shadowy figure would be in St. Raymond’s Cemetery in the Bronx. It was set for the night of April 2, a Saturday.

  To say that “life goes on” seems heartless, even all these years later, when one contemplates the anguish of Charles and Anne Lindbergh that March. But life did go on as always.

  On March 10, the Times analyzed the approaching elections in Germany, where Paul von Hindenburg seemed to have an excellent chance of being reelected president of the Weimar Republic. The report was heartening, especially because of the anti-Semitism that was brewing in the country and the presence of a fiery orator who was tapping into the passions and resentments of ordinary Germans. But, as the Times noted reassuringly, “Among those whose opinions are worthwhile because they know Germany best, the chance of a victory for Adolf Hitler is calculated at a small percentage indeed.”38

  Just as heartening, the Times noted that while anti-Semitism was prevalent in the rank and file of the Nazi party, the party leadership appeared not to be encouraging such feelings. Indeed, party leaders seemed to be discouraging such sentiment and saying nothing that would commit themselves to “definite drastic measures” should their dreams of power come to pass.

  There was no outside world for Charles and Anne Lindbergh, secluded in their big but suddenly empty house in Hopewell, New Jersey. Inevitably, there was speculation that whoever took the baby might have had help from within. “From the mass of confusing detail that piled up, one fact stood forth clearly,” the Times declared on March 3. “That was that the kidnappers must have been familiar with the plan of the house and with Colonel Lindbergh’s plans as well. Not only did they place a ladder against a window of the nursery which Mrs. Lindbergh had tried unsuccessfully to lock, but they chose a night for the crime which the aviator had announced he would spend in New York attending a New York University dinner. His attendance at the dinner had been widely advertised and it was only because he had his dates mixed up that Colonel Lindbergh happened to be at home.”39

  There was something else: it was the Lindberghs’ routine at the time to spend weekends in Hopewell, then return to Englewood to stay with Anne’s mother, whose husband, Dwight, had died unexpectedly the previous October 5. But because of the baby’s cold, they decided to stay in Hopewell for a few days after the weekend of February 27 and 28—a fact known only to people in the household.

  The impression was growing that the kidnapping simply couldn’t have been the work of one person.

  “Kidnapping: A Rising Menace to the Nation” was the headline of a very long Times article the Sunday after the Lindbergh baby vanished. “No conceivable event, unless it were an invasion of the White House itself, could have so dramatized the crime of kidnapping as did the carrying off, last Tuesday night, of the infant son of Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh.”40

  The article recounted some cases of the distant and not-so-distant past. Most poignantly, the article was accompanied by a photograph of a comely girl of ten. The photo showed intelligent eyes and a smile mature and dignified for someone so young. The photo caption stated that she “was kidnapped in New York in 1928 and never heard from again.” Her name was Grace Budd.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A FRIENDLY FARMER

  New York City

  Sunday, May 27, 1928

  “Young man, 18, wishes position in the country,” read the advertisement placed by Edward Budd in the Sunday New York World Telegram.41

  Indeed, Eddie Budd was eager for work. His father, Albert Budd, was a low-paid doorman at an insurance company and had a glass eye. Albert’s wife, Delia, was obese and could not read. The glitter and seeming prosperity of the twenties was a galaxy away from the lives of the Budds.

  They had three other children: Albert Jr., Grace, and Beatrice, the baby of the family, who was five. The family lived in a cramped apartment in the Chelsea section of Lower Manhattan.

  Eddie wanted to help out financially. Besides, the family apartment at 406 West Fifteenth Street could be sweltering in the summertime, which was just beginning.* Fit and energetic, Eddie wanted to try country living, away from the heat, noise, and smells of the city.

  On Monday afternoon, a small, tweedy-looking man of late middle age knocked on the door, introduced himself as Frank Howard, and declared, “I am looking for a you
ng fellow named Edward Budd. I read his ad in yesterday’s paper.”

  “I’m his mother,” Delia Budd said, inviting the visitor to come in (Delia’s husband was still at work). She explained that Eddie was nearby with his best friend. Then she told Beatrice to run and fetch her brother.

  “You remind me of my granddaughter,” Howard said, handing the girl a nickel as she was on her way out.

