Stolen Away (12 page)

The smaller, younger one said, “I’m Milton Gaglio. Sorry it took us so long to get here. We got lost. Had to stop at the Baltimore Lunchroom to get directions.”

That was at the Hopewell crossroads.

“I’m Max Rosenhain,” the older man said, with a nervous smile. “We’re kind of a committee—a wop, a Jew and a harp.”

Nobody laughed.

“Put your hands up, gentlemen,” I said.

They looked at each other, more surprised than anything; only Condon seemed offended.

“I can understand your concern for security…” he began.

“Then shut up,” I said, “and do as you’re told.”

Breckinridge, who seemed slightly taken aback by my police tactics, unlocked and swung open the gate, and I went out and frisked the three men. Condon’s two pals took it stoically, but the professor made little huffing and puffing sounds.

“Let’s see the note, Professor,” I said.

“I prefer to show it to Colonel Lindbergh.”

“Just show me the signature.”

He breathed heavily through his nose, thought my request over, then dug a white envelope out of his suitcoat pocket, removed from it a second, smaller envelope and held the note up. The familiar blue and red circles and punched holes were there, all right.

“Stand away,” I told him, and then nodded to the other two, to communicate the same thing. I looked inside the car, a black Chevy; poked at and looked under the seats, checked the glove compartment. I asked Gaglio to open the trunk and he did; it was empty but for a spare tire and a jack.

“Okay, boys,” I said, gesturing grandly. “Get back in your buggy.”

Condon nodded stiffly and with silly precision returned the letters to their envelopes and walked with exaggerated dignity to the black Chevy. The other two moved quickly, like the soles of their feet were hot.

I called over the trooper from the contractor’s shack and had him and his rifle climb aboard the running board, to accompany them to the house.

Then I said to Gaglio, who was behind the wheel, “Drive around back. Park near the garage. And wait for us.”

The car pulled away and eased up the dirt lane as Breckinridge swung the gate shut and locked it again. The red eyes of their taillights moved slowly toward the mostly dark house, a few rectangles of yellow light glowing on the first floor; the trooper rode along the side of the car like a stunt pilot riding the wing of a plane.

“You were a little rough on them, weren’t you?” Breckinridge asked.

“That professor is either a con man or a jackass,” I said. “And I got no patience with either.”

Breckinridge had no reply to that; we walked up to the house, nodding as we passed to two troopers who stood forlornly near a dwindling bonfire.

The trooper who’d ridden the running board had the three men grouped at the door that led through the servants’ sitting room. Breckinridge sent the trooper back to his post, and opened the door for his guests. We gathered in the kitchen, where only one small light over the stove burned. The little terrier, Wahgoosh, came scrambling in from the living room.

“Breckinridge is my name,” the Colonel said, talking over the dog’s incessant barking. “This is Detective Heller of the Chicago Police.”

“Chicago?” Gaglio said. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s none of your business,” I said affably, kicking the dog. “But I’m making why you boys are here, mine.”

“You’re a crude, rude young man, Detective Heller,” Condon said.

“When visitors drop by at two in the morning, I am.”

Breckinridge said, “Colonel Lindbergh is waiting to see you, if you’re ready.”

“I’m always ready,” Condon said, with a smile.

We walked through the living room, while Wahgoosh trailed along, going completely fucking berserk; if anyone was still sleeping in this house before, they weren’t now.

Breckinridge sat Gaglio and Rosenhain down on the sofa, where the dog snarled at them and they sat looking at it with wide frightened eyes, hands in their laps like wallflowers at a cotillion.

Lindbergh was not behind his desk; he was pacing in his study looking even more haggard than usual. He had not brushed his hair and his baby face was darkly unshaven; he wore brown slacks and a brown leather flight jacket thrown over an undershirt.

“Good evening, Colonel Lindbergh,” Condon said, stepping forward grandly, offering his hand as if bestowing a medal. “I would recognize you anywhere, sir.”

That put Condon in the select company of everybody in the United States over the age of three.

“Allow me to say that all patriotic Americans are grateful to you, sir, for your pluck and daring…and our hearts go out to you in this your time of need.”

Lindbergh twitched a smile and said, “Dr. Condon, I’d like to see these notes you received.”

