The Kidnap Years: David Stout (best inspirational books TXT) 📖

turned much more cheerful. The visitor said he was proud of his children, who had all turned out well. “One of my boys is a cadet at West Point,” he boasted.

Then he got down to business: he would pay $15 a week for as long as Eddie could work on the farm. How did that sound?

It sounded wonderful to Eddie and his mother. Then Eddie spoke up for Willie: maybe there was a spot for him on the farm too?

Sure! There was never a shortage of work on a farm, Howard said. And Willie was healthy and had big shoulders, like his friend Eddie.

Fine then, Howard said. He would return with a car on Sunday, June 3, and take the young men to the farm for a summer of wholesome outdoor labor. He told them to pack their oldest clothes.

“I must be on my way,” Howard announced, looking at his watch. “I have a business engagement in New Jersey.” With brisk but friendly goodbyes, the farmer left.

Eddie and Willie exulted in their good fortune. All week long, they looked forward to the trip. On Saturday, they sat in the Budds’ apartment, duffel bags packed. Hours went by. Then, late in the afternoon, a knock on the door. A Western Union delivery boy handed Eddie a handwritten note: “Been over in New Jersey. Call in morning. Frank Howard.”

At midday Sunday, a smiling Frank Howard appeared. He came bearing gifts: a pot of cheese and a basket of strawberries—from his farm, he said.

Albert Budd, who had been at work when Howard made his first visit, was introduced and took an immediate liking to the Long Island farmer, who explained that he’d been in New Jersey to buy horses. “Oh, about the message I sent yesterday. Is it still here?”

“On the mantel there,” Albert said.

Howard went to the mantel, picked up the message, and casually put it in a pocket. Albert thought the action rather odd but didn’t think much about it.

The Budds invited the visitor to stay for a potluck lunch. Eddie and his brother, Albert Jr., were outside at play, but they had promised to come home in time to eat.

As people were seating themselves at the kitchen table, they heard the front door opening, followed by light steps in the hallway. A girl was humming a cheerful tune.

“That’ll be Gracie,” Delia said.

Standing in the doorway, ten-year-old Grace Budd was flower-pretty, still wearing the white dress she’d put on for the family’s weekly visit to church.

“Come here, child,” said the clearly enchanted Howard, beckoning the girl to sit on his lap.

Grace did, briefly. Then Howard gave her a few coins and told her to go buy candy for herself and her little sister. As the girls were hurrying out, their mother told Grace to tell Eddie to come home for lunch.

In no time, Eddie and Willie appeared, breathless from running.

And out of the blue, Howard announced that they weren’t going to the farm right away. He had just heard from his sister that she was giving a birthday party for one of her children that very afternoon. After the party, Howard said, he’d come to get Eddie and Willie. Howard gave the young men $2 to go to the movies in the meantime.

Then the friendly farmer had an inspiration: perhaps Grace would like to attend the party! She was just the right age and would fit in.

Delia was hesitant, more so than her husband. Well, where would the party be, the parents wanted to know. In a very nice building at 137th Street and Columbus Avenue, Howard replied. He promised to have the girl back by nine that night.

So it was settled. Delia helped Grace into her dress-up spring coat, and off she went, still wearing the white dress she’d had on for church, holding the hand of the friendly farmer from Long Island. Delia watched them disappear around a corner.

As dusk yielded to darkness with no sign of their daughter, Albert and Delia Budd tried not to worry. Maybe the party was running late—although it was getting very late for a children’s party to still be going on. Maybe Grace was staying overnight at the home of Frank Howard’s sister.

The night brought no sleep for the parents. Early Monday morning, they sent Eddie to the nearest police station to report Grace’s absence. Very soon, Lieutenant Samuel Dribben and three detectives arrived at the Budds’ apartment. The cops were very concerned; several unsolved child murders had occurred in the city in the past few years.

What about this “party,” the cops wanted to know. Where was it?

In a building at 137th and Columbus Avenue, Grace’s parents said.

As gently as he could, Lieutenant Dribben told them there was no such place, that Columbus ended at 110th Street. Albert and Delia Budd seemed numb with guilt and dread.

Dribben told two detectives to check rooming houses. Another detective took Eddie and his friend Willie to the police station to look at pictures in the hope they would recognize the man who had taken Grace away.

Quickly, two more detectives were put on the case. One would search the records of the Motor Vehicles Bureau for information about Frank Howard. The other detective was to trace the Western Union message the friendly old man had sent the previous Saturday—the message he’d plucked off the mantelpiece and casually put in his pocket.

Several detectives were sent to Nassau County on Long Island to look for a farmer named Frank Howard in Farmingdale. As the name of the community suggested, there were a number of farms around Farmingdale. But there was no farmer named Frank Howard.

But investigators found that, years before, there had been a Frank Howard who owned a farm in Farmingdale, New Jersey. What was more, his general description fit that of the Frank Howard who had taken Grace Budd. But it was soon confirmed that the Frank Howard in New Jersey had sold his farm and moved to Chicago years before—and had since died.

In the