The Anderson Tapes (8 page)

ANDERSON: You’re doing fine.

HASKINS: Two apartments on each floor. By the way, the lobby floor is called one. Up one flight and you’re on floor two. The top floor is the fifth, where the terraces are.

ANDERSON: I know.

HASKINS: Second floor. Apartment Two A. Eric Sabine. A male interior decorator who sounds divine. His apartment got a big write-up in the
Times
last year. I looked it up. Original Picassos and Klees. A nice collection of pre-Columbian art. A gorgeous nine-by twelve Oriental carpet that’s valued at twenty G’s. In the photo in the
Times
he was wearing three rings that looked legit.

Not really my type, darling, but obviously loaded. I shouldn’t have any trouble finding out more about him if you’re interested.

ANDERSON: We’ll see.

HASKINS: Apartment Two B. Mr. and Mrs. Aron Rabinowitz. Rich, young Jews. He’s in a Wall Street law firm. Junior partner. They’re active in opera and ballet and theater groups. Shit like that. Very liberal. This is one of the three apartments I actually cased. She was home, delighted to talk about the proposed Second Avenue subway and the plight of the poor. Modern furnishings. I didn’t spot anything except her wedding ring, which looked like it had been hacked out of Mount Rushmore. Seeing he’s a lawyer, I’d guess a wall safe somewhere. Good paintings, but too big to fool with. All huge, abstract stuff.

ANDERSON: Silver?

HASKINS: You don’t miss a trick, do you, darling? Yes, silver … on display and very nice. Antique, I think. Probably a wedding gift. It’s on a sideboard in their dining room. Any questions?

ANDERSON: Maid?

HASKINS: Not sleepin. She comes at noon and leaves after she serves their evening meal and cleans up. She’s German. A middle-aged woman. Now then … up to the third floor.

Apartment Three A. Mr. and Mrs. Max Horowitz. He’s retired.

Used to be a wholesale jeweler. She’s got bad arthritis of the knees and uses a cane to walk with. She’s also got three fur coats, including one mink and one sable, and drips with ice. At least, that’s what the doorman says. He also says they’re cheap bastards—a total of five bucks to all employees at Christmastime.

But he thinks they’re loaded. Apartment Three B. Mrs. Agnes Everleigh. Separated from her hubby. He owns the apartment, but she’s living there. Nothing much interesting. A mink coat, maybe. She’s a buyer for a chain of woman’s lingerie shops.

Travels a lot. Incidentally, I’ve been mentioning the fur coats—but of course you realize, darling, most of them will be in storage this time of year.

ANDERSON: Sure.

HASKINS: Fourth floor. Apartment Four A. Mr. and Mrs. James T.

Sheldon, with three-year-old twin girls. A sleepin maid who goes out shopping in the neighborhood every day at noon. I got into this apartment, too. I was there when the maid left. West Indian. A dish … if I was hungry that way. Lovely accent. Big boobs.

Flashing smile. Mrs. James T. Sheldon is a perfect fright: horse face, buck teeth, skin like burlap. She must have the money. And Mr. Sheldon must be pronging the maid. He’s a partner in a brokerage house, in charge of their Park Avenue branch. Lots of goodies. I caught a quick look at a wood-paneled study with glass display cases lining the walls. Then Mrs. Sheldon closed the door.

A coin collection, I think. It would fit. Easy to check.

ANDERSON: Yes. You say the maid goes shopping every day at noon?

HASKINS: That’s right. Like clockwork. I verified it with the doorman later. Her name’s Andronica.

ANDERSON: Andronica?

HASKINS: That’s right. It’s in the report. Crazy. Apartment Four B.

Mrs. Martha Hathway—not Hathaway but Hathway. A ninety-two-year-old widow, with an eighty-two-year-old companion-housekeeper. Somewhat nutty. Kind of a recluse.

ANDERSON: A what?

HASKINS: Recluse. Like a hermit. She rarely goes out. Watches TV

all day. Has no visitors. The housekeeper shops by phone. Ryan, the doorman, said her husband was a politician, a big shit in Tammany Hall about a thousand years ago. The apartment is furnished with stuff from the original Hathway town house on East Sixty-second Street. She sold off a lot of stuff after her husband died, but kept the best. It was a big auction, so you could check it out easy enough or I could do it for you.

ANDERSON: What do you figure she’s got?

HASKINS: Silver, jewelry, paintings … the works. It’s just a feeling I have, but I think Apartment Four B might prove to be a treasure house.

