The Kidnapping of Baby Duke
Cornelius Prichard, the founder of Prichard Enterprises, was a man to be reckoned with in the world of international finance. He had the unique gift of knowing where and when to invest his money. While other financiers continued to put their faith and dollars into railroads, Prichard saw vast potential in the automobile and invested heavily in General Motors. He also saw the growing need for oil and gasoline and invested large sums in refineries and oil companies. Even when the stock market crashed in 1929, plunging the country into a Great Depression, he not only kept his fortune intact, but he also managed to add to it considerably.
Since the Wright Brothers' historic flight at Kitty Hawk, a growing number of people became interested in flying. The First World War demonstrated the importance of airplanes to the military. Prichard foresaw that aviation could be of great commercial value as well. Putting his faith in Yankee ingenuity, he was betting that airplanes would one day be able to carry passengers great distances in short periods of time. He foresaw a time when flying would eventually become preferable to travel by rail or boat and when airlines would schedule regular flights to destinations both domestic and foreign. With this day in mind, Cornelius formed Prichard Aircraft. Since he himself had no knowledge of aeronautics, he had to find someone who did to head his new company. He did not have far to look.
Virgil Duke was born on a farm in Ohio where, even as a young child, he was fascinated by machines. Not content to follow in his father's footsteps, he enrolled in a local college to study engineering, where eventually his interest shifted to airplanes. When not busy with his studies, Virgil worked as a stunt pilot with a local carnival. Then the U.S. went to war with Germany in 1917, and Virgil joined the army. The daring stunt pilot became one of the war's flying aces, destroying many enemy aircraft in one heroic dogfight after another.
It was not until the war ended, however, that the young aviator became an American hero and an international celebrity. Modifying an old biplane, Virgil flew across the Atlantic Ocean from New York to London, a feat never before attempted. When he safely landed in England, he was decorated by several heads of state, lauded by the press and cheered by the public.
After that historic flight, Virgil toured the world as a goodwill ambassador for the American government. Cornelius Prichard knew that while Duke's ambassadorship brought him great fame and public adulation, it offered little in terms of monetary reward. No doubt he could offer the pilot a more lucrative position. It was not the money, though, that made Virgil accept Prichard's generous offer. Rather, it was the opportunity to work in the field of aeronautics. He would be paid, and paid well, to do what he loved best.
"If I accept your offer, Mr. Prichard," Virgil stated emphatically, "it has to be with the understanding that my role will not be that of a mere figurehead. I intend to become personally involved in the design and manufacturing of our aircraft."
"That's just what I wanted to hear," Cornelius said, shaking Virgil's hand to seal the agreement. "Finance is my bailiwick. I know less than nothing about planes. I've never even been up in one. Truth be told, I prefer to have my feet firmly planted on the ground. But I see a great future in aviation, and I need a man who knows how to build a plane and who isn't afraid to take chances."
* * *
Eleanor Prichard was an exceptional beauty with doe-like brown eyes, delicate features and a pale, flawless complexion that gave her the appearance of an exquisitely crafted china doll. When she was a child, she had been frail and often sickly, which no doubt contributed to her fragile appearance.
One day as Cornelius watched his only child reading a book of poetry out on the veranda, his heart filled with love and pride. Not only was his daughter beautiful, but she was also intelligent, refined and cultured—the perfect lady.
"I have a surprise for you, Kitten," he called to her as he crossed the veranda. "I've invited someone famous to join us for dinner tonight."
"Who is it, Father?" she inquired dutifully, but without any genuine interest.
"Virgil Duke. He's accepted my offer to head up Prichard Aircraft."
"That's nice, Father."
Like most women of her day, Eleanor gave no thought to business matters. The small and private world she created for herself, which consisted mainly of music, literature and art, left little room for anything else. All that was about to change when, later that evening, at her parents' Long Island mansion, the shy and sophisticated heiress met the handsome and daring flyer.
