The Caper
Catch’s Confession, Episode Two
“You want the caper?” I asked the child. “Fine. I’ll give it to you clean. No embellishment.”
*
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”
Catch closed the book and sighed. He stared at the cloth cover. He had read the opening line from Pride and Prejudice six times. He never breached the second line. He never intended to. He opened the book once more and reread the sentence for the seventh time. He closed the book.
At thirty-two years old, most might guess fifty-two. Perhaps the war aged him. His weathered, elderly appearance earned him the moniker “Mr. Catch” from the members of his crew.
Cal Anderson opened the 1949 Ford Tudor’s door and sat on the passenger’s side. His round, boyish face made him appear younger than his twenty years. The son of a Mississippi sharecropper, the young man hailed from Tishomingo. Catch found the kid’s farm-grown strength invaluable, despite his skinny frame.
“Took you long enough,” said Catch with a New Jersey accent that rolled off of his tongue like the turnpike from New York.
“Sorry, Mr. Catch. Hadda pee like a Tupelo plow mule.”
Catch pulled the pocket watch from his vest. “Ten minutes or so before we roll, if they’re true to their routine. You don’t need to piss again, do you?”
“Naw, sir, I’m done.”
“Did you keep out of sight?”
“Yessir. Theys a hedgerow yonder. Went in thar.”
Catch glanced at his watch. He held up his right hand, showing five fingers, clenched his fist, and displayed a handful of fingers again.
*
Charlie Lyell and Al Huxley sat in a black Ford two car lengths behind Catch and Anderson.
Lyell checked his wristwatch. “Ten minutes,” he said.
Huxley stuttered like an engine missing on a couple of cylinders. He spit out his sentence with some effort. “Mr. Catch did something with his hand.”
“What?” said Lyell. He lifted his head and stared at the Ford parked in front of them. “You imaginin’ things? Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on.”
The cars matched in make, model, and color. The black Ford Tudor was the most popular sedan in 1949. New England accounted for several thousand purchases in the year. Catch planned this part of the operation as well. The two Fords, being the only autos parked on Maple Drive in the wealthy city of Wellesley, Massachusetts, mattered not a whit or whistle. The cars’ descriptions would be useless information to the police, both city and state.
*
Darwin Dawkins perched himself on a stool at a house in neighboring Needham. He scanned the streets below from the building’s second story. He served as a lookout, watching for possible law enforcement, especially when the Fords returned with their victim.
Dawkins was the final member of Catch’s crew.
*
Catch looked at the pocket watch he owned. He admired the jeweled movements and the craftsmanship of the timepiece. His granddad’s watch. Lindbergh’s son. History had already rehearsed the blueprint. Catch grinned nostalgically and whispered the word, “Kismet.”
“Did y’all say sombpin?” asked Anderson.
“No,” Catch lied, then squashed himself low in the car seat.
A beautiful red 1935 Duesenberg SJ LaGrande Dual-Cowl Phaeton rolled down the street from the driveway. The Deusenberg turned right down Maple Drive, in the opposite direction of the parked Tudors.
Catch glanced at his watch—six o’clock. “Yep, right on time,” he said with a smile. He eyed the Phaeton until the luxury auto drove to the end of the long block and turned. Catch stared at his pocket watch again. He fixated upon the five minutes before he must drive up to the lavish Lamarck residence.
SNATCH
Catch planned everything with mathematical precision.
Lyell stayed out with the cars. Catch, Anderson, and Huxley went to the house to snatch the girl, Imogene Lamarck. Anderson and Huxley went to the back door.
Catch waited two minutes for them to be in place at the rear of the house. He snapped his pocket watch closed and rang the doorbell.
The child’s governess, Joanne Haldane, answered the door while Huxley jimmied the latch on the back door. The sound of the back door opening and closing caused Joanne to turn around. Then everything went black when Catch smacked her on the back of the head with a weighted leather blackjack.
Anderson and Huxley carried the nanny upstairs to her room.
“This little lady’s heavier than she looks,” said Huxley with a grunt.
Anderson said nothing.
The two men tied Joanne up with cotton cords they brought with them. Huxley gagged her mouth. Anderson laid her in her bed and covered her with the large, quilted bed covering.
Catch walked into the second-floor hallway while Anderson and Huxley finished. He stood in the doorway of the room belonging to Imogene. His eye glimpsed a small, ornate, silver case upon the credenza. Without a thought, he reached over, picked up the metal box, and slipped the item into his left coat pocket.
Imogene sat in a small rocker, facing the window on the west side of the house. She stroked the long blonde hair of her doll.
“Imogene?” said Catch.
The girl stopped rocking.
“I’m Mr. One. Your nanny... er... Nanna Jo is sick. I’m supposed to take you to your mommy and daddy.”
