Jelly's Gold (2 page)

“The gold was worth two hundred and sixty-four thousand dollars when Jelly stole it,” Ivy said. “At today’s prices, it would be worth—”

“Eight million, seven hundred sixty-six thousand, eight hundred eighty-eight dollars,” Berglund said.

I stared at him for a couple of beats while I digested the information. “I’m sorry,” I said. “What were you saying?”

“The gold had been en route to the Ninth District Federal Reserve Bank in Minneapolis for safekeeping,” Berglund said. He was smiling. He had a rapt audience now, and he knew it. “Prior to Franklin D. Roosevelt’s election in 1932, gold was circulated freely in the United States as legal tender, and banks and other private entities often maintained stores of bullion. In early 1933, as part of the New Deal, Congress enacted a package of laws that criminalized private ownership of gold; FDR himself signed Executive Order 6102, which made the hoarding of gold an offense under the Trading with the Enemy Act of 1917, literally an act of treason. All gold—coins, dust, bullion—was collected by the government and traded for other forms of money. The government had no single place to store it—the Federal Gold Repository at Fort Knox wasn’t built until 1936—so the gold was sent to the reserve
banks and to the U.S. Mint in Denver and to any other place where it could be well protected.

“We believe Jelly Nash somehow learned about the shipment, which shouldn’t come as a surprise. He had informants everywhere. He robbed the bank and got away with the gold as well as forty-six thousand dollars in cash. The theft was initially reported in the
Huron Plainsman
; there were several quotes from the bank manager and the county sheriff and a photograph of the safe Jelly had blown using nitroglycerin. Afterward, newspaper articles, as well as police reports, waxed extensively about the stolen forty-six thousand dollars, yet the gold was never again mentioned.”

“Perhaps the reporter made a mistake,” I said. “Goes to show, you shouldn’t believe everything you read.”

Berglund shook his head. “I made use of the Freedom of Information Act to gain access to Treasury Department files,” he said. “There is no question that the gold theft took place as originally chronicled. However, authorities at the time deemed that it was in the public interest to keep news of it from broadly circulating.”

“Why?”

“We can only speculate,” Berglund said. “There had been runs on several area banks during the months immediately preceding the theft. At the Security State Bank and Trust in Faribault, Minnesota, they had to literally stack money on the cashiers’ counters for depositors to see. To save the National Bank of Grantsburg, Wisconsin, the parent bank flew in sacks of money and allowed customers to watch them deposit it in the bank’s vault. Possibly there was a fear that news of the gold theft would spark additional, more violent runs, especially since many people were incensed that the government was seizing privately owned gold supplies in the first place. We were in the middle of the Great Depression, and people trusted gold more than the government.

“Also, Minnesota’s financial community was lobbying heavily for a bank holiday, something that Governor Floyd B. Olson refused to sanction.
Eventually Olson would give in, but at the time of the robbery, he may have thought that public outcry over the theft would produce pressure too great for him to weather, and it’s possible that he pulled strings to cover it up.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a politician believed that telling lies was in the public interest,” I said.

“No, I suppose not. In any case, Jelly Nash robbed the bank at 9:00
A.M.
, immediately after it opened its doors to the public. Huron is three hundred thirty miles from St. Paul. Today, that’s a five-hour drive. Maybe less. In 1933, it would have taken twice as long. Yet by nine that evening Nash was in St. Paul. The
St. Paul Daily News
reported that Nash and his wife, Frances, were seen carousing—that’s a direct quote from the newspaper—they were seen carousing with an architect named Brent Messer and his wife at the Boulevards of Paris nightclub. The newspapers loved to print gossip about gangsters in those days; it was like they were celebrities.”

“So you believe Frank came straight here after the heist.”

“I do. And why not? For nearly thirty years, St. Paul had been a refuge for gangsters, a safe harbor for killers, bank robbers, stickup artists, kidnappers, bootleggers, extortionists—criminals of every variety and stature. They were allowed to come and go as they pleased; authorities even afforded them protection from other law enforcement entities as long as they refrained from committing crimes within the city limits.”

