I got into the sheriff’s Model A and he climbed into the driver’s seat. The whole car leaned to his side as he entered. I might have mentioned he was a big man. “We will get us something to eat in Ft. Smith and the state can pay for it.” He said. He smiled at the thought of a free lunch. “I know a place that has chicken-fried steak. You’ll like it,” the sheriff promised.
The trip was dusty and bumpy until we got to highway 70. It was paved, mostly, except for bridges and detours. It seems like roads are never finished being built and repaired.
We got to the court house that also served as the city jail. It was once a prison for the whole Indian Territory. A “hangin’ judge” famously meted out justice here, executing over 80 people during the 1800’s. We only recently slowed down. Twenty-two more people have been dropped off the front of this scaffold since Judge Isaac Parker laid down his gavel and own mortal coil. Two other less famous judges helped feed the gallows after Judge Parker died.
Two iron gates swung open for us. We drove through an arched portal in the thick stone wall. Where we parked, we were in front of a long scaffold of six position gallows. Six people could be executed at one time in this little factory of punishment. The trap door was really the whole front edge of the platform. You could probably put more men up there at once because the six nooses had plenty of room between them and the beam where the nooses were hung was a continuous long piece of wood..
“Those nooses are just for show. We haven’t had an execution here since 1896 when the Indian territories were broken up into tribal lands.” Sheriff Braxton told me. “The prison at Varner takes care of all the hangings now.”
Right next to where the sheriff parked was the infamous Packard funeral car. We ignored the Packard for the moment and went inside the court house.
The sheriff was shaking hands with everybody he met. He asked direction from a pretty secretary and we were shown into a big office. “Ah, yes! Is this the lad that found Baby Face Nelson dead? Great work son! We really appreciate you doing you your civic duty.” It was like he was congratulating me for rubbing out George Nelson, myself.
“All I did was find him.” I told the glad-handing stranger.
“Right you are boy. I am J C Coombs, District Attorney round these parts. Glad to meet you, uh…?”
“Ike Daniels,” I said “Isaac Daniels to be precise.” I said as he pumped my hand.
“Good, good, excellent in fact! Very glad to meet ‘chu” he gushed. I hadn’t heard so many empty words since the church sermon last week.
“Well,” said Sheriff Braxton, “You wanted to ask Ike some questions and show him some evidence?”
The lawyer bit his lip and paused then said, ”Ah yes. We need him to look over these, uh… artifacts and tell us if he recognizes any of them. Right this way my boy.” He guided us over to a table. Spread out were several things I knew to be in the car when George had showed me around.
“Do you recognize any of these items?” the lawyer inquired.
“Yes, that pillow case there.” I looked inside and there were pecans and broken pecan shells. “Yes, these pecans are probably the ones he took from our tree. It definitely looks like the same pillow case he used as a bag. “This pillow and this blanket here were both in the backseat when I was being shown through the car. Some of this clothing was in a pile in the backseat.” I picked up and displayed clothes I had seen in the heap of clothes.
There was a bloody shovel leaned against the table. “Is that the shovel he was killed with?” I asked.
“Did you see the shovel in the car?” the sheriff asked.
“No, no. When we took my Mom to the undertaker’s today, he mentioned that the doctor and you thought George had been killed with a shovel or something like it.”
“You call him George,” the lawyer said “Were you on a first name basis?”
“No. I only spoke to him the one time. George was just the only name he gave me to call him.” I explained.
“He was a cagy one, that Babyface Nelson!” the lawyer exclaimed as if he detected a great crime in the name “George.”
“I AM interested in that code, there.” I said. “Code, what code? Who said anything about a code?” the district attorney asked. He made everything seem like a conspiracy. I guess it’s true what my Pa says. If the only tool you can run is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.
“I mean that half sheet of paper with the grid of numbers on it. It looks like some kind of code to me.” I pointed at the paper I was talking about.
“Aw, yes,” the lawyer said in his grandiose way. “That code! Yes, Yes. Can you read it?”
“Well, not right now. It is in code. But, I might be able to crack it if I had a few hours. I am pretty good at code puzzles in the newspaper and some games my Pa plays with us.”
The lawyer pulled the code over in front of me. “What can you tell me about this code?”
I looked at the grid of typewritten numbers separated by typewritten commas. “It is a simple substitution code. Notice the numbers range from -9 to 26. The minus numbers are probably just that – numbers. One through twenty-six is the alphabet. But also notice that there are one, two , three, four 26’s. Z is not that common a letter in English. So 26 probably stands for something besides Z.” I noticed the fold marks that allowed the paper to carried in a pocket did not touch any of the type written grid. “These folds might break the message into four parts or four sentences. Somewhere on the paper is probably a key that provides a clue to how to decode it.”