Imogene stood and turned. She held her little missy to her breast. At four years old, her composure sent a chill up Catch’s spine. Imogene took her ten little paces across the room and gave Catch her hand.
Catch took her hand, walked her into the hall, down the stairs, and to the door.
Cal swung the front door open
Catch stopped. “Mr. Four, did you leave the note?” he asked Huxley.
“Ya-ya-yu—” Huxley stuttered.
“Stop.” Catch sighed and turned to the kid. “Mr. Two?”
“Yessir, Mr. One,” replied Anderson. “Mr. Four pinned the message to the bed cover.”
“Alright, let’s go,” ordered Catch.
*
Catch knelt in front of Imogene. “Mr. Four will take you to where you can talk to your mommy and daddy. You’ll be fine.” Catch placed her hand into Huxley’s.
Huxley led her into the black Tudor, with Lyell, aka Mr. Three, behind the wheel.
Catch stood in the driveway and watched Lyell, Huxley, and little Imogene drive away, circle the roundabout driveway, and head down to the street. When they turned left at the end of the driveway, Catch tossed the kid the keys. “You drive.”
Catch and Anderson got into the car, circled the roundabout driveway, and drove to the street. They turned right at Maple, going in the opposite direction from Lyell, Huxley, and Imogene. Catch removed the silver box from his coat pocket. He set the trinket on his stolen copy of Pride and Prejudice, which lay on the seat between them.
They drove a few blocks away from the Lamarck house when the red lights flashed in the rear-view mirror. Anderson pulled to the curb. Catch drew the nickel-plated Smith & Wesson .32 caliber revolver from the shoulder holster and placed the weapon between his legs, just under his woolen top coat. The kid rolled his window down.
The state police officer walked slow and steadily to the vehicle. When he arrived, he peeked in once and stood up. “Driver’s license and registration, if you please,” he said with a Massachusetts accent as thick as chowder—every ‘r’ swallowed whole and every vowel stretched like saltwater taffy.
“Yessir,” said Anderson. He pulled his license from his breast pocket and handed the card to the cop.
“Mississippi? What are you doing up here?”
“Visitin’ family, sir.”
“Registration?”
Anderson leaned over and opened the glove box. Empty. “‘Fraid, the dang registration ain’t here,” he said.
“This is my wife’s car, officer,” Catch lied. He stole the automobile, as well as the one Lyell and Huxley were in.
The officer pointed his flashlight toward the inside of the car to snatch a glimpse of Catch. “And you are, sir?”
“Jasper Percival,” said Catch.
“Got a license, Mr. Percival?”
“Not on me, sir. Sorry. Didn’t bring one since my nephew’s driving.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from Mississippi.”
“Well, sir. I’m not. My wife is, though.”
The officer glanced at Anderson’s license again. “From Tish, Tisho-mi—”
“Tish’minga,” Anderson offered, in southern pronunciation.
“No, sir,” said Catch. “My wife’s from nearby Tupelo. She’s the kid’s aunt, and I’m his uncle by marriage.”
“This so, son?”
“Yessir.”
The officer’s flashlight beam caught a reflection from the silver container on the seat. He brought the light back to the metal case. “Beautiful box.”
Catch grabbed the container. He opened the lid, taking a considerable risk. Brahms’ Lullaby started to play. The melody wavered slightly, as though the notes were bending. “Picked this up for a niece of mine,” said Catch.
“Down in Mississippi?”
“No, sir. On my side of the family. In New York. She loves these kinds of things.”
“Where’d you buy it?”
“Little curio shop on Weston.”
“Down by the college?”
“No, sir. The one across the tracks, about a block from Linden. I don’t recall a store on Weston near the college.”
The lawman shut off his flashlight. “You’re right. There isn’t.” He handed Anderson his license. “I stopped you tonight because your taillight is out. I’m letting you off with a warning. Mr. Percival, you’ll want to fix the light before your wife takes the vehicle out at night.”
“Yes, sir,” said Catch, “I will. Thank you, officer.”
The officer returned to his car. He never realized how close he came to losing his life.
“Gawd,” said Anderson, wincing. “I gotta piss so bad.”
“Let’s go,” said Catch.
“Wees lucky he warn’t knowin’ Tupelo ain’t anywhars close to Tish’minga.”
“Drive.”
*
“You enjoyed this part,” said Imogene.
I stared at her for several seconds. It was the first time she had spoken. Her voice was smooth and unspoiled. What you’d expect from any four-year-old girl. But her words were carried upon the breath of something much older than her years—hell, much older than my years.
WATCH
Catch and Anderson approached the corner house in Needham from the east. The light shone in the second-story window. No cops in sight. They pulled the Ford into the garage and went inside.
“What are you doing here?” said Catch to Lyell. “Where’s Dawkins?”
“I couldn’t stay another minute, Mr. Catch,” said Lyell. “I asked Darwin to switch places with me. The little girl is creepy?”
