Vanished (21 page)

“Good night, Mrs. Patterson,” he said softly, brushing her lips with his own before they left the room and were under the scrutiny of the policemen still assigned to her home night and day. “Good night, Marielle …” he whispered. She smiled as she walked him to the front door, and a few minutes later, she walked quietly upstairs to her own room. It was the first time in a month she had smiled, it was so wonderful to feel loved and wanted again, even if only for a moment.

Bill Palmer, the U.S. Attorney, became a frequent
visitor to their home, while he was preparing his case, and for long periods of time he would stay closeted with Malcolm. He spoke to various members of the staff, and he had had several conversations with the no longer employed Edith and Patrick. And finally, in early March, he spoke to Marielle again, this time alone, with neither John Taylor, nor her husband.

“I want you to be sure, Mrs. Patterson, before you take the stand, that you're perfectly clear on what you believe happened. Do you understand me?” She was sure she did, and he was one of those people who spoke in a deliberate voice, and there was absolutely nothing endearing about him. His hair was slicked down, and his face was pale. He was probably John Taylor's age, a man in his very early forties. He was given to pin-striped suits and dark ties, he wore horn-rimmed glasses, and it was obvious that he was extremely impressed with Malcolm.

“I understand,” she said quietly. But there was still very little to tell. She had heard a noise late that night, and at midnight she had gone upstairs to check on Teddy, just to kiss him, she explained for the hundredth time, but the attorney looked untouched by her recital. He was only interested in convicting Delauney. He hated men like him, a socialist lurking in the robes of a rich man, as he viewed it. A spoiled playboy who thought he could do anything he wanted. “I found Betty, and Miss Griffin, bound and gagged. Miss Griffin had a pillowcase over her head as well, and she'd been chloroformed. And Teddy was gone …that's all there was really … he had vanished.” And there had been nothing since then, except the false alarm over the ransom left in Grand Central Station. It had never been picked up and they'd never called again, which convinced the police and the FBI that the call had been made by cranks in the first place.

“And the pajama suit found at Delauney's home, was that your son's?” She felt as though she were already on the stand as he paced the room and watched her.

“I believe so,” she said softly.

“You're not sure.” He stopped pacing and stared, as though in fury.

“I'm sure, but …”

“But what, Mrs. Patterson?” Malcolm had warned him that she was never sure, never certain, never brave enough to stand up for herself or have her own convictions.

“I don't know how it got there.” Malcolm had said, unfairly, that you couldn't really trust her emotions.

“Delauney left it there of course. How else would it get to his house, along with the boy's teddy bear? Do you not believe Charles Delauney kidnapped your son?” There was a long pause as she pondered it again. She had asked herself the same question a thousand times in the past two and a half months, and she thought he had, the evidence was there, yet sometimes she was unsure, when she let herself think of Charles as a person. And everyone said he still maintained that he hadn't. But the evidence …the evidence …the pajamas …the bear …

“Yes, I think so.” She looked pained as she said it.

“But you're not sure?” He bit off each word as though it hurt him. “Is there anyone else you think might have kidnapped your son?” She shook her head. She felt as though she were shrinking while she listened. “I don't know. I don't think anyone knows, or we would have found him.”

William Palmer looked shocked. “Don't you want justice, Mrs. Patterson? Don't you want to see the man who took your son punished? That's what your husband wants, isn't that what you want?” He made it sound un-American of her not to want to see Charles executed. But in truth that was not what she wanted.

“All I want is for my son to come home.”

“Do you accept the possibility that he may have killed him?” She closed her eyes as she nodded, and then opened them again, wondering how she was going to survive the trial. The past two and a half months had been a nightmare. The newspapers were hounding them night and day, and almost every day there were photographs of them, or Teddy, or Charles, on the front pages. She couldn't even listen to the radio anymore without hearing tales about herself, or Charles, or Malcolm, most of them untrue, and many of them filled with imaginary scandal. She was supposedly seen dancing everywhere, Malcolm was divorcing her, Charles had escaped, Teddy had been seen. It was endless and totally untrue, and perfectly awful. And William Palmer was part of the nightmare. “You understand that this man may have killed your son, yet you're not certain that you believe he is guilty. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” she finally spat at him, “yes, that's correct…. No …” She changed her mind again, “I think he did it.” Palmer looked deeply annoyed as she turned and stood up and walked across the room, struggling with her own feelings. “I am not entirely sure that Charles Delauney kidnapped, and possibly even killed, my son. But I believe it is possible because of the pajamas and the teddy bear.”

He smiled a small wintry smile at her. “That's my job, isn't it? Why don't you have a little faith in me, Mrs. Patterson, and let yourself be convinced. Your husband believes Mr. Delauney is guilty, you know.” He was trying to soothe her. But she already knew what Malcolm thought, and why. He also thought it was all her fault, and that wasn't true either.

“He doesn't know him as well as I do.”

“I suppose not. But Mr. Delauney beat you when you were pregnant, didn't he?”

She didn't answer for a long moment, as she stared out at the garden, wishing that she would see her son there. “More or less. I'm not sure I'd call it that. He hit me …but he was beside himself with grief….”

“And didn't he kill your unborn child as a result?”

“I don't know. But he's not going on trial for murdering my baby.”

“No, but perhaps for murdering your son. And if he could do it once, perhaps he could do it again.”

“That's ridiculous. The two cases are entirely different.”

“Are you defending him, Mrs. Patterson? Will you defend him at the trial?” That was what he wanted to know. He wanted to know just where she stood before she hurt his case, and he was already more than a little worried.

“That's not my job, Mr. Palmer. I'm not here to defend anyone. All I care about is my son.”