ANDERSON: Could be.

HASKINS: Top floor—the fifth. Both apartments have small terraces.

Apartment Five A. Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Bingham and their fifteen-year-old son, Gerald junior. The kid uses a wheelchair; he’s dead from the hips down. He has a private tutor who comes in every day.

Bingham has his own management consultant firm with offices on Madison Avenue. Also, he has his own limousine, chauffeur-driven, which is garaged over on Lex. He’s driven to work every morning, driven home every night. Sweet. He’s listed all over the place, so he won’t be hard to check out. His wife has money, too. I have nothing specific on this apartment—nothing good.

ANDERSON: Go on.

HASKINS: The other is Five B. Ernest Longene and April Clifford.

They’re married, they say, but use their own names. He’s a theatrical producer and she was a famous actress. Hasn’t appeared in ten years—but she remembers. God, does she remember! Sleepin maid. A big, fat mammy type. This was the third apartment I got into. April was on her way to a luncheon at the Plaza and was wearing her daytime diamonds. Very nice.

Some good, small paintings on the walls. A very nice collection of rough gemstones in glass display cases.

ANDERSON: There’s money there?

HASKINS: He’s got two hits on Broadway right now. That’s got to mean loose cash around the place, probably in a wall safe. Well, darling, those are just the highlights. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more specific.

ANDERSON: You did better than I hoped. Give me your carbon of the report.

HASKINS: Of course. I assure you no other copy was made.

ANDERSON: I believe you. I’ll pay you the balance of the five bills when I get Snapper’s report.

HASKINS: No rush, no rush. Do you have any questions, or is there anything you want me to dig into further?

ANDERSON: Not right now. This is like a preliminary report. There may be some more work for you later.

HASKINS: Anytime. You know you can trust me.

ANDERSON: Sure.

[Lapse of six seconds.]

HASKINS: Tell me, darling … are you seeing Ingrid again?

ANDERSON: Yes.

HASKINS: And how is the dear girl?

ANDERSON: All right. I think you better leave now. I’ll wait about half an hour, and then I’ll take off. Tell Snapper I’ll call on Friday, as usual.

HASKINS: Are you angry with me, Duke?

ANDERSON: Why should I be angry with you? I think you did a good job on this.

HASKINS: I mean because I mentioned Ingrid… .

[Lapse of four seconds.]

ANDERSON: Are you jealous, Tommy?

HASKINS: Well … maybe. A little… .

ANDERSON: Forget it. I don’t like the way you smell.

HASKINS: Well, I guess I… .

ANDERSON: Yes. Better go. And don’t get any ideas.

HASKINS: Ideas, darling? What kind of ideas would I get?

ANDERSON: About what I’m doing.

HASKINS: Don’t be silly, darling. I know better than that.

ANDERSON: That’s good.

Tape NYSITB-FD-6JUN68-106-9H. Location of car: Sixty-fifth Street near Park Avenue.

ANDERSON: Goddammit, I told the Doctor I’d contact him when I was ready. Well, I’m not ready.

SIMONS: Take it easy, Duke. Good heavens, you have the shortest fuse of any man I’ve ever known.

ANDERSON: I just don’t like to get leaned on, that’s all.

SIMONS: No one’s leaning on you, Duke. The Doctor has invested three thousand dollars of his personal funds in this campaign, and quite naturally and normally he’s interested in your progress.

ANDERSON: What if I told him it was a bust … a nothing?

SIMONS: Is that what you want me to tell him?

[Lapse of eleven seconds.]

ANDERSON: No. I’m sorry I blew, Mr. Simons, but I like to move at my own speed. This thing is big, probably the biggest thing I’ve ever been in. Bigger than that Bensonhurst bank job. I want everything to go right. I want to be sure. Another week or two.

Three weeks at the most. I’m keeping a very careful account of those three G’s. I’m not making a cent out of this. I can tell the Doctor where every cent went. I’m not trying to con him.

SIMONS: Duke, Duke, it’s not the money. I assure you the money has very little to do with it. He can drop that in one day at the dogs and never notice it. But Duke, you must recognize that the Doctor is a very proud man, very jealous of his position. He is where he is today because he picked winners. You understand? He would not like the word to get around that he flushed three G’s on a freelancer and got nothing to show for it. It would hurt his reputation, and it would hurt his self-esteem. Perhaps the younger men might say he is slipping, his judgment is going, he should be replaced.