Virgil, used to uneducated farm girls and brazen carnie women, soon became enamored with the delicate beauty and genteel demeanor of his employer's daughter. His infatuation with Eleanor did not escape Prichard, and although his daughter was his pride and joy, the pilot's infatuation did not displease the businessman. On the contrary, he welcomed it and planned on encouraging the relationship between the two young people. What better way to bind Virgil Duke to Prichard Enterprises than through marriage, a custom redolent of the monarchies of Europe?
Sixteen months after they met, Eleanor Prichard and Virgil Duke were married with all the pomp, elegance and expense of a royal wedding. The ceremony and reception, the European honeymoon and the twenty-room manor house in New Jersey were all gifts to the happy couple from the bride's proud father. As Cornelius walked down the aisle with Eleanor on his arm, he gave a silent prayer of thanks to the Almighty. After all, he was not losing his daughter; he was gaining a president for Prichard Aircraft. Eleanor, too, said a prayer, but not one of thanks. The young bride prayed that her marriage would be a success and that she would not disappoint either her husband or her father.
Although a devout introvert who preferred a solitary existence above all else, Eleanor found that marriage to Virgil Duke suited her. Her new husband spent long hours at his office, working on plans for new aircraft. With servants to attend to household affairs, the young wife was left free to pursue her own interests. Her only worry, one which hung above her head like a black cloud on an otherwise sunny day, was the matter of children. She knew her father was counting on her—his only child—to provide an heir to the family fortune.
Why can't I get pregnant and have done with it? she thought with frustration. Why must I get my hopes up month after month, only to suffer repeated disappointment?
"Don't worry, Ellie," Virgil said in an attempt to comfort her when the hoped-for pregnancy failed to materialize. "We've only been married for a year. We've still got plenty of time to have a child."
He really is a dear, she thought.
Had she been a more affectionate person, she might have returned his love. However, she felt only a deep sense of friendship and duty toward him. Perhaps motherhood—if she ever achieved such a sublime state—would effect a change in her and bring out instincts and feelings long unmined.
* * *
Virgil Cornelius Duke was born on May 10, 1931. The senior Virgil considered his golden haired boy the accomplishment of his lifetime. Nothing he had ever achieved in the past or was likely to achieve in the future could equal the magnificence of the tiny infant. His love for the boy was surpassed only by the love he felt for the child's mother. In giving birth to his precious son, Ellie reached a new zenith in Virgil's heart, more akin to worship than mere mortal love.
Florence Prichard, Eleanor's mother, sat beside her daughter, watching the father and grandfather fawning over young Virgil, whom everyone in the family called simply "Baby."
"Honestly, Eleanor, I don't know which of them makes a bigger fool of himself over Baby, your husband or your father."
Florence herself tended to make quite a fuss over her only grandchild, but Eleanor did not point that out to her. In truth, everyone made a fuss over Baby, from the cook to the child's nurse, to the stuffy English butler. Why was she, the boy's own mother, the only one not eager to hold him or to marvel at his tiny fingers and gold curls? Eleanor had expected all those maternal instincts to blossom within her after she gave birth, but all she felt when they placed the newborn baby in her arms was a sense of relief. She had done what was required of her; now everyone would leave her alone.
The birth of her son did bring about one change in Eleanor, but not the one she had anticipated. The quiet, peaceful life she previously enjoyed was shattered, despite the presence of a full-time nurse to care for the baby. Not only did the infant cry incessantly, but also the doting grandparents made a point of paying regular visits to New Jersey and insisted that Virgil, Eleanor and their son frequently spend the weekends on Long Island. Eleanor's life became hectic, a state she little cared for. How she longed to have a few quiet hours of reading or the pleasure of an uninterrupted Beethoven symphony. When she could no longer tolerate the child's cries or the members of her family offering well-meant advice on childcare, she would lock herself in the bathroom and weep, cursing the day she chose the path toward marriage and parenthood.
"Mother," Virgil questioned Mrs. Prichard, "have you noticed how strangely Ellie has been acting lately? She's been so quiet."
"Eleanor's always been very serious, even as a child."
"That's right," Cornelius agreed. "She was never one of those foolish girls, always giggling over some inane matter. My Kitten has got a good head on her shoulders."