“Certainly, sir. It is my great pleasure.”

It’s always a pleasure to hand ransom notes over to a tortured parent.

Lindbergh studied the notes and then spread them out on the desk. “Nate,” he said. “Henry?”

We gathered around and looked at them. Their content reflected what I’d heard on the phone, but the spelling and form and signature were those of the notes previously received.

“They’re authentic,” Lindbergh said.

We didn’t disagree.

Then he smiled, sincerely, at Condon and said, “Doctor it was kind of you to come out here. I hope we haven’t caused you too much trouble.”

Condon gave me a sharp sideways glance, but then beamed at Lindbergh. “It is no trouble whatsoever, Colonel. I want you to know, now, that my only purpose is to serve you. I am completely at your disposal.”

Lindbergh glanced at me; I rolled my eyes.

“Tell me something about yourself, Doctor,” Lindbergh said.

“I am professor of education at Fordham, and principal of Public School Number Twelve in the Bronx.”

“Been teaching long?”

“Fifty years,” he said proudly. “And in that time I’ve lost only nineteen hours.”

Oh, brother.

“That’s an excellent record. And your birthplace?”

He stiffened, as if trying to grow. “The most beautiful borough in the world—the Bronx! I’ve lived there my entire life.”

I sat down. I wondered if they’d divided up my three bucks out in the garage, or if there was any chance Dixon saved it for me.

“Family?” Lindbergh asked him.

“A wife and three splendid children.”

Lindbergh looked at me. I shook my head. He looked at Breckinridge, who shrugged.

“Professor,” Lindbergh said, “we would be delighted if you would assist us in turning the ransom requested over to the kidnappers, to obtain the return of my son.”

Oh, Christ!

“I’d be honored, sir—but I am a stranger to you. I would much prefer that you verify my standing.”

“We will,” I said.

“You’ll stay tonight?” Lindbergh asked. “It’s late, and I’d like to talk to you tomorrow, at length.”

“Certainly. I’ll be delighted to, if it can be arranged for me to return to Fordham by four in the afternoon. I have a lecture.”

“You’ll be there by four.”

“I have two good friends waiting in the living room, Colonel…”

“I’m afraid we don’t have accommodations for them. I’m sorry.”

“Before they go, they’d appreciate meeting you.”

“Fine,” Lindbergh said, and we all walked out into the living room, where Lindbergh politely shook hands all around, to the accompaniment of Wahgoosh’s yapping. Lindbergh offered his thanks, and Gaglio and Rosenhain assured us all they would say nothing to anyone about the events of the night. On their way out, I told them pointedly that that would be a very good idea.

Lindy, Condon and Breckinridge were chatting quietly in the living room when suddenly a woman in a pink silk robe floated in like an apparition.

Anne Lindbergh, her face pale as chalk, eyes large and luminous, said, “Is there news?”

Lindbergh went to her, took her gently by the arm and walked her over to Dr. Condon. He explained that the professor had received a note from the kidnappers in reply to a letter he’d written a newspaper, offering to serve as intermediary.

“Dr. Condon,” Lindbergh said, “is going to deliver the ransom, so we can get Charlie back.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, studying him with moist eyes. “You seem very kind.”

“My dear,” he said, sidling up to her, “you must not cry—if one of those tears drops, I shall go off the case immediately.”

She smiled—at the absurdity of it, I think—and the professor took that as an invitation to slide his arm around her shoulder.

“Child,” he said, “I shall do everything in my power to return your boy to you.” He raised the forefinger of his free hand like a politician making a point. “You’re talking to a man who once won a twenty-dollar prize for submitting to the Bronx
Home News
the following New Year’s resolution: ‘That I shall, to the best of my ability, and at all times, help anyone in distress.’”

“Uh, really,” Anne said.

“I swear it is true,” he said gravely.

Lindbergh delicately moved Anne out of Condon’s grasp, and the professor said jovially, “Look at the Colonel, here! I believe he’s jealous of an old fellow like me!”

Anne laughed nervously. “Good night, Doctor,” she said. “Good night, Henry. Nate.”

Lindbergh walked her to the stairs.

When he came back, he said, “Thank you, Professor—my wife hasn’t laughed since the night they took Charlie.”

Condon bowed again; he was just in front of me, and you don’t know the restraint it took, not kicking him in the ass.

