The Kidnap Years: by David Stout (popular books of all time TXT) 📗

easily intimidated; he had seen combat as a captain in the Army Medical Corps during the Great War, and he had once gotten into a fistfight with a man over a parking space. Still, he had to fight to keep calm as his captor steered him over bumpy roads.

Kelley was wearing his favorite diamond ring. Surreptitiously, he slipped it off and tucked it between a cushion and the car seat. His wallet might be emptied, but he wouldn’t lose his ring!

“What the hell are you doing?” the gunman said. “Keep your hands on the wheel.”

Kelley also tried to remove his tie pin.

“I said, keep your hands on the wheel!” his captor said. He ordered Kelley to turn this way and that—to the east and then north, he thought—then announced, “We’re going to hold you for ransom.”

Which was just what Kelley had concluded.

“Stop,” the gunman ordered at last. “Now get out.”

Kelley did as he’d been ordered. Standing on trembling legs in the dark amid the wind and rain, he was almost relieved when a blindfold was placed over his eyes and he heard other voices. His captors pushed him into another car and drove off. From the vehicle’s lurches and occasional stops, Kelley knew that he was being taken on a circuitous route. Finally, the car stopped, and he was pulled out. It was quiet all around; he sensed he was in a country setting. After a brief walk in the rain, with his captors steering him, he heard a door being opened. Then he was told to walk ahead.

The door had a rickety sound, not at all sturdy. I’m in some kind of shack, Kelley thought. Then he was led up a set of stairs, his minders taking care not to let him fall. Once upstairs, he was spun around and told to sit. He did, landing on a cot.

So quiet outside, he thought. I’m in a shack on a farm. God knows where.

He heard the abductors whispering. Now and then, the voices rose above whispers. Three voices…no, four. One man had an oddly pleasant, almost musical voice. Another had a decidedly foreign accent.

Kelley thought how worried his wife must be. Time began to blur. He wasn’t really comfortable on the cot, but he felt exhaustion overtaking him. He began to sleep, off and on. No one had told him he couldn’t sleep.

He heard an airplane—a Ford trimotor, he could tell from the sound. And then it was morning again. He could tell it was morning even with a hood over his head.

“You’re going to write a letter,” one of the men told him. “You’re going to tell your family that you’re all right—which you will be, as long as you do as you’re told.”

The hood was removed, and Kelley was given pen, ink, and paper. The men holding him stood behind him. He heard metallic clicking noises; he recognized the sound of weapons being cocked and uncocked. Trying to make an impression on me, he thought.

He didn’t turn his head to get a look at the men. He just wrote a terse note to his wife, assuring her he was well and would see her soon—though he didn’t know if he would.

One of the men took the pen and paper away, and then a plate was put on the cot. Meat, overcooked by the looks of it. Bread too. Kelley given a bottle of milk. He noted that the bottle was imprinted with the words “St. Charles Dairy Co.” St. Charles, a city in the county of the same name, is a suburb northwest of St. Louis.

“Eat,” a man said. “Then we’re going for a ride. Don’t worry. You’ll get a chance to use the bathroom.”

Again, Kelley heard the sound of a Ford trimotor overhead. He thought one of his captors said something about “the mail ship.”

Kelley strained to hear every voice, every sound, on the chance he’d pick up a clue that might be useful later. He thought he heard someone mumble the name “Goldie.”

A little later, Kelley had the sensation of a big rubber band being slipped over his head. Then he felt pressure around his eyes, and suddenly, he couldn’t see. Goggles, he thought. I’m wearing goggles with black tape on them.

Not too roughly, Kelley was pulled to his feet and led back down the stairs. Then he was outside, in the fresh air. He heard a car door open, then his abductors pushed him inside the vehicle. Kelley could tell he was in the rear seat. He heard a driver get in, then someone entered the front passenger door. The engine started.

“Lie down,” one of the men commanded.

Kelley knew from the sway of the vehicle that it was making frequent turns. At first, he felt the car going over bumps. The bumps subsided. After a while, the car was on a smooth straightaway. Kelley waited to feel the next turn. Instead, the car kept going straight.

We’re on a long bridge, he thought. They’re taking me across the Mississippi to Illinois.

Kathleen Kelley became distraught when her husband did not return late Monday night. Nor did he call. It simply wasn’t like him. She phoned several relatives and friends, including William Orthwein, and they rushed to the Kelleys’ house to offer succor.

The police were notified. Several detectives were assigned to the disappearance, which was not officially a kidnapping early on. But the discovery of the doctor’s car, abandoned several miles from the address he had been lured to by Holmes, removed any doubt. There were oil stains and bits of gravel on the floors of the front passenger side and the rear seat.

The police quickly arranged to tap the Kelleys’ telephone on the assumption that whoever had taken the doctor might call with a ransom demand.

As the night wore on without word, Kathleen was near collapse. Finally, she heeded the pleas of her family and took to her bed.

As the St. Louis newspapers noted, there had been a number of other kidnappings in the region