A simple yes would have sufficed,
my inner voice said.

“They called it the O’Connor System, named after Chief of Police John—”

“I know all this,” I said. “It’s my town.”

Ivy flashed a look of disapproval. Still, the interruption slowed Berglund down for a moment.

“I’m just trying to give you context,” he said. He slowly drained the cold coffee that had pooled at the bottom of his mug before beginning again. “Jelly and Frances Nash were at the nightclub on the eighth. By
perusing FBI records, we discovered that they spent the night of June ninth with Alvin Karpis and the sons of Ma Barker at their hideaway on Vernon Street in St. Paul. We know that they departed the following day, the tenth.”

“Abruptly is the applicable word,” said Ivy.

“Only he didn’t have the gold with him when he left,” Berglund said.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Nash was a different breed of criminal than most that flourished during those days. Yes, he was a thief, but he also was a comparatively honorable man. I believe that it is unlikely that he would have put his wife at risk by transporting her and the stolen gold in the same vehicle. That, of course, is merely conjecture on my part. However, it is supported by the fact that Nash did not have the gold with him when he was apprehended by federal agents six days later in Hot Springs, Arkansas.”

“You think it’s still in St. Paul,” I said.

“Yes. The nine minutes Nash spent inside the Farmers and Merchants Bank triggered a massive manhunt. Treasury agents searched for the thieves and the thirty-two gold bars for many years. Yet no one was ever arrested for the crime, and the gold was never recovered. This is in the Treasury Department’s own files.”

“Wait a minute. When Frank was arrested, it wasn’t for the gold robbery?”

“No.”

“If the Treasury Department knew Frank robbed the bank—”

“It didn’t know. That’s something we developed on our own.”

“He wasn’t identified at the scene?”

“No one was identified. Witnesses claim the thieves wore masks.”

“Then how do you know Frank committed the robbery?”

“His fingerprints were all over it.”

“He was identified by his fingerprints?”

“No. What I meant by fingerprints—that was a metaphor. What I
meant, the way the crime was executed, the way the vault was blown using nitroglycerin, the short amount of time spent in the bank, the escape route—it all fit Nash’s MO, his modus operandi.”

“I know what MO means,” I said. “You’re telling me that there isn’t a shred of evidence placing Frank in that bank. You don’t actually know that he stole that gold. This is mere speculation.”

“The facts fit,” Berglund said.

“The facts could be made to fit anybody. Hell, it could have been Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

“They were dead by then.”

“Nonetheless,” I said.

I took a long pull on my coffee while Berglund stared into his empty mug. Ivy took his hand and looked at him with a deep kindness that made me jealous.

“I believe,” Ivy said.

“So do I,” Berglund said.

“That makes two of you,” I said.

“I believe Nash stole the gold,” Berglund said. “I believe he hid it somewhere in St. Paul with the intention of fencing it or moving it once it cooled down, only his arrest and subsequent demise prevented him from doing so. It’s been patiently waiting all these years for whoever can find it.”

“Assuming he did steal the gold—and that’s a big assumption—what do you think he did, bury it in his backyard?”

“Why not? Many people at the time—legitimate citizens—refused to give up their gold, choosing to hoard it instead until the price controls were lifted and they could sell it for considerably more than what the government was paying. Some of them did indeed bury it in their backyards.”

“What do you want from me?”

“We want you to help us find the backyard. Ivy says you’re an investigator.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“She says you know how to find things.”

“If it’s worth it to me.”

“We’ll give you a fair share of the gold.”

“How fair?”

“A third.”

It wasn’t hard to do the arithmetic. A third of $8,766,888 amounts to $2.9 million and change. Yeah, that sounded fair. On the other hand, a third of nothing is nothing.

“Why me?” I asked. “Based on the research you’ve already done, you certainly seem to know what you’re doing. Why come to me for help?”

“Assuming you agree to accept our offer, what would you do first?”