"But she never even smiles anymore, and she rarely talks to anyone. Whenever I see her, her eyes are red and puffy as if she'd been crying."
"Red eyes are perfectly normal for new mothers," Florence insisted. "They're often overwhelmed with worries over their babies and get very little sleep at night. Give it some time; she'll snap out of it."
"Maybe what you two kids need is some time alone together. Why don't the two of you take a nice, quiet vacation in the mountains or by the sea? Florence and I will keep an eye on Baby while you're gone."
"That's a wonderful idea," Florence concurred. "Eleanor can catch up on her sleep, and with the long hours you work, you could use some rest, too."
Virgil was not sure if his wife would go along with the idea.
"I doubt very much Ellie would want to leave the baby."
To his surprise, Eleanor was excited at the prospect of a vacation for just the two of them.
"Why don't we go away for the whole summer? Maybe to some secluded place in Vermont or Maine, far away from any other living soul."
"I don't think I can be spared for longer than two or three weeks. We're working on developing a new fighter plane for the army. With the situation in Europe as it is, your father feels war is inevitable."
"Surely you're not the only man at that factory. Can't someone take over your duties for a little while?"
"It's not as if I work on the assembly line. I'm the president, the linchpin of the company. There is no one ready to step into my spot when my shift's over."
The forlorn look on Eleanor's face and the glistening tears in her eyes made her husband reconsider.
"Let me talk to your father and see what I can work out."
After spending six restful weeks in Bennington, Vermont, Eleanor and Virgil returned home to New Jersey. Cornelius, Florence and Baby were there to greet them. Virgil rushed to his son, eager to hold him again.
"Oh, my big boy! Mommy and Daddy missed you so much."
Daddy covered the tiny face with kisses, but Mommy stood in the doorway with a somber look on her face, wishing she were back in Vermont.
* * *
It was to become the most sensational news story of 1932: on a cool April evening, someone climbed in through a second-story window and kidnapped Baby Duke. The eyes of the world turned from the ongoing economic crisis to the aviator's house in rural New Jersey. How could such a tragedy have happened to one of America's most beloved heroes?
The Prichards arrived at their daughter's home the following day, believing that in times of crisis, families needed to stick together.
"Virgil, have you had any news?" Cornelius asked anxiously when he entered the house.
"We found this inside the morning newspaper."
Duke handed his father-in-law a sheet of writing paper with a ransom demand scrawled on it.
"They want $100,000 in small bills," Virgil told Florence, who was trying to read the note over her husband's shoulder.
"Oh, poor Baby!" she cried, wiping the tears from her eyes with a monogrammed lace handkerchief.
"There, there, dear," her husband said, hugging her like a child who had fallen and scraped her knee. "We'll pay the ransom, and Baby will come home safe and sound."
Virgil stared off into the distance, his face attesting to his unbearable suffering.
"He was so small, so young, so helpless. If only there was a way I could have protected him. But I had no idea something like this would happen."
"It's not your fault. There are a lot of desperate people in this world who'll stop at nothing when it comes to money."
Cornelius' words were of no comfort to his son-in-law whose tears were silently falling down his face.
"Where's Eleanor?" Florence asked.
"She's upstairs in her room, sleeping. The doctor prescribed a sedative for her."
"What did the police say?" Cornelius asked.
"That all we can do now is wait for the kidnapper to contact us again."
The phone rang, and Cornelius and Florence jumped. However, Virgil made no attempt to answer it. It was as though he were deep under hypnosis.
"Virgil, it's the phone." Cornelius pointed out.
"One of the servants will get it."
"But it might be the kidnapper!"
"Yes, you're right. I'll get it."
It was not the kidnapper on the phone but a reporter who hoped to speak with the parents of the missing child. It was the first of many such calls that would follow.
The next day another note appeared in the folds of the newspaper, instructing the father where and when to drop off the payment. Cornelius went to the bank and withdrew $100,000 in small bills. Then he and Virgil left the money in the men's bathroom of the train station, as directed by the kidnapper's second note. The drop-off completed, the two men returned home, anxious to hear from the kidnapper again as to where they could find the child.
