I’d read of many of his cases; he was written up in magazines and in the papers, and there were books about him. How at Fort Dix he discovered who murdered a soldier by investigating the fellow soldier (one of a hundred-plus uniformed suspects) who had the best, most complete alibi; how he discovered that a soaking-wet corpse had been treated at a tannery to fool the medical examiner about time of death; how he tracked a homicidal mulatto with a sweet tooth by alerting every restaurant in his own and neighboring counties to be on the lookout for “a pudding-loving colored boy.”
“I suppose it was natural he’d show up around here,” I said. “This case could use a mind like his.”
“Twenty to one Schwarzkopf won’t agree with you,” Dixon said, sourly. He shook his head, admiringly. “I’ve had an application in over at Burlington County for over two years, now. There’s a hell of a waiting list, though.”
“You ever meet the old boy?”
“Sure! Burlington is the adjacent county.”
“Really. Why don’t you introduce me, then, Willis?”
A few moments later we’d ambled over to Parker, who nodded at Willis.
“Constable Dixon,” Parker said. He seemed to force a smile as he offered a hand, which Willis shook. “How the hell are you, son?” His voice was as rough-hewn as his appearance; his face was stubbled with white, his eyes were sleepy and blue and anything but piercing; his tie was food-stained and floated several inches below the notch of his collar. Sherlock Holmes posing as his own dim-witted Watson.
“Fine, Chief Parker. This is Nate Heller.”
Something in the eyes came to life. “The Chicago feller. The Capone theorist.”
I grinned and shook the hand he thrust forward. “Well, nobody ever accused me of being any kind of theorist before, Chief. Where did you hear my name?”
He sidled up close to me; he smelled like pipe tobacco—foul pipe