Public Enemies_ America's Greatest Crime Wave and the Birth of the FBI - Bryan Burrough [245]
Wilcox declined the offer. The women went quietly—at first. Gladys Sawyer was so drunk they had to cart her out in a wheelchair. It was when they were being led to a waiting patrol car that the trio realized they were in trouble. Cursing and shouting, Sawyer swung at Officer Wilcox, hitting her beneath the right eye. Wilcox charged the three women and all four fell in a heap on the sidewalk, Harmon and Burdette cursing and kicking Wilcox in the ribs. The policewoman yelled for help. Two beat cops heard her cries. Harmon was trying to run off when they arrived. Together the three policemen dragged the struggling, cursing trio into a squad car. Little Francine came along, too.
The two male cops jumped onto the running board as they headed downtown. As they drove, Harmon opened a window and attempted to dump out the contents of her purse. The officers stopped the car and retrieved the things she dropped. At the Women’s Bureau of the Cleveland Jail, all three women gave false names and refused to answer any questions. Thrown into cells, Harmon screamed and cursed, demanding that someone call Shimmy Patton, the Harvard Club’s boss. Gladys Sawyer sat and cried, worrying about Francine. Wynona Burdette stood in a corner, brooding. “Keep a stiff upper lip,” Burdette hollered to Gladys at one point. “Don’t say nothing.”17
About 11 P.M.
Karpis sat down on the bed, his Thompson submachine gun on the side table, as Delores slid beneath the covers. Suddenly there was a loud knock at the front door. Karpis sprang to attention; no one but Freddie knew his new address. He put on his shoes and trousers and grabbed the Thompson. “You go to the door and if it’s anybody at all that we don’t know, just let them come on in,” he whispered to Delores. “I’ll take care of the rest of it.”
Delaney threw a coat over her nightgown, walked into the living room, and opened the door. Karpis heard Freddie’s voice. Freddie, Dock, and Harry Campbell walked in.
“What the hell’s going on?” Karpis asked.
“Go ahead get your clothes on,” Freddie said. “Things are real bad.” Karpis and Delores finished dressing, then sat in the living room. Freddie told them what had happened. He wasn’t worried about the women. “But they’re questioning that little girl and she’s gonna tell them everything,” Freddie said. “They’ve probably sent for the FBI.”
They hadn’t. The Cleveland Police Department, in fact, had no idea who the three drunken women hauled into headquarters that evening actually were. Harmon gave her name as “Mrs. Earl J. Matterson,” Burdette as “Wynona Walcott.” Only Gladys Sawyer inexplicably gave her real name. She even gave her address in St. Paul. None of it meant anything to the desk clerk who checked them into jail that night.
But the policewoman, Mildred Wilcox, suspected something was amiss. The jewelry, the screaming fight, the attempted bribe—she could tell the women were hiding something. She and a detective sat little Francine in a chair and gently questioned her.
What did her daddy do for a living? they asked.
“He runs a joint,” Francine said. In St. Paul.
And her daddy’s friends? “They never work and they have lots of money.” How did her mommy get to the Cleveland Hotel? “In the Packard,” Francine said. She mentioned the name of the garage where they had parked. “Do the men ride around in the Packard, too?” one of the detectives asked. “Oh, no!” Francine answered. “They go out in the little car they get in just outside town. They put blue license plates on it first.” And could she remember the license plate number?
“No, sir,” said Francine. “I am only a little girl and I can’t count higher than thirteen.”18
When another detective mentioned the man who thought he had seen Baby Face Nelson, his superiors smelled something big. Escorted