“And all I care about is justice.”

“Then justice will be served.” She looked at him long and hard, and he was serious and unhappy when he left her. Patterson was right, she was unpredictable and unreliable, emotional, and he was beginning to wonder if the chauffeur was right after all. Maybe she still was in love with Charles Delauney. Maybe they'd been having an affair. Maybe there was more to this than met the eye. But his investigators had turned up absolutely nothing unsavory about her. The worst thing anyone could say about her was that she spent too much money on clothes, but Patterson didn't seem to mind that.

When Palmer left that afternoon, John Taylor had arrived only moments later. Visiting her had become part of his daily routine now. He enjoyed talking to her, or sometimes they just sat quietly over a cup of coffee. He liked just being there, somewhere near her. Sometimes he'd spend hours at the house pretending to keep an eye on his men, just so he could be around when she came downstairs. It was like being a kid again, but they'd smile at each other, or steal a look, or she'd bring him a sandwich, and he'd put a hand out quickly and touch her. He loved the smell of her, and the softness of her skin, and if he was very lucky, and no one was around, he might even have the chance to kiss her. He was dying to go outside with her, to go for long walks in the spring, or just go to the movies with her and eat popcorn. But they couldn't go anywhere. The moment she opened her front door, she was like fresh meat in a pool of sharks. They had to stay inside, and hide, and talk. And it always intrigued him how seldom he saw Malcolm when he was at the house. The man was never there, but that suited John Taylor to perfection.

“How's it going?” he whispered as he took off his coat. He had seen Bill Palmer leave in a cab when he got there. “Palmer treating you okay?”

“I think he's disappointed I don't want to see Charles electrocuted. Or at least I'm not enthusiastic enough about it.”

“I worry about that too,” John said to her, touching her arm as they walked to the library. “What can I say to convince you?”

“Show me evidence …show me my child …”

“I wish I could. But are you really convinced he's innocent?”

“No,” she admitted to him. “The trouble is I'm not a thousand percent convinced he's guilty either. I think he did it, but I'm not totally sure.” She agonized about it sometimes, glad she couldn't be on the jury.

“Once we found the pajamas, it was open and shut, and you know it.” But he also knew she didn't want to believe the child was dead, and not finding him suggested that, as they all knew. Maybe denying Charles's guilt meant believing Teddy was still alive. Maybe she couldn't afford to believe the truth. And sometimes John wondered if they'd ever find him. He had hated finding the Lindbergh child, hated telling them, hated what it must have done to them. Having children of his own, it didn't even bear thinking. And now maybe Marielle would have to face that too. All he could hope for her was that it had been quick and painless.

“The trial's going to be awful, isn't it, John?” she asked him over the coffee that Haverford had brought them. Even the old butler had grown fond of him. He was nice to Marielle, and it was comforting having him around. It made everyone feel safe to have him at the house. And only a couple of cops suspected that his interest in Marielle was something other than business. But they were smart enough to keep their mouths shut. So far, their secret was safe, but their feelings for each other seemed to be growing. They were still trying to live from day to day, concentrating on Teddy and the trial, but they each knew that the time would come when they'd have to face each other and their future. But for the moment, neither of them had to make any decisions. Instead, they continued to focus their attention on the trial which lay before them.

“I think it'll be rough, to be honest with you. I think they're going to drag out a lot of history that could be very painful,” John told her quietly, over his coffee.

“I can hardly wait.” She knew what he meant, and she also knew that Malcolm had treated her like a criminal ever since they had arrested Charles Delauney. It was as though he believed she had been in league with him, or that somehow she had provoked him into kidnapping Teddy. There was no getting close to him again, no reaching out to him, he had cast her adrift in a sea of loneliness and terror.

“Have you heard from Bea Ritter again, by the way?” She was the spirited young redheaded girl who had championed Charles's cause, and she was driving them all insane. She had mounted a campaign in the press to defend him. She called John Taylor every few days, his defense attorney, the investigators, the U.S. Attorney, and she knew Bea had called her several times, but she no longer took the calls. She had nothing more to say to her, and talking to her always made Marielle nervous.

“I think she called yesterday.” And then, suddenly, she looked at John in amusement. “Is she in love with him?” She was actually a very pretty girl, and she was about Marietta's age, but she had enough energy and fight for ten men and John found her exhausting.

“I wondered that myself, to tell you the truth. But you know, there are a lot of crazy broads who go nuts over guys like him, guys accused of some really ugly crime, and they become obsessed with the accused's innocence. She might be one of those, or maybe just another nosy reporter.”

“She certainly seems to care about him. Whenever I've talked to her, she seems so determined to convince me.”

“I know.” John shook his head, finishing his coffee. “He could do a lot worse. He needs all the help he can get, and a little positive press won't hurt him. I just hope it doesn't hurt us, Marielle.” He looked at her soberly as he stood up. “Be careful you don't unwittingly cooperate with the defense. No matter what you believe or don't believe, you don't want to help them.” She wanted to ask him why not, but she already knew the answer. What they wanted was the truth, about what had happened to Teddy. A little while later, he left, and she was alone again. She went back upstairs to Teddy's room, to touch his things, and fold some of his clothes again, and arrange his teddy bears differently. She could never stay out of his room. But poor Malcolm could no longer even bear to go up there.

It was the following day when Thomas Armour, the attorney for the defense, arrived, shortly after noon. He had called and asked to see her earlier that morning. She had called John and asked him if it was something she wasn't supposed to do, and he told her honestly that he thought it unwise, but it was not illegal. But she was curious about the man, and she wanted a little warning of what she would be facing.