“Like this?” the lawyer asked as he turned the paper over to reveal a pencil written word “aren’t” “Is this the key?” he asked me gravely.
“Yes, uh… maybe. I would have to study it to figure it out. Can I take it? I will return it to the sheriff.
The beefy lawyer looked thoughtful for a moment and then walked over to his desk and punched a button on a box. “Miss Rumson, bring me one of those photographic copies of this coded note.” He actually had to walk farther to his desk than over to the door to deliver that message. He just wanted to show off the intercom. I smiled at his pomposity. It took Miss Rumson, the pretty secretary, about 10 seconds to deliver the two photographs of the front and back of the paper note. The pictures thoughtfully contained an image of a ruler so size and scale could be determined. “Take these and return them to the sheriff next week. Sheriff Braxton, I don’t want copies of this popping up all over. Let me know if young Ike finds anything.” Looking at me now, he said “We made copies to send to various professors. If you can get me word that you have solved it by Wednesday next, we won’t have to bother those learned gentlemen with this little puzzle.” Somehow, my eyes just seemed to follow Miss Rumson from the room. “Ahem,” said the lawyer to be sure he had my attention.
“Before you leave, have one of the uniforms downstairs show you through the car. I want to know if we missed anything in our search. Even if you did not look at the motor or boot of the car, I want you to look now to see if you recognize anything out of place. Check the glove compartments, also. Thanks for all your help, Mr. Daniels” The lawyer was back pumping my hand.
I noticed Miss Rumson blushed a little and looked down as we passed through her office. Miss Rumson was mighty pretty.
As we left the building for the hanging yard where we were parked, the sheriff said, “You didn’t mention the fiddle.” He was referring to a black violin case that had been among the artifacts.
“I didn’t see it in the car. Maybe it was in the trunk. I definitely didn’t see it. George did not strike me as the music lover type.”
“That is the reason we think our George Nelson is the infamous Baby Face criminal. Ft Smith police said they found a Tommy gun in the car when they arrested the Bowen man. Bowen is a mortician. Their customers don’t usually respond to such a weapon. We figure it belonged to Nelson and not Bowen. Professional users of the gun have found it fits very nicely in a violin case. Four straight magazines or a drum magazine fits in there also. It gives one man the fire power of a company of soldiers and he can carry it anywhere without attracting too much attention.”
“Well, now, I am sorry I didn’t ask about it. Pa would be very interested in that sort of fiddle. I could really bring home the bunnies armed with something like that.” I laughed at my little joke.
“Well, you might find rabbit stew not tasting so good dosed with so much lead. Thompson’s shoot .45 caliber slugs. Just one of those bullets will stop a man and usually knock him back a ways. The drum magazine can hold fifty shots. There might not be too much of your rabbit left for the stew pot.” It was the sheriff’s turn to smile thinking about bunny puree.
We found a uniformed policeman to supervise our tour of the car. He was in charge of police evidence and that’s why the car was being stored in this locked courtyard.
We took our time. We pulled the folding seats out from under the front seats and set them up in various configurations. We opened every little cubby. We lifted the rear stationary seat and found a penny and some trash like gum wrappers. The sheriff was talking to the Ft Smith copper. I noticed inside one Doublemint wrapper was a pencil written grid of numbers similar to the typewritten note. I secreted it into my breast pocket of my flannel shirt. I figured I would do them the favor of translating it before I gave it to them.
When every part of the car’s interior had been explored, we turned to the trunk. Right off, I could see dried blood and a little rusty spot. I figured this is where the shovel was found. I pointed it out to the evidence man. (I knew his name then, but I can’t remember it now.) He said he had it noted for the trial. Nothing else was visible in the trunk or spare-tire area.
The engine of the Packard was astounding! It was a Vee engine and I counted sixteen sparkplug wires. I couldn’t tell if it was double ignition V8 or truly a V16. The sheriff assured me it WAS a V16 capable of more than 100 miles per hour if the roads were straight and smooth. “That’s another reason we thought it might be Baby Face Nelson using this car. Criminals generally tend to a fast getaway vehicle and this baby is nothing if not fast.” The sheriff beamed a little as he described the power of the car. “It would really leave my old Ford in the dust.” The sheriff’s car had a small in-line four cylinder engine, so this Packard would have about four times the power of the sheriff’s car.
The last thing I did was crawl a little ways under the car. I saw nothing under the running boards or around the frame that seemed unusual.
We thanked the evidence man climbed into the Model A. “It makes you wish we could drive out in that Packard, eh?” the sheriff lamented as we tooled out of the arched gateway. “Let’s see if we can find that chicken fried steak, shall we?”