Stolen Away (11 page)

“Have you seen your date since?”

“No. I made a second date with him, for March sixth, but I couldn’t get away from the house. I haven’t spoken to him or seen him, since then.”

Schwarzkopf stepped in and smiled warmly. “You’re doing fine, Miss Sharpe. Just fine. Now, if you can just fill in a few blanks…”

She turned snippy again. “What sort of blanks?”

“Names would be a good start.”

“I told you before! I don’t remember any names.”

“You don’t remember the name of your date? You went for a ride with him on that Sunday afternoon, spent an entire evening with him…”

“I can’t remember.”

“Look,” Welch said, “we know you’re nervous. Just relax and the name will come to you.”

“I am
not
nervous, and I can’t remember his bloody name!”

“What about the other couple?” Schwarzkopf asked. “Can you remember who they were?”

She cocked her head and smiled with tight sarcasm. “No. I can’t remember their names, either.”

“You were out with these people a little over a week ago,” Welch said, “and you can’t remember their goddamn names?”

The steno paused, wondering whether to record “goddamn.”

Violet folded her arms across her chest, and her chin was raised high; but she was trembling. And she didn’t dignify Welch’s badgering with a reply.

“What movie did you see, Violet?” I asked.

Welch and Schwarzkopf looked at me, a little surprised that I’d get into this.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“My name’s Heller. I’m a police officer, like the rest of these men.”

“You have no business prying into my private life. None whatsoever!”

“Take it easy,” I said. “Just tell us what the movie was about. Something, anything, about the movie you saw—the actors in it, anything.”

Red Johnson had passed a similar test with flying colors.

But Violet Sharpe said nothing.

“What was the name of the theater?” I asked.

“It was in Englewood. That’s all I know.”

Welch and Schwarzkopf looked at me and I shrugged. I wasn’t doing any better than they were.

“Thank you, Miss Sharpe,” Schwarzkopf said. And to Welch, he said, “Send her back to Englewood.”

Schwarzkopf left, and I went along, following him back into the bustling garage command post.

“I have half a mind to turn her over to Welch,” Schwarzkopf said, “and let him work his magic on her.”

“If you do that,” I said, “you do have half a mind.”

“What would you suggest?”

“No rubber-hose technique—just some in-depth, sustained questioning. She was frustrating to interrogate, I’ll grant you, but you shook her loose when we’d barely begun.”

Schwarzkopf stopped in his tracks; sighed. “She’s one of Mrs. Morrow’s favorite maids. We push her too hard, we’ll get in trouble with the Morrows.”

“So fucking what?”

Schwarzkopf made a face. “If we get in trouble with the Morrows, we’ll get in trouble with Colonel Lindbergh.”

“Hook her up to a lie detector, then. Hell, hook up all the Lindbergh servants, and all the Morrow servants, too.”

“Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? Colonel Lindbergh won’t have it. It’s an invasion of privacy, and an insult, to his employees, he says.”

Half an hour later, Constable Willis Dixon of the Hopewell P.D. showed up, grinning. He reported to Schwarzkopf.

“Some interesting items in that maid’s room,” he said, with his gap-toothed grin.

So Schwarzkopf had sent Dixon, not his own men, to do a search of Violet’s room at Englewood, while she was here being questioned. Schwarzkopf was smart, in his weasel way: why get his own people in trouble, if the Morrows got owly about harassment of their favorite servant?

“First of all,” Dixon said, “the servants over there say Violet’s been havin’ an affair with an older man—a butler, they say. I figure it’s this guy Septimus Banks.”

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“The Morrows’ head butler,” Schwarzkopf explained. “History of drunkenness.”

“Anyway, I sure found some good stuff in her room, gents,” Dixon said. “A handwritten book of dirty stories. An address book with twenty-six names. And a savings book on a New York City bank.”

“You didn’t take any of these with you, did you?” Schwarzkopf asked, anxiously.

“No! But I did do some browsing. You know, Violet makes a hundred bucks a month, and’s been working less than two years. And I was told she sends a good chunk of her pay home to her folks in Great Britain.”

“So?” I asked.

“So,” Dixon asked in return, “why does she have almost two grand in her savings account?”