“What?”
“She’s eerie. She don’t say nothin’.”
“She’s a four-year-old,” Catch said, a little perturbed. “Four-year-olds don’t say much to strangers, much less to a silly sally like you. For Christ’s sake.”
“Maybe she’s quiet ‘cause she’s scairt,” said Anderson.
Catch turned to Anderson. “Can you believe this? Really? Will you stop dancing around and go to the head already?” Catch sighed with raised eyebrows. “The bathroom. Go.”
Anderson ran to the bathroom down the hall.
“When you improvise—,” Catch told Lyell, “when you deviate from the plan—this is when things go wrong. Your just tempting fate. And that’s futile.”
Catch pulled out his pocket watch, checked the time, and returned it to his vest pocket. He craned his neck and looked toward the hall in the direction Anderson had run. “Look, you two are coming with me,” said Catch to Lyell. “I want you to see for yourselves. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Not with that little girl.”
*
The night air woke Catch’s face with a brisk kiss. He walked down the street with his copy of Pride and Prejudice in hand. The streetlights stood tall and lifeless, offering no light at all as Catch approached the corner house at the end of the block. Vacant lots flanked the building on either side. The building’s boarded windows made the structure as dark as a dungeon at new moon.
Anderson and Lyell followed a few paces behind him.
While gloom and eerie darkness may have given some men reason to be fearful, it was not so for Catch. He survived countless battles against forces led by Erwin Rommel, both in North Africa and France. He differed from Charlie Lyell and namby-pambies of similar constitution.
Catch entered the house. He grabbed a bottle of beer from the icebox in the kitchen. One small desk lamp on the kitchen counter provided the only illumination downstairs. Some dim beams floated down the stairway from the landing upstairs. He opened his bottle and followed the light.
Anderson and Lyell helped themselves to a beer apiece from the icebox.
The light came from a single lamp standing in the master suite at the top of the stairs. Three living souls occupied the room. Imogene sat on a cot shoved in one corner of the room. Huxley and Dawkins sat in two wooden chairs near the door.
Catch wanted to chastise these two for deviating from the plan. He changed his mind. Imbeciles—every one of them. “So, what’s going on here?” he asked.
Lyell grabbed a wooden folding chair leaning against the wall and set it up by the boarded window, across the room from the girl. Anderson did likewise and sat next to Lyell. They sipped on their beers in silence.
“We’re doing our best to keep an eye on the girl,” replied Dawkins.
Huxley attempted to stutter his agreement. Stopped. Then nodded twice.
Catch sat in a wooden chair set up next to the standing lamp. He nursed his beer and tried to read beyond the opening line of his book. Every attempt failed. The second line blurred each time he tried to read it.
Lyell’s words ran through his thoughts. She’s eerie. She don’t say nothin’. The young girl possessed beauty; yet the more Catch glanced at her, the more the girl bothered him. He couldn’t put his finger on what or why. Five bottles of beer and two visits to the restroom caused him to fidget.
Catch pulled out his pocket watch. 11:45 p.m. What! He jumped to his feet.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Catch?” asked Dawkins.
“I need to go to the other house and make the phone call.”
“Whyn’t you call from here?”
“It’s not part of the plan. Stay here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about us, Mr. Cat—I mean, Mr. One,” Anderson called out.
Catch did not hear Anderson as he ran down the stairs and bolted out the door. He started with a quick walk but ended in a dead run. He entered the house, got to the telephone, and dialed the number for the Lamarck home. The call clicked live on the second ring.
“Hello,” said Lamarck.
Catch quickly pulled his polka dot handkerchief from his pocket and covered the mouthpiece. “Did you receive our note?”
“Yes. Sad, you deemed this necessary to kill our beloved Nanna Jo.”
She’s dead? “The same will happen to your daughter if you don’t do as we ask.”
“Well, let me make certain I understand your desires. This is what you wrote: ‘We have your daughter. Don’t call police. $250,000 or else.’ Nothing appears to be on the backside. This is the gist of your demands, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Alright, I accept your terms,” said Lamarck.
“Excellent,” said Catch.
“You pay me one quarter of a million dollars, and I’ll take my daughter off your hands.”
“No, wait. You misunderstood.”
“You’re quite persuasive,” said Lamarck. “Normally, we wouldn’t take her back for anything less than half a million. You have four minutes and fifty-five seconds remaining to return her. According to my watch. Otherwise...”
Catch glanced at his watch—nearly midnight in under five minutes.
“…well,” continued Lamarck, “the term ‘hell to pay’ comes to mind.” Lamarck laughed softly. Not loud. Not frantic. Measured. As if something had gone according to schedule. “Indeed. There will be hell to pay.”
Lamarck’s laughter chilled Catch as he hung up the phone.