Eleanor finally came downstairs. Cornelius's heart ached at the sight of his daughter. She lost weight since he had last seen her, and her eyes seemed sunken in her cheeks. It appeared as though she was suffering from some wasting disease.
"Kitten," he moaned, his voice catching in his throat.
"Hello, Father," she greeted him in a strained voice. "It's so nice of you and Mother to visit. I've asked the cook to prepare your favorite dish for dinner tonight."
"That won't be necessary, sweetheart. I think I'm too upset to eat."
"Upset? Whatever for, Father? Have you had a major business crisis on your hands? Neither the war nor the crash of the stock market ever affected your appetite."
Cornelius was worried. Eleanor behaved as if nothing were wrong. Had the shock of her son's kidnapping affected her mind, or was her attitude merely the result of the sedatives the doctor had prescribed?
"I'm worried about Baby," the father explained. "We've delivered the ransom money. Now we need to wait for the kidnapper to tell us where he can be found."
Eleanor turned to her husband, and the two exchanged a cryptic look, a form of private communication that no one else could decipher.
"I'm going upstairs to rest," she announced finally. "Excuse me, please."
Virgil rose from his chair and followed his wife upstairs.
* * *
The waiting was finally over. There was no longer a need to look through the morning paper for a hastily scrawled message from the kidnapper. The body of Baby Duke had been found by a fisherman along a steep embankment of the Raritan River.
"I can't believe I actually thought that the waiting and the not knowing would be the worst part," Cornelius confessed to his wife. "But now I know better. Ignorance may not be bliss, but at least it offers some small comfort. Yesterday at least we had hope; today we have nothing."
Florence had cried for days; now she had no tears left. Her intense grief was tempered by the need to understand the reasons behind such an awful tragedy.
"He was such a sweet little boy, so angelic. Who could do such a thing to an innocent baby? You and Virgil followed the ransom demands to the letter. Why was it necessary to kill him?"
Cornelius, too, was suffering from profound grief, but his was mixed with the need for revenge.
"God help him if I find the man who did this. I won't rest until he's put to death, even if I have to kill him myself."
The child's parents bore their grief in silence. Virgil, though deeply saddened by his son's murder, remained strong through the funeral and the police investigation. He seemed in some small way to assuage the grief over his son by going to great lengths to care for his wife. Day after day he remained at her side, as though his presence was all that was holding her up. She had always been so delicate and high-strung; she would need her husband's strength if she were to survive this dreadful ordeal.
The press coverage of Baby Duke's murder intensified. Angry reporters wrote scathing articles about the inability of the local police to catch the kidnapper. Virgil found it necessary to hire security guards to keep reporters, photographers and souvenir seekers away from the grounds of his New Jersey home.
After several months, the police had been unable to make any progress on the case. Having nothing to print but the same stale facts about the Duke kidnapping and murder, the press moved on to covering other crimes, other scandals and the ever-changing world of politics. Photographs of FDR, Churchill and Adolf Hitler replaced those of the Dukes on the front pages of the nation's newspapers.
Back in New Jersey, the family tried to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives even though one important piece was missing. Cornelius and Florence returned to Long Island, Virgil went back to work designing airplanes for Prichard Aircraft and Eleanor sought the solace of her books and music and the restfulness of quiet and solitude.
* * *
During the ensuing three years, Cornelius Prichard seemed to lose much of his passion for his financial empire. With his grandson gone, who was there to take control of his vast business holdings after he died? Of course, Eleanor was still relatively young, and she might yet bear another child. But his daughter and son-in-law never discussed the possibility with him, and he, not wanting to cause Eleanor any unnecessary pain, never asked.
Virgil, quite understandably, had changed since losing his only child. The lighthearted, charismatic boy with a zest for flying was gone for good. What remained was a somber man who rarely smiled and who sought escape from his painful memories in working long hours.
Only Eleanor seemed none the worse for Baby's tragic death. Incongruously, the fragile, delicate beauty, pampered and protected by both her father and husband, seemed more content than ever before. Her mother and father visited her on occasion but rarely stayed for any length of time. Virgil worked such long hours that often she would not see him for several days. Even the servants managed to keep their distance, rarely crossing her path. She lived in seclusion in her New Jersey home, a virtual recluse, and she loved every minute of it.