  The newcomer had a gray beard and mustache, and his suit was rather worn. He looked more like a farmer than a city slicker.

  While they were waiting for Eddie to appear, the visitor explained his situation. He had a farm in Farmingdale, Long Island. The farm had three hundred chickens and six milk cows. The twenty-acre spread was a cornucopia of fruits and vegetables.

  The farmer said he already employed several hands but he needed one more, maybe two. He wasn’t getting any younger, and his wife was no longer around. They had been happy in their old life when he was an interior decorator in Washington, DC. Then his eyesight had begun to fail, and he’d had to find something new. He’d always dreamed of having a farm, and he’d put away enough money to make his dream come true. Trouble was, his wife hadn’t liked life on the farm, he went on in his sad, quiet voice. So she had left him a decade or so before, leaving him to raise their six children alone.

  Delia was relieved when Eddie appeared with his sister Beatrice. Eddie’s best friend, Willie Korman, had also come to the Budds’ apartment.

  The conversation turned much more cheerful. The visitor said he was proud of his children, who had all turned out well. “One of my boys is a cadet at West Point,” he boasted.

  Then he got down to business: he would pay $15 a week for as long as Eddie could work on the farm. How did that sound?

  It sounded wonderful to Eddie and his mother. Then Eddie spoke up for Willie: maybe there was a spot for him on the farm too?

  Sure! There was never a shortage of work on a farm, Howard said. And Willie was healthy and had big shoulders, like his friend Eddie.

  Fine then, Howard said. He would return with a car on Sunday, June 3, and take the young men to the farm for a summer of wholesome outdoor labor. He told them to pack their oldest clothes.

  “I must be on my way,” Howard announced, looking at his watch. “I have a business engagement in New Jersey.” With brisk but friendly goodbyes, the farmer left.

  Eddie and Willie exulted in their good fortune. All week long, they looked forward to the trip. On Saturday, they sat in the Budds’ apartment, duffel bags packed. Hours went by. Then, late in the afternoon, a knock on the door. A Western Union delivery boy handed Eddie a handwritten note: “Been over in New Jersey. Call in morning. Frank Howard.”

  At midday Sunday, a smiling Frank Howard appeared. He came bearing gifts: a pot of cheese and a basket of strawberries—from his farm, he said.

  Albert Budd, who had been at work when Howard made his first visit, was introduced and took an immediate liking to the Long Island farmer, who explained that he’d been in New Jersey to buy horses. “Oh, about the message I sent yesterday. Is it still here?”

  “On the mantel there,” Albert said.

  Howard went to the mantel, picked up the message, and casually put it in a pocket. Albert thought the action rather odd but didn’t think much about it.

  The Budds invited the visitor to stay for a potluck lunch. Eddie and his brother, Albert Jr., were outside at play, but they had promised to come home in time to eat.

  As people were seating themselves at the kitchen table, they heard the front door opening, followed by light steps in the hallway. A girl was humming a cheerful tune.

  “That’ll be Gracie,” Delia said.

  Standing in the doorway, ten-year-old Grace Budd was flower-pretty, still wearing the white dress she’d put on for the family’s weekly visit to church.

  “Come here, child,” said the clearly enchanted Howard, beckoning the girl to sit on his lap.

  Grace did, briefly. Then Howard gave her a few coins and told her to go buy candy for herself and her little sister. As the girls were hurrying out, their mother told Grace to tell Eddie to come home for lunch.

  In no time, Eddie and Willie appeared, breathless from running.

  And out of the blue, Howard announced that they weren’t going to the farm right away. He had just heard from his sister that she was giving a birthday party for one of her children that very afternoon. After the party, Howard said, he’d come to get Eddie and Willie. Howard gave the young men $2 to go to the movies in the meantime.

  Then the friendly farmer had an inspiration: perhaps Grace would like to attend the party! She was just the right age and would fit in.

  Delia was hesitant, more so than her husband. Well, where would the party be, the parents wanted to know. In a very nice building at 137th Street and Columbus Avenue, Howard replied. He promised to have the girl back by nine that night.

  So it was settled. Delia helped Grace into her dress-up spring coat, and off she went, still wearing the white dress she’d had on for church, holding the hand of the friendly farmer from Long Island. Delia watched them disappear around a corner.