Bonfires burned orangely against the night, flames fighting the icy wind, kindled by troopers keeping vigil on the periphery of the Lindbergh estate.

Inside the command-post garage, two members of the New Jersey State Police were keeping vigil with a deck of cards. The two troopers—a kid named Harrison and a guy about thirty named Peters—had joined Constable Dixon and myself for a quiet game of poker. At a little after midnight, the rest of the skeleton crew of troopers were stretched out and snoring on army cots.

The only guy on duty was a fellow named Smith who was on the switchboard; but he was slumped and sleeping, too. The only calls that came through were those directed to the troopers themselves; Lindbergh had rejected Schwarzkopf’s request that calls to the house be routed here first for monitoring purposes. Every call, crank or otherwise, from anybody savvy enough to wrangle the unlisted number of the Hopewell estate, went straight to the phones inside—one on Lindy’s desk, another in the hallway, another upstairs (though at night the latter was disconnected).

Once Inspector Welch had answered the hall phone and Lindbergh snapped at him, “What the hell are you doing?”

And it was fucking rare that Lindbergh cursed.

“It rang and I answered it,” Welch had said.

Lindbergh’s expression and tone rivaled the weather in coldness. “I want it understood very clearly, and right now, that neither you nor any other policeman is to touch that phone for any reason. You are here through my courtesy and I ask you not to interfere with my business.”

On the other hand, Mickey Rosner, pride of New York’s underworld, frequently answered the phone and had full access to it.

Dixon, the two troopers and I were sitting at one of the tables where mail was sorted; bags of the stuff were crowded up against the wall behind us, like Moran’s men in that Clark Street garage where Capone held his St. Valentine’s Day dance. The picnic-type table was littered with nickels and dimes and quarters. The majority were piled before me. It was my deal.

“Black Mariah,” I said, dealing them down.

“What the hell is Black Mariah?” Peters wanted to know. A chain-smoker, he was a brown-haired, rosy-cheeked guy whose eyebrows were almost always knit, as if he were suspicious people smarter than him were taking advantage. Which they often were.

“Seven card stud,” I said. “High spade in the hole splits the pot.”

“Oh,” Peters said, and sucked in some smoke.

Dixon seemed to know the game and, from the forced poker face he maintained glancing at his two hole cards, probably had the ace of spades down. Harrison was the youngest man at the table and he was just playing, and losing, without comment.

I had barely finished the deal when Colonel Breckinridge came bustling in. The usually dignity-personified Breckinridge was wearing a plaid dressing robe and in stocking feet, legs bare and white and hairy.

“Heller,” he said, relieved. “You’re still here.”

Normally I was gone by nine at night, heading over to Princeton in the flivver Lindy loaned me. I had hung around tonight to take money from these eastern hick cops.

“Yeah,” I said, checking my two hole cards. Queen of spades. All right. “What do you need?”

“You,” he said, and grabbed me roughly by the arm and pulled me away from the table.

“Hey!” I said, cards spilling from my hands.

“Come along,” he said, and I was following him back into the house, leaving the cards and my money behind.

“I was winning,” I said, indignantly. “I must have been up three bucks…”

“Never mind that,” he said. “I need you to be Colonel Lindbergh.”

“What?”

Breckinridge led me to the hall phone outside the study. The receiver was off the hook.

“There’s an elderly fellow named Dr. John Condon on the line,” he said. “Claims he’s received a letter addressed to him, with an enclosure addressed to Colonel Lindbergh.”

“So?” Calls like this came in all the time.

“Dr. Condon says he doesn’t know if there’s anything to it—the letter may be from a hoaxer or a crank; but recently he sent a letter to the Bronx
Home News
offering a one-thousand-dollar reward to anyone who returned little Charlie safely. And they printed the letter, and he thinks this may be an answer to that.”

“What the hell is the Bronx
Home News?
Sounds like some bush-league suburban rag.”

Breckinridge shrugged. “It is.”

“Then it’s not very likely the kidnappers would’ve seen his letter, there.”

“I know—but this man is no crank—he’s a professor at Fordham University. At least he says he is—and the credentials and degrees he reeled off sound legitimate.”

I made a farting sound with my lips.