“If this were 1933, we’d try to reconstruct Frank’s movements during those days he was here—interview all of his known associates, visit all of his haunts, and like that. Unfortunately, this isn’t 1933. This is the coldest of cold cases. Most people who witnessed the actual events are likely long dead. Those who aren’t were probably too young at the time to be of much help to us. That limits us to police records, newspaper reports, historical references—”

“I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

“Yes, you would. You already have. You’re a smart guy.” I glanced at Ivy when I said that, but I didn’t mean anything by it. I still thought she could do better.

“You overestimate me,” Berglund said.

“Probably,” I said, but I didn’t believe it. There was something else that Berglund wanted, and I thought I knew what it was.

“McKenzie, will you help us?” Ivy asked.

“Well, I’ll tell you, kid. I’m inclined to say no. I’m inclined to tell you that this is the wildest of wild goose chases, and if the gold had been hidden in St. Paul—if Frank had even stolen it in the first place—somehow someone would have found it in the past seventy-five years.
I’m impressed that you believe that it exists, though. I’m even more impressed by the two guys sitting in the blue Trailblazer across the street watching us who also apparently believe that it exists.”

They both turned to look out the window.

“Don’t act surprised,” I said. “They’re the real reason you called me. Isn’t that right?”

“I didn’t know they were here,” Berglund said.

“You said we lost them,” Ivy said.

“I thought we had.”

“Who are they?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s no way to start a partnership, telling fibs.”

“I swear, Mr. McKenzie, I have no idea who they are.” Berglund turned to Ivy, looking for support. “No idea at all.”

“It’s true, McKenzie,” Ivy said. The anxiety in her voice was almost heartbreaking. “They just, they just appeared.”

“When?”

“About a week ago. They’ve been following us—everywhere.”

“When I try to talk to them, they just drive away,” Berglund said.

“Yet when I look around again, there they are.”

“They’re waiting for you to lead them to the gold,” I said. “Who else did you tell about it?”

“No one,” Berglund said.

“You told someone.”

I glanced at Ivy. She shook her head.

“A friend?” I said.

“No,” Berglund said.

“Family member?”

“No.”

“Someone you’ve been in contact with while doing your research?”

“No one. We’ve been very discreet.”

“Yet there they sit.”

Berglund opened his mouth to defend himself, but I flung a thumb in the general direction of the front window and he thought better of it.

“So what you really want is for me to watch your back while you search for Jelly’s gold,” I said.

“No, I …” Berglund turned to Ivy, looking for more assistance.

Ivy reached across the table and set her hand on top of mine. “More than that, I hope,” she said.

I might have read a lot of extra meaning into the gesture if it came from someone else, but I knew her and she knew me. I was the uncle she counted on when she couldn’t turn to Mom and Dad. The realization made me sad. When did I stop being attractive to young women, I wondered.

When were you ever attractive to young women?
my inner voice replied.

“Please help us,” Ivy said.

Her pleading eyes, the expectant expression on her face—I closed my own eyes. When I opened them again she was still staring at me. All I can say is, I’m lucky she wasn’t selling time-share condos in Florida.

“Sure,” I said.

They both seemed relieved, and for a moment I wondered just how much trouble they were really in that they hadn’t told me about yet.

“Are you kids old enough to drink?” I asked. They seemed insulted by the question. “Do you know where Rickie’s is?”

“The jazz joint on Summit Hill?” Berglund said.

“That’s the place, only don’t call it a joint; the owner doesn’t like it. I want you to give me a good five minutes, then go to your car and drive south on Cleveland until you reach Como Avenue. After that, I don’t care how you get to Rickie’s, just go.”

“What are you going to do?” Ivy said.

“Make sure that the guys in the Trailblazer really are following you, then find out who they are.”

“How?” Berglund asked.

“There are ways.”

“Then what?” Berglund said.

“Are you going to shoot them?” Ivy said.

“What a bloodthirsty young lady you’ve become since I saw you last. No, I’m not going to shoot them. I’m not going to shoot anyone. Let’s be clear about that, kids. No guns, all right?”

They nodded.

“I mean it.”

They nodded some more. Still, I don’t think they believed me.

“Okay,” I said. I stood and splayed the fingers of my hand. “Five minutes. Then go to Rickie’s. I’ll meet you there.”