Yes, it was the third year of America’s staggering depression. But Ford felt that people were ready for what he called real values. That’s what the 68-year-old pioneering founder of the Ford Motor Company was telling Raymond Clapper, manager of the United Press, as he guided him around the company’s vast automobile works at Dearborn, Michigan. In another few weeks, a new biography by Jonathan Norton Leonard would be out with these and other nasty things to say about the billionaire industrialist: he was nothing but a shrewd Yankee tinkerer, narrow, bigoted, prejudiced, semi-literate, intolerant, vindictive, dour, domineering. On this day, though, it was Clapper’s phrase that applied, the boy with the train. Leading the newsman into a laboratory, he summoned him to a screened-off corner.
“They’re apt to get mad at me for coming in here,” Ford said. By real values he seems to have meant shiny new product: beyond the screen was the new eight-cylinder beauty he was about to unleash on the nation. He was grinning as though he were getting into his mother’s cookie jar as he pointed out the V-Type’s streamlined body, longer and wider than the classic T, featuring bigger wheels with heavier tires. Ford revealed that he had 83,560 paid-up orders already in hand.
“We expect to start shipping final parts in four or five days,” the emperor of mass production told his visitor. “The new models should be available for display very soon after that. We have already 50,000 bodies made up. Our immediate objective will be 6,000 cars a day.” By year’s end he hoped to have 1,500,000 of the new cars wheeling across America. The economy was looking up, after all: bank failures were down since the new year and there were estimates that Americans had $24,000,000 of their cash squirrelled away at home.
This was big news, though there was about to be much bigger. Two days later, on the first day of March, kidnappers snatched Charles Lindbergh’s year-a-half-old son and, as The New York Times framed it after a week of frantic, fruitless searching, “An empty cradle in a house on Sourland Mountain in New Jersey filled the heart and the mind of America.”
Five hundred men, police and firemen, went door-to-door in Newark. Clues gusted in. A postman discovered a message pencilled on a card: “Baby safe. Instructions later.” Mrs. Fannie Fischer, a landlady, called in to say that three men and a woman in a car had stopped by to ask about rooms and in the back of the car there was — seemed to be — a bundle. A brakeman on the Pennsylvania Railroad noticed two nervous men with a crying baby on the platform at the Clinton Street Station. Police on motorcycles chased a suspicious sedan near Manlius, New York, and in Wheeling, West Virginia, authorities were on the hunt for a speeding car with New Jersey plates.
The New York Times filled two-and-a-half columns with tips and false leads, including:
A Miss Anna Kurtz at Portland, Pa., which is over the Delaware River about thirty miles from the Lindbergh’s, found a baby’s jacket that would have fitted him. But it belong to a neighbor’s child, having blown off a clothes line. In Providence, R.I., the police chased a car that had been reported to carry four men and a baby. But they were only hockey players — and there was no baby.