  As dusk yielded to darkness with no sign of their daughter, Albert and Delia Budd tried not to worry. Maybe the party was running late—although it was getting very late for a children’s party to still be going on. Maybe Grace was staying overnight at the home of Frank Howard’s sister.

  The night brought no sleep for the parents. Early Monday morning, they sent Eddie to the nearest police station to report Grace’s absence. Very soon, Lieutenant Samuel Dribben and three detectives arrived at the Budds’ apartment. The cops were very concerned; several unsolved child murders had occurred in the city in the past few years.

  What about this “party,” the cops wanted to know. Where was it?

  In a building at 137th and Columbus Avenue, Grace’s parents said.

  As gently as he could, Lieutenant Dribben told them there was no such place, that Columbus ended at 110th Street. Albert and Delia Budd seemed numb with guilt and dread.

  Dribben told two detectives to check rooming houses. Another detective took Eddie and his friend Willie to the police station to look at pictures in the hope they would recognize the man who had taken Grace away.

  Quickly, two more detectives were put on the case. One would search the records of the Motor Vehicles Bureau for information about Frank Howard. The other detective was to trace the Western Union message the friendly old man had sent the previous Saturday—the message he’d plucked off the mantelpiece and casually put in his pocket.

  Several detectives were sent to Nassau County on Long Island to look for a farmer named Frank Howard in Farmingdale. As the name of the community suggested, there were a number of farms around Farmingdale. But there was no farmer named Frank Howard.

  But investigators found that, years before, there had been a Frank Howard who owned a farm in Farmingdale, New Jersey. What was more, his general description fit that of the Frank Howard who had taken Grace Budd. But it was soon confirmed that the Frank Howard in New Jersey had sold his farm and moved to Chicago years before—and had since died.

  In the days after Grace’s disappearance, the police publicized their search for the origin of the Western Union message that had been sent to the Budds. Telegraphers and clerks sifted through tens of thousands of message duplicates. Finally, the source was found: the message had been sent from the Western Union office at Third Avenue and 103rd Street in Manhattan.

  Detectives figured that the cheese and strawberries given to the Budds had probably been purchased near the Western Union office. Sure enough, the police located a nearby deli selling the type of cheese Howard had brought to the Budds. And a peddler in the neighborhood recognized the price scrawled on the strawberry container as from his own hand. But no one at the deli recalled who had bought the cheese, and the peddler remembered nothing about the man who had bought the strawberries.

  The locations of the Western Union office, t
he deli, and the pushcart peddler suggested to detectives that the man they were hunting lived in East Harlem or at least spent time there. But where exactly, and who the hell was he?

  And something else: unlike nearly all kidnappings of the era, there had been no demand for ransom. Not that it would have mattered: the Budds had no extra money. Every dollar they brought in went to pay for rent, food, and modest clothing (when the hand-me-downs were finally too threadbare to wear).

  For Grace’s parents, the brutally hot summer was a season of torture. They hoped—or tried to hope—that their beloved daughter was still alive, that whoever had taken her would not… They couldn’t stand to dwell on the possibilities.

  No doubt, some newspaper readers and some detectives wondered at the gullibility of people who would let their daughter go off with a man who was little more than a stranger. What kind of parents would do such a thing?

  Albert and Delia Budd had not been given much in life. Delia was obese and illiterate. Albert had one good eye, along with a strange-looking glass eye. Every day, he opened doors for people who dressed better than he did, were better educated than he was, and earned far more money than he ever would. Sometimes, they thanked him; often, they ignored him.

  The world of Albert and Delia, like their apartment, was a small, cramped place. That was why they didn’t know that Columbus Avenue ended at 110th Street. That was why they had been duped by the seemingly friendly man, the prosperous farmer, who had treated them with respect and brought them gifts.

  On the very Sunday that Grace disappeared, the New York Times was stuffed with ads meant for people whose lives were a galaxy away from the world of the Budds. Macy’s offered a forty-three-piece porcelain dinner set “with border of rose and black” for only $18.74. Readers were reminded that “travel is that most delightful of diversions if one is properly equipped with the right luggage and clothes.” Maine, Cape Cod, Havana, and Bermuda beckoned.