“But,” Breckimidge continued, “he refuses to speak further unless he’s speaking to Colonel Lindbergh himself—who I’m not
about
to disturb…Charles has only begun sleeping again, these last few nights.”

“Oh. Well, fine. Sure, I’ll play Lindy.”

Breckinridge smiled. “Thanks, Heller. You know the Colonel wants every lead, every call, taken seriously.”

“Sure,” I said, picking up the receiver. Queen of spades down. Damn! “This is Colonel Lindbergh. What is it?”

“Ah, Colonel! I’m so relieved! I’ve just received a letter, which may be of importance to you.”

His voice was well modulated but blustery.

“Do they usually deliver your mail at midnight, Professor?”

“I didn’t get home until ten—I had classes today. I was sorting through perhaps twenty pieces of correspondence when I came upon this one. Shall I read it?”

“Please, Professor.”

He continued in a declamatory style. “It says—and I must make allowances for misspellings and poor syntax—‘Dear Sir: If you are willing to act as go-between in Lindbergh case please follow strictly instruction. Hand enclosed letter personally to Mr. Lindbergh. It will explain everything. Don’t tell anyone about it. As soon we find out the press or police is notified, everything are cancel and it will be a further delay.’ Atrocious spelling!”

“Is there more?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Professor, you can flunk the guy later. Finish reading the thing, please.”

“Certainly. ‘After you get the money from Mr. Lindbergh, put these three words in the New York
American
: Money is ready.’”

I covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Breckinridge. “I think this old boy’s just after some easy dough.”

“‘After that we will give you further instruction,’” Condon continued. “‘Don’t be afraid, we are not out for your one thousand—keep it.’ That’s a reference to the one thousand dollars I offered for the baby’s safe return, in my letter to the Bronx
Home News.
I wish I could have offered more, but it was all I could scrape together in my hope that a loving mother might regain her child.”

“You’re too generous,” I said, stifling a yawn.

“‘Only act strictly,’” he went on. “‘Be at home every night between six and twelve—by this time you will hear from us.’ That last isn’t quite clear.”

“How is it signed?”

“With the mark of the Mafia!”

Right.

“Is that it, Professor?”

“Well, the letter is postmarked Station T, New York City; it came in a long, plain, white envelope. Inside is a smaller envelope, also plain white, which says: ‘Dear Sir: Please hand enclosed letter to Colonel Lindbergh. It is in Mr. Lindbergh’s interest not to notify the police.’ I did not open this enclosure, sir.”

Pompous ass.

“Well, open it and read it to me.”

Like a sound effect on a radio program, the tearing of the envelope found its way to me over the phone.

“‘Dear Sir,’” he read, “‘Mr. Condon may act as go-between. You may give him the seventy thousand dollars.’”

I perked up a little: the seventy-thousand figure was correct—it had been fifty, but the most recent note had raised it.

“‘Make one packet,’” he said. “The size will be about…There is a drawing of a box, here, Colonel. Its dimensions are indicated—seven by six by fourteen inches. Shall I continue reading the letter?”

No, stand on your head and whistle “Dixie,” dickhead.

“Please,” I said.

“The rest reads: ‘We have notified you already in what kind of bills. We warn you not to set any trap in any way. If you or someone else will notify the police there will be a further delay. After we have the money in hand, we will tell you where to find your boy. You may have a airplane ready—it is about one hundred fifty miles away. But before telling you the address, a delay of eight hours will be between.’”

“Is that it?” Despite hitting the ransom figure right, this guy seemed an obvious fraud, looking to pick up a fast dollar. Seventy thousand fast dollars.

“Well, as I told you, it’s signed with what I believe is the mark of the Sicilian Mafia. There are two circles intersecting…”

“Circles?” Now I perked up a lot. Breckinridge saw that, and leaned forward. “Intersecting?”

“I would call them secant circles, if I might be permitted…”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re permitted. Keep describing.”

“There are three dots or holes across the horizontal diameter of the intersecting circles. The circles are tinted—one red, one blue.”

Shit.

“Is this letter important, Colonel? I hope I have not wasted your valuable time, sir.”

“It’s very important, Professor,” I said. “Where are you? We’ll come for you, right away.”

“I’m in the Bronx. But suppose I come to you, Colonel. You have anguish enough and are needed at home. I’ll come to you—to Hopewell.”