Then one day in early November the police arrested a German immigrant named Klaus Grunewald in connection with the kidnapping of Baby Duke. Once again, the Dukes and Prichards were thrust into the public eye, and their peace and privacy were shattered.
"So, they finally got the bastard?" Cornelius asked Virgil.
"He was only caught passing one of the marked bills from the ransom money. There's no proof that he's the kidnapper."
"Well, that's proof enough in my book."
"It's been more than three years since we left that money at the train station. Who knows where it has been during that time?"
"What's the matter with you, Virgil?" his father-in-law asked. "This is the first real break the police have gotten in the case. You should be overjoyed at the prospect of their catching the monster who murdered your son."
Virgil put his head down; he looked as if he were being crushed by the weight of the world.
"There's something I feel you ought to know," he said, his voice so low Cornelius could barely hear him. "I guess I should have told you three years ago, but I couldn't bring myself to do it."
The former flyer got up and locked his office door. He did not want anyone in the household to overhear his confession.
* * *
Klaus Grunewald was brought to trial. The heinous nature of the crime, the popularity of the victim's famous father—still considered an American hero—and the growing distrust of anyone born of German extraction condemned the young mechanic in the eyes of the public even before the prosecutor uttered his opening statement. That Grunewald was the father of a young boy himself made him appear even more of a fiend.
The trial had all the decorum and dignity of a Roman gladiatorial match or a medieval bear-baiting. People pushed, shoved and bribed their way into the courthouse, eager, like Madame Defarge, to see justice done or, if not justice, revenge.
Despite damning testimony by reliable witnesses that placed him near the scene of the crime and the fact that he was in possession of the ransom money, Klaus Grunewald vehemently professed his innocence.
"I am the perfect scapegoat," he arrogantly told reporters. "Who better to pin this crime on than a hated German?"
"But you were seen near the Duke estate on the day of the kidnapping," the prosecutor pointed out under cross-examination.
"Nein!" the defendant shouted in German. "I was at my job in Jersey City that day, more than a hundred miles from the Duke home."
"Not according to your employer, you weren't."
"He is lying."
"And what about the witnesses who identified you in a line-up?"
"They are either mistaken or they are lying, too."
"We found the ransom money in your house. How do you explain that?"
"I found the money in a toilet at the train station. I am a poor man. The money in that bag was more than I earned since I came to this country, so I took it. But I am guilty only of taking the money. I did not kidnap or murder that child."
"You said you are a poor man, an immigrant who works hard but makes very little money. And less than ten miles away from your home is the grand house of Virgil Duke, a man who became a hero fighting Germans during the war. After that war, in which you lost your family and your home, Virgil Duke became a public figure and a hero and married a girl with a wealthy father. He now has a mansion, a beautiful wife, an important job and all the money he'll ever need. Tell me honestly, Herr Grunewald, doesn't that make you envious—angry even—that fortune should shine so brightly on him and not on you? Angry enough to sneak into his house and take his only child? So angry that even after the ransom was paid, you viciously smothered innocent little Baby Duke in his sleep and threw the poor corpse down a river embankment?"
"Nein! Nein! Nein! I did not kill that baby. I admit to being a thief but not a murderer."
The jury did not believe him. Klaus Grunewald was found guilty of both the kidnapping and murder of Virgil Cornelius "Baby" Duke and was sentenced to die in the electric chair. The crowd went wild, cheering and applauding the verdict. Cornelius Prichard looked relieved. Virgil Duke quickly left the courthouse, eager to get away from the post-trial congratulations and cries of justice having been served.
* * *
Virgil and Eleanor Duke spent the summer in a rented house along the coast of northern Maine, miles away from any place on the map. Virgil wanted to shield his wife from reporters, telephones, radios and newspapers. He did not want her needlessly upset by the events taking place in New Jersey: the last-minute appeals, the stay of execution and finally the electrocution of Klaus Grunewald. On that fateful day, Virgil received a telegram from his father-in-law that read only, "It's over. He's dead."