“I’m afraid I can’t even offer you a comfortable bed,” Lindbergh said. “Every bedroom in the house is taken.”

“I quite understand.”

“If you can manage camp style…?”

“Perfectly.”

“Henry,” Lindbergh said, “take the doctor up to the nursery, if you would. That cot Nate was using is still up there.”

Breckinridge nodded and ushered the professor upstairs.

“Nate,” Lindbergh said, quietly, taking me by the arm, “do you mind staying over?”

“No. Technically, it’s been morning for several hours now.”

“If I round up some blankets for you, will you sleep in the nursery?”

“Keep an eye on that pompous old goat, you mean?”

“Something like that. I think he’s sincere.”

“He’s also a pain in the ass.”

“Most people are. Would you share quarters with him, just for tonight?”

“Sure.”

When I entered the dark nursery, some light from the hall fell in and revealed Condon on the floor on his knees in his long johns with his hands wrapped around the rungs of the crib. His voice boomed through the room.

“Oh great Jehovah, by Thy grace and that it may redound to Thy credit and that of Thy immortal Son, I swear that I shall dedicate my best efforts and, if necessary, the remaining days of my life, to helping these unfortunate parents.”

He knew I was standing there, as he continued.

“Let me do this one great thing as the crowning act of my life. Let me successfully accomplish my mission to the credit of Thy Holy Name and that of Thy Divine Son. Amen!”

He stood. He turned to me. “Detective Heller. I did not see you there.”

“Right.” I had an armful of blankets and a pillow. I tossed them in the middle of the room. “Make yourself a pallet, gramps. The cot is mine.”

He did that, and was asleep before me; even his snoring seemed pompous.

When I woke up in the morning, he was dressed and at the toy chest by the window, going through it.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I snapped.

It frightened the old coot; he jumped, turned around and said, pointedly, “I find your language most offensive and if you don’t refrain from such talk, we might have to resort to fisticuffs.”

I went over and looked him right in his watery blue eyes. “I said, what the fuck are you doing?”

He had a wood-carved elephant in one hand. “I’m looking for a toy or some other item that the child might be able to identify as his.”

There was a knock at the door behind us and we both turned; Lindbergh peeked in.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “It’s eight o’clock. We’d like you to join us for breakfast.”

“I’d be honored,” Condon said, clutching the toy elephant.

Lindbergh, as before, stayed in the doorway of the nursery; he looked casual and neat at once, wearing a pair of old gray trousers and the leather flying jacket over a darker gray shirt with a tie.

I was standing there in my underwear. “He wants to borrow that toy elephant. For identification purposes.”

Lindbergh seemed confused by that.

Condon held up the wooden elephant. “When I’ve succeeded in establishing personal contact with the kidnappers, I shall ask to be taken where the baby is being kept. I shall show the baby this toy, and watch for his reaction.”

“He can’t say ‘elephant,’” Lindbergh said, quietly. “He says ‘el-e-pent.’”

“Splendid! I’ll ask the child to name this toy, and will know what response to expect! In that way, it will be impossible for them to confront me with the wrong child and deceive me.”

I was getting my clothes on while this brilliant dissertation was delivered. As far as I was concerned, you could deceive this clown with a dime-store doll.

“Take it with you, by all means,” Lindbergh said.

“I’ve already taken the liberty of removing two other items,” Condon said. “I’d like your permission to keep them—two safety pins that secured the blankets under which your son slept, to the mattress.”

“I don’t see why you’d want…”

“It’s simple,” Condon said, with a self-satisfied smile. “And, I believe, entirely logical. I am taking the pins so that when I meet the man who wrote to me, I can show them to him and ask him where he saw them. If he can tell me exactly where they were fastened on the night of the kidnapping, then we’ll know we are dealing with the person who actually entered this nursery and took your son.”

“I could use some coffee,” I said.

“Let’s go down, then,” Lindbergh said, and led the way.

Darkly attractive Betty Gow helped horsey Elsie Whately serve us breakfast—orange juice, bacon, eggs, toast and coffee—which we took informally, at the kitchen table. Condon babbled about the Bronx and spouted homilies, showing off for Anne Lindbergh and her mother, who were breakfasting with us, as well.