The Doctor must consider these things. So, quite naturally, he is concerned. You understand?

ANDERSON: Ah … sure. I understand. It’s just that I want to make a big score, a
big
score … enough to go somewhere for a long, long time. That’s why I’m wound up so tight. This one has got to be just right.

SIMONS: Are you trying to tell me it looks good … as of this moment?

ANDERSON: Mr. Simons, as of this moment it looks great, just great.

SIMONS: The Doctor will be pleased.

Ernest Heinrich “Professor” Mann; fifty-three; resident of 529 East Fifty-first Street, New York City. Place of business: Fun City Electronic Supply & Repair Co., 1975 Avenue D, New York City. Five feet six inches tall; 147 pounds; almost completely bald, with gray fringe around scalp; gray eyebrows; small Van Dyke beard, also gray.

Walked with slight limp, favoring left leg. Deep scar in calf of left leg (believed to be a knife wound; see Interpol file #96B-J43196). He was a technician, skilled in mechanical, electrical, and electronic engineering. Graduated from Stuttgarter Technische Hochschule, 1938, with highest honors. Assistant professor, mechanical and electrical engineering, Zurich Académie du Mécanique, 1939-46.

Emigrated to the United States (with Swiss passport) in 1948.

Arrested Stuttgart, 17 June, 1937, on public nuisance charge (exhibiting himself to an elderly woman). Case dismissed with warning. Arrested Paris, 24 October, 1938, for scandalous conduct (urinating on Tomb of Unknown Soldier). Deported, after case was dismissed. In Zurich, a record of three arrests for possession of a dangerous drug (opium), indecent exposure, and illegal possession of a hypodermic needle. Suspended sentences. Extremely intelligent.

Speaks German, French, Italian, English, some Spanish. Not believed to be violent. Single. Record indicates intermittent drug addiction (opium, morphine, hashish). FBI file indicates no illegal activities during residence in the United States. Applied for U.S. citizenship 8

May, 1954. Rejected 16 November, 1954. (As of this date, this man’s brother was a high official in the finance ministry of West Germany, and his file contained an alert tag: IN CASE OF ARREST, PLEASE

CONTACT U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT BEFORE CHARGE.) The following is the first part of a dictated, sworn, signed, and witnessed statement by Ernest Heinrich Mann. It was obtained after prolonged questioning (the complete transcription numbers fifty-six typewritten pages) from 8 October, 1968, to 17 October, 1968. The interrogator was an assistant district attorney, County of New York.

The entire document is coded NYDAFHM-1O1A-108B. The following section is labeled
SEGMENT
101A.

MANN: My name is Ernest Heinrich Mann. I live at five-two-nine East Fifty-first Street, New York, New York, U.S.A. I also have a business, which I own—the Fun City Electronic Supply and Repair Co., Inc., incorporated under the laws of New York State, at one-nine-seven-five Avenue D, New York City. Am I perhaps speaking too rapidly? Good.

On April thirty, 1968, I was contacted at my place of business by a man I know as John Anderson, also known as Duke Anderson. He stated at this time that he wished to employ me to inspect the basement of a house at five-three-five East Seventy-third Street, New York City. He said he wished me to ascertain the telephone, alarm, and security precautions of this house. At no time did he state the purpose of this.

A price was agreed upon, and it was planned that I would approach the house in the uniform of a New York City telephone repairman, arriving in an authentic truck of the telephone company. Anderson said he would supply truck and driver. I provided my own uniform and identification. May I have a glass of water, please? Thank you.

About a month later Anderson called me and said the arrangements for the telephone truck had been made. There would be two drivers. I objected, but he assured me it would be perfectly safe.

On June fourth, at nine forty-five in the morning, I met the truck at the corner of Seventy-ninth Street and Lexington Avenue. There were two men who introduced themselves to me merely as Ed and Billy. I had never seen them before. They were clad in uniforms of New York Telephone Company repairmen. We spoke very little. The actual driver, the man named Ed, seemed reasonably intelligent and alert. The other one, called Billy, was large and muscular but had a childish mentality. I believe he was mentally retarded.

We drove directly to the house on East Seventy-third Street, pulling up in front. As we had agreed, I alighted, walked into the lobby, and presented my credentials to the doorman. He inspected my identification card, glanced out to the curb where the truck was parked, and told me to pull into the alley that runs alongside the building. Do one of you gentlemen have a cigarette?

I would appreciate it. Thank you very much.

[Lapse of four seconds.]