Public Enemies_ America's Greatest Crime Wave and the Birth of the FBI - Bryan Burrough [48]
At 8:00 that Saturday night, E. E. Kirkpatrick hunched in the bushes behind the Urschel mansion with four other family friends and a deputy sheriff. Berenice Urschel appeared at an upstairs window and flashed a floodlight. At the signal a car rolled into the driveway. From the car stepped an Oklahoma City banker. He trotted to the shrubs and handed Kirkpatrick a tan Gladstone bag carrying $200,000 in cash.
Two hours later Kirkpatrick and the Tulsa oilman John Catlett boarded the “Sooner” Katy-Limited train bound for Kansas City. The two men made their way to the rear of the train, pulling up stools by the backdoor. They carried matching Gladstone bags, one with the cash, the other stuffed with newspapers; if anyone attempted to rob them, they planned to hand over the decoy bag.
There was a delay when the conductor added two cars to the train to accommodate a group of World’s Fair excursionists.
“Think this will foul up their plan, Kirk?” Catlett asked.
“I wish I knew,” Kirkpatrick said.
Finally, whistles blew, and the train chugged out of the station, heading northeast toward the Kansas border. As it picked up speed, the dwindling dust-bowl towns of northern Oklahoma slid by in the night. Witcher. Arcadia. Luther. Fallis. Tryon. Kirkpatrick was nervous, but Catlett seemed without a care, discussing fishing lures and turkey hunting. At each town Kirkpatrick stepped out into the night air, lighting a cigarette beneath the platform light. Both men agreed the most likely place for the drop was the wild Osage Hills. Kirkpatrick allowed himself to ruminate on all the outlaws who had crisscrossed these train tracks in years past—the Daltons, the James Brothers, the Doolins, Al Spencer, Frank Nash. Some things never changed.
Hours ticked by. The train passed Bartlesville, then Dewey, then crossed into Kansas. No fires were seen. As they approached Kansas City, dawn broke. Kirkpatrick was distraught. Either they had bungled the drop or the whole thing had been a hoax. In Kansas City the two men trudged off the train and checked into the Muehlebach Hotel, as the kidnappers had ordered. Not long after, a bellboy brought Fitzpatrick a telegram. It read: UNAVOIDABLE INCIDENT KEPT ME FROM SEEING YOU LAST NIGHT. WILL COMMUNICATE ABOUT 6:00 O’CLOCK. E.W. MOORE.10
Exactly why Kelly missed the drop was never explained. According to one story, he flooded the engine of his car.11
All that Sunday, Kirkpatrick and Catlett waited in their hotel room and listened to the dulcet tones of a lobby pianist playing Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song,” Rubenstein’s “Melody in F,” and Schubert’s “Serenade.” Finally, at 5:40, the phone rang. “This is Moore,” a man’s voice said. “Did you get my wire?” When Kirkpatrick said he had, the voice told him to proceed to the LaSalle Hotel on Linwood Boulevard—alone. He would be met outside. They agreed to meet at 6:20.
Kirkpatrick had a Colt automatic jammed in his belt when the taxi let him out at the LaSalle. The Gladstone bag in hand, he walked a few yards and lit a cigarette. After a moment he saw a barrel-chested figure striding toward him on the sidewalk. The man wore a pressed summer suit, a panama hat, and a cinched knot in his tie.
It was Kelly. “I’ll take that grip,” Kelly said.
Kirkpatrick studied the man, trying to memorize every detail.
“Hurry up,” Kelly said.
“How do I know you’re the right party?”
“Hell, you know damned well I am.”
“Two hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money,” Kirkpatrick said. “What assurance have we that you’ll do what you promise?”
“Don’t argue with me,” Kelly said. “The boys are waiting.”
“Wait. Tell me definitely what I can tell Mrs. Urschel.”
“Urschel will be home within twelve hours.” Then the man stepped forward, grabbed the Gladstone bag, and walked off into traffic.
Back at the hotel, Kirkpatrick telephoned Mrs. Urschel. “I closed the deal for that farm,” he said.