For the Thrill of It: Leopold, Loeb, and the Murder That Shocked Jazz Age Chicago (16 page)

One of his friends, Nathan explained, had brought the portable typewriter into his house. It was necessary because he kept the Hammond typewriter upstairs in his study and that typewriter was fixed on a special table; it was too cumbersome and heavy to lug up and down two flights of stairs every time they wanted to work in the library.

So the study group had used the portable typewriter in the library. Who had brought it into the house? Again, Nathan was vague; he was not sure, but he thought it might have been Morris Shanberg.

W
HILE
N
ATHAN CONTINUED TO ANSWER
Savage’s questions that evening, Crowe’s detectives fanned out through Chicago to bring in the four boys. Shanberg and another student, Lester Abelson, both lived on the North Side of the city; Arnold Maremont and the fourth member of the group, Howard Oberndorf, lived in Hyde Park, near the university.

By ten o’clock on Friday evening, all four were at the Criminal Court Building, waiting in offices adjacent to the state’s attorney’s rooms. In Crowe’s office, Nathan was sticking to his story. In front of him, on a table, the police had placed three portable typewriters: a Corona, a Remington, and an Underwood. He was now sure, looking at the examples before him, that he had used an Underwood, but still he denied ownership—he was certain that the typewriter belonged to Morris Shanberg.

Robert Crowe had been waiting for this moment. He nodded slightly to a sergeant standing on the other side of the room; thirty seconds later, Shanberg, looking nervous, walked into the office. Crowe motioned him to sit down and gestured toward Nathan.

“Sit down, Shanberg. You know Nathan Leopold, Jr.?”

“Yes.”

“You and Nathan have always been good friends?”

“Well, always since at school, I met him at school….”

“Shanberg, during your law course at the University of Chicago, you had occasion to go over and work on the dope sheets with Nathan from time to time; is that right?”

“Yes.”

Joseph Savage picked up the questioning. Savage had always been a stickler for detail; it was important that there be no ambiguity about the student slang: “By dope sheet, you mean that is preparatory work?”

“Briefing the course as a whole…”

“Do you remember at any time, Shanberg, of seeing a typewriter, a portable typewriter over at Nathan’s house?”

“Only on one occasion; that was the last time I was there.”

“Prior to working on that portable typewriter, you worked with this Hammond typewriter; is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And who operated the typewriter?”

“Mr. Leopold, except on occasions when Mr. Leopold went to the phone.”

Morris Shanberg glanced cautiously at Nathan. The other boy returned his look and held it; there was a slight smirk on Nathan’s face—it seemed almost that he was enjoying this moment.

Shanberg suddenly realized why he was here. It must be that the police had found the typewriter used for the ransom note and Nathan was denying ownership; Nathan was trying to link him to the typewriter and frame him for the murder of Bobby Franks!

Joseph Savage’s voice broke his train of thought: “Now, did you ever own a typewriter, Mr. Shanberg?”

“No.”

Shanberg’s voice was firmer now—less hesitant, less deferential.

“Did you ever bring one over to Nathan’s house?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever know any of the other boys to bring a typewriter over to Nathan’s house?”

“No, sir.”
²⁵

The detectives allowed Morris Shanberg to leave. One by one, the three other students entered Crowe’s office. Each described in turn the study group, recalled the portable Underwood in the library, and denied any knowledge of its provenance. Howard Oberndorf was the last of the four to speak, and as Oberndorf got up to leave the room, Joseph Savage turned back to Nathan. The assistant state’s attorney felt a sense of futility in questioning the boy further—Nathan was sure to stonewall him—but, nevertheless, there was no harm trying. “Nathan, I understood you to say that the typewriter had been taken out again by the boy that brought it in.”

“That was my assumption.”

“You just assumed that?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know whether it was actually taken out or not?”

“No, I do not.”

“Or you don’t know when it was taken out, if it ever was taken out?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you ever remember the typewriter coming in?”

“I do not.”