“When, Professor?”

“At once,” he said, melodramatically, and hung up.

I stared at the phone a moment.

Then I looked at Breckinridge, whose eyes were wide.

“Better get Slim out of bed,” I said.

An hour and forty-five minutes later, I was standing with my hands in my topcoat pockets, leaning against the whitewashed stone wall, near the locked gate where Featherbed Lane turned into the Lindberghs’ private drive. I was hiding from the wind, waiting for Condon to show. A trooper stood in front of the nearby weathered contractor’s shack with a rifle cradled in his arms; he looked like a prison guard. There were no reporters this time of night.

I heard footsteps crunching the cold ground behind me and my hand drifted toward the nine millimeter, which I’d taken to wearing under one shoulder, lately; but when I turned, I saw Breckinridge approaching in a topcoat, but bareheaded.

He stood with his hands tucked in his pockets and said, “I woke up the chancellor of Fordham University and he confirmed Condon’s credentials. Seventy-two years old, retired grade-school teacher. Teaches part-time, physical fitness buff, coached football, still gives swimming lessons.”

“At seventy-two?”

Breckinridge raised an eyebrow. “He’s apparently quite a character. A real self-styled patriot—featured at public events singing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ bringing himself to tears each time.”

“I may cry, myself.”

The night was crying already, moaning like a sick trapped beast. I pressed against the wall, turned up my topcoat collar to shield my face; even a guy from Chicago could die in this icy wind.

“I also rang up the editor and publisher of the Bronx
Home News,
” Breckinridge said.

“Colonel, you’re turning into a better cop than Schwarzkopf.”

He paused, wondering if that was much of a compliment. Then he said, “The editor, a Mr. O’Flaherty, said he was an ‘old dear friend’ of Condon’s, and that the good doctor had contributed poetry, essays and letters to the
News
over the years, on current topics of many a stripe…signing them P. A. Triot and J. U. Stice, among other quaint noms de plume.”

I snorted a laugh. “He sounds like a crank and a busybody to me. Why the hell would the kidnappers pick a goof like this? All kinds of big-shot public figures have offered their services as go-between.”

“I can’t begin to answer that. Nor could editor O’Flaherty—who said the circulation of the
News
was less than one hundred thousand.”

Headlights cut through the darkness and up Featherbed Lane. As the car drew to a stop, an elderly, walrus-mustached fellow climbed quickly out, nimble for a man his age and size, at six feet something and maybe two hundred-some pounds. No topcoat in sight, he wore a neat, dark, out-of-fashion three-piece suit with a golden watch fob and speckled tie, and a bowler hat, which he was even now removing politely; he looked like somebody who’d gone to a party in 1912 and arrived a few decades late.

“Would this be the Lindbergh home?” he said. It was the voice I’d heard on the phone two hours before.

Through the barred gate, Breckinridge said, “It would. Are you Dr. Condon?”

The old man bowed, making a sweep with the bowler. “I am Dr. John F. Condon.”

Two other men were in the car. I unbuttoned my topcoat; I had a clear path to the nine millimeter.

“You have a letter for the Colonel?” Breckinridge asked.

“I do, sir. I prefer to deliver it to him, personally.”

From just behind Breckinridge, I called out, “Who’s that with you?”

Condon squinted; he had apple cheeks and stupid eyes. “Colonel Lindbergh?”

“No,” I said. “I’m a cop, and I’m armed. Who’s in the goddamn car?”

Condon lifted his chin and his eyes and nostrils flared. “Language of that sort is unnecessary, sir.”

“Who’s in the goddamn car?”

“Heller,” Breckinridge whispered harshly. “Please!”

Condon stepped gingerly forward, hat in his hands. “I was accompanied by two friends, one of whom was generous enough to drive me here. When I called I was in Max Rosenhain’s restaurant, and Max came along with me; our mutual friend, Milton Gaglio, a clothier, was also present. He drove.”

“Tell ’em to get out of there and put their hands up,” I said.

“Really,” Condon said stiffly, head high, “this is most undignified.”

“It gets worse if your friends don’t get out of the car.”

They got out of the car; a small dark man, about thirty, and a stockier guy in his late fifties. Both wore topcoats and hats.