Virgil tore up the telegram and dropped the pieces in the fireplace grate. He closed his eyes but could not shut out the memory of that fateful April night. Eleanor had been on edge, and Baby had been cranky all day, whining and crying without respite. Even the child's nurse had been unable to calm him down.
"He's finally asleep, Mrs. Duke," the nurse announced shortly after midnight. "I'm going to turn in myself now."
"Goodnight, Rachel, I'll ring for you when he wakes in the morning."
Not long after that Eleanor retired for the night. Virgil was in his study, working, when he heard the baby cry. After several minutes the cries became more insistent. Virgil headed for the nursery, but as he rounded the corner in the hall, he saw Eleanor enter the baby's room, and he turned to go back to his study.
"What's wrong with you?" he heard his wife yell. "Why don't you stop that infernal crying?"
The baby started to shriek.
"Stop it, I say. STOP IT!"
Maybe Eleanor can use a hand, her husband thought, heading back toward the nursery.
The baby's cries became muffled, and abruptly they ceased altogether. When Virgil entered the room, he saw Eleanor standing over the baby's crib with a pillow in her hands, covering the child's face.
"Ellie, what are you doing?"
Pushing his wife aside, he rushed to his son, but he was too late. Baby Duke was dead. Virgil hugged the lifeless body to his chest, crying painful sobs.
Eleanor clapped her hands over her ears and moaned, "Be quiet! I can't stand this noise anymore."
Her body shaking wildly, Eleanor seemed to be in the midst of some form of seizure. Virgil put the baby down and went to his wife.
"Stop it, Ellie. Get a hold of yourself."
But she did not respond. She was unaware of him and of her horrible deed.
"Shhh!" Virgil whispered soothingly. "It's okay, darling. Everything's quiet now. Listen."
After several minutes of gentle encouragement, Eleanor calmed down. Virgil led her back to bed and gave her a sleeping pill. He would call the doctor in the morning, but first, he had to act quickly. Reluctantly, he took his son's body, drove to the Raritan River and threw it down the embankment, praying it would never be found. He then went home and wrote the ransom notes, sticking the first inside the morning newspaper.
The kidnapping was a lie invented by Virgil Duke to protect his wife—so delicate, so ill, so disturbed. She would never have been able to survive the ordeal of being arrested and tried for the murder of her own son. If the truth had come out, she would have spent the rest of her life in an institution or perhaps even jail. No, it would be better to let the world believe that the baby had been kidnapped. That way no one else would have to be hurt. But Virgil never dreamed that a poor German immigrant would find the ransom money and be blamed for his son's death. When Klaus Grunewald was arrested, Virgil wanted to go to the police and confess, but his father-in-law talked him out of it.
"You would choose the welfare of a stranger over that of your own wife?" Prichard had asked him.
"No, of course not. I'll tell them I did it."
"Eleanor obviously needs help. We can see that she is taken care of in the privacy of her own home, protected by those who love her."
"But the police have arrested an innocent man. How can I remain silent and do nothing?"
"Since he is an innocent man, any lawyer worth his weight will be able to get him off."
Despite his father-in-law's certainty, Virgil went to the trial every day, swearing to break his silence should Klaus be convicted. It was, ironically, Grunewald's own words that changed his mind.
When the prosecutor asked him why he took the ransom money, the defendant testified, "I took the money to help support my wife and child. I knew what I was doing was morally and legally wrong, but a man's first duty is to his family. After that, nothing else matters."
To protect his wife, Virgil Duke had vowed then and there to carry his guilty secret to the grave.
While this story was loosely based on the events surrounding the Lindbergh kidnapping, it is purely fictional. It is not my intention to cast any blame on the Lindberghs, who suffered the heartbreaking loss of a child. Nor is it intended to question the innocence or guilt of Bruno Richard Hauptmann. (There are plenty of nonfiction books and articles that address this issue.)
I would be devastated if Salem were kidnapped.(Or is it cat-napped? cat-nipped?)
