Public Enemies_ America's Greatest Crime Wave and the Birth of the FBI - Bryan Burrough [41]
Oklahoma City Saturday, July 22 11:15 P.M.
Two miles west of the Oklahoma Capitol, in a beige-brick mansion topped by a burgundy Mission-style roof, two couples were sitting in wicker chairs around a card table in their sunroom, playing bridge. The man of the house, a stolid forty-three-year-old oilman named Charles F. Urschel, sat across from his wife, Berenice. He wore linen slacks and a tie and had comb marks in his oiled hair. His wife, one of the wealthiest women in the Southwest, was the widow of famed wildcatter Tom Slick, who before his death had run the world’s largest independent oil company. Charles Urschel had been Slick’s partner and was now an executor of his estate, estimated to be worth $50 million before Wall Street’s collapse. When Urschel’s wife died, it was only natural he should marry Berenice. The couple’s partners were Walter Jarrett, a roundish, balding oilman, and his wife.
The bridge game was winding down when suddenly there was a noise in the darkness outside. Urschel turned in his chair. “It’s me, Betty,” came a voice. Jarrett rose and unlatched the screen door. In walked sixteen-year-old Betty Slick, Mrs. Urschel’s daughter. Betty, who had been visiting friends, said a few words and disappeared upstairs.
Mrs. Jarrett glanced at her watch. “It’s almost eleven-thirty,” she said. “Time we were going home, Walter.”
Jarrett pushed his chair back. “I suppose so,” he said.
“No, wait,” Berenice said, placing her hand on Jarrett’s wrist. “One more rubber.”14
The first floor of the Urschel mansion was aglow with yellow light when the big Chevrolet coasted to a stop beside the house about eleven-thirty. The driver, Albert Bates, a pug-faced jack-of-all-crimes with a foot-long rap sheet, gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles whitened. The stout, handsome man sitting beside him noticed. “Okay, Al, calm down,” he said. “It’s gonna be a piece of cake.”
The handsome man, who wore a snap-brim Panama hat, was five-feet-nine, about 180 pounds, with a fraternity man’s fleshy apple cheeks, bedroom eyes, and a Thompson submachine gun. He and Bates stepped from the car. The night was still, the expensive neighborhood quiet.
“Okay,” said the handsome man. They walked up the driveway toward a vine-covered garage. Ahead, on the sunporch behind the house, they could see the two couples at the card table. As they peered through the darkness, Bates couldn’t tell who was who. “Jesus!” he whispered. “Which one’s Urschel?”
The handsome man couldn’t tell, either.
“Come on,” he said, and walked toward the porch.15
Berenice Urschel drew the card from her hand, lifted it gingerly above the table, then stopped. Her brow furrowed.
“What is it?” Urschel asked.
“I thought I heard something,” she said. “Someone moved outside.”
Urschel considered the screen door, then peered into the darkness beyond. They’d all heard the car drive up; probably just the neighbors, they decided. They finished the hand, dealt another, and began to bid. Berenice had just uttered the words “two hearts,” when the screen door opened. Everyone turned. Two men stepped inside, both holding guns. Berenice let out a little yell and threw up her hands.
“Stop that! Keep quiet or we’ll blow your heads off,” said the handsome man. “Now which one’s Urschel?” When no one answered, he repeated the question. Still no one spoke. The hint of a smile crossed the man’s face. “All right,” he said, “we’ll take both of you then.” He pointed his submachine gun at the two men.
Urschel and Jarrett slowly rose. “Hurry,” the handsome man said. The two complied, stepping outside. The gunman lingered at the door. “Don’t move now,” he told the women. “And keep away from that phone.”
A minute later Berenice heard a car start and drive away. Both women sprang to their feet. “Hurry!” Berenice said. “Up the stairs!” They ran