“Do you remember under what circumstances it could have come into the house?…It would hardly come into the house without some comment at the time the machine was brought there; what I mean is, that one would hardly come in and leave a typewriter at your house without saying something about it?”

“I should not think so.”
²⁶

T
HERE WAS ONE MORE POSSIBILITY.
The previous November, he had begun a project with a friend, Leon Mandel, to translate Pietro Aretino’s fifteenth-century pornographic novel
I Ragionamenti
into English. This had been a provocative decision on Nathan’s part. Aretino’s
Dialogues
between two women contained graphic descriptions of sodomy and bestiality; the sensationalism of the narrative overshadowed the work’s literary value. Ernest Wilkins, professor of Italian and dean of the undergraduate college at the university, had warned Nathan not to go through with the translation, but Nathan persisted nevertheless. Both Nathan and Leon Mandel hoped to persuade “some friend of ours to publish a very small little edition, two or three hundred copies, or subscriptions to be circulated only among people who had a legitimate interest in the literature of the times,” but it was a more demanding task than either had anticipated: they completed fewer than twenty pages before abandoning the translation.
²⁷

Leon Mandel had, however, frequently come to the Leopold home to work on the translation, and Nathan suggested that he may have brought the Underwood typewriter with him.
²⁸

But Elizabeth Sattler had told the police that she had last seen the portable as recently as two weeks ago: that is, around the middle of May, just one week before the murder of Bobby Franks. Leon Mandel had been married on 30 April and had immediately sailed for Europe on his honeymoon. One month later, he was still on his honeymoon, so if the maid had seen the typewriter only two weeks ago, then obviously Mandel had not taken it out of the house. So, Nathan, where was that typewriter?

“I don’t know.”

“If it was Mandel’s machine, it would still be there, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“These boys say that they never had a machine. Where is that machine?…You kept denying, right up until a few minutes ago, that you knew anything about it…. It was a machine one of these boys brought in, you didn’t know when, where or how, and he took it out, and you didn’t know when, where or how.”

“Yes.”

“Then you were confronted with each boy, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And after the boy told you you were a liar, you changed your opinion, didn’t you?…The fact that that letter that Franks got was written on the same machine that some of your stuff was written on, and the fact that experts say that the same person wrote it might be a damned good reason for you in losing that machine.”

“Certainly.”

“And knowing nothing about it?”

“Certainly.”
²⁹

N
ATHAN
L
EOPOLD HAD NOW BEEN
in police custody for almost thirty-six hours, from Thursday afternoon through the evening of Friday, 30 May. Yet at the Leopold home on Greenwood Avenue, the family’s faith in Nathan’s innocence remained unshaken; the entire affair was still, in his father’s eyes, an unfortunate mistake that would inevitably be corrected.

Was there anything the family could do to help Nathan in his predicament? Sven Englund, the family chauffeur, told Nathan’s father that Nathan could not possibly have abducted Bobby Franks and driven him out to Wolf Lake on 21 May; Englund had spent most of that day working on Nathan’s car, fixing the brakes. He remembered the day well; he had been worried over his little girl, his nine-year-old daughter. She had been ill that day, and his wife, Alma, had taken her to the doctor to get a prescription. Englund had worked on the car in the early afternoon, and it had stayed in the garage the entire day.
³⁰

The family received the news with triumph. Nathan’s father, two brothers, and aunt—all gathered that evening at the house on Greenwood Avenue—knew nothing of his alibi, that he had driven to Lincoln Park in his car. They knew only that Nathan was innocent and Sven Englund’s testimony proved it; how could Nathan have been driving around Chicago with the body of the murder victim if his car was in the garage all day?

That evening Sven Englund waited on a bench outside the state’s attorney’s office in the Criminal Court Building. Robert Crowe was busy and could not see him. Could Englund not come back the following day, Saturday? No, it was important—even if he could not speak to Crowe, the chauffeur would like to talk to one of his assistants. Englund was persistent; and eventually he managed to tell his story to one of the assistant state’s attorneys.

Englund had been working in the garage at the Leopold house on Wednesday, 21 May, around twelve-thirty in the afternoon. The chauffeur was responsible for five cars: the Leopolds owned a Packard, two Lincolns, a Willys-Knight, and a Wills Saint Claire. The Willys-Knight—Nathan’s car—was especially distinctive, a maroon sports model with red disk wheels, nickel-plated bumpers, and a tan top. As Englund looked toward the gate that afternoon, he could see the Willys-Knight approach the driveway with Nathan at the wheel; behind him, a second boy was driving a dark green car.

Nathan stepped out from his car. The brakes had been squealing for several days; could Sven check them that afternoon? He did not need his car that day; he would prefer to have the problem fixed as soon as possible. Nathan and Richard Loeb drove away in the green car.

What make was the second car? Englund tried to remember—he was not sure. Perhaps, he replied, it was a Cadillac.

In recounting his story to the assistant state’s attorney, Sven Englund provided convincing detail. On the day of the murder, he had removed the disk wheels from the red Willys-Knight to oil both the brake bands and the brakes; Nathan’s car had remained in his garage until ten o’clock that evening.
³¹

E
NGLUND’S ACCOUNT CAME AS A
thunderclap—the chauffeur had smashed the boys’ alibi. Crowe broke off his interrogation of Nathan; he realized immediately that both boys had been lying to him about their movements on the day of the murder. Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb had told him that they had spent Wednesday, 21 May, driving around the city in Nathan’s car; yet Sven Englund was now saying that Nathan’s car had been in the garage all day.
³²

Crowe had no time to lose. The family had sent Englund on his mission to the Criminal Court Building; perhaps even now, Nathan’s father was contacting a lawyer to file a writ of habeas corpus. If Crowe could squeeze a confession out of the boys before the lawyers arrived, he would have a hanging case, but if there was no confession, the killers might yet avoid the gallows.

Which boy was most likely to break first? Should Crowe switch to Richard Loeb or stay with Nathan Leopold? Nathan had denied everything—he had refused to budge an inch. Richard Loeb might be more vulnerable. Loeb did not even know why he was in the Criminal Court Building; throughout his detention, the detectives had held the boy in isolation.

Crowe opened the door. Richard Loeb was leaning forward in a chair with his head resting on his arms on the desk. As the state’s attorney entered the room, the boy lifted his head up and slid backward in the chair.
³³

It was almost one o’clock in the morning, and Loeb was very tired. He had slept during the day but only for about four hours. He demanded to know why Crowe was holding him. He knew nothing, and he wanted to talk to a lawyer.
³⁴

Crowe heard the words but ignored the request. He had been expecting one of the boys to ask for a lawyer—he was surprised it had taken so long. He pretended not to hear; behind him, Joseph Savage, the assistant state’s attorney, was entering the room; he was followed by Michael Hughes, the chief of detectives. The stenographer was the last to enter, and as the door closed behind him, Crowe turned to face Loeb.

“Now, Loeb, you told me that Wednesday…you drove down town with this young fellow Leopold, in his car, that is a sport model, it is a red car with a tan top, a Willys-Knight?”

“Yes….”

“You had lunch at the grill room at Marshall Field’s?…Then you went out to Lincoln Park?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that all the driving you did this day was in this car?”

“Yes, sir….”

Crowe had been sitting casually on the edge of the gray metal desk; now he got to his feet and stood in front of Loeb, looking down at the boy in the chair before him. He spoke louder now, in a voice calculated to intimidate the boy, and he moved closer, so close that his physical presence in itself seemed to threaten and menace.

“Isn’t it a fact that Wednesday, May 21st,…you drove up to that garage, to Leopold’s garage, you driving your mother’s car, that green Cadillac, he driving the red car…and you turned the car over to the chauffeur and got into your car and drove away?”

“No,” Richard replied.

“That is not a fact?”

“No,” Richard answered again.

Crowe was shouting now. The anger in his voice filled the interrogation room. He wanted that confession so much—he needed Richard to confess—he had to force the boy to break, to admit his guilt to the murder.

“If this chauffeur says so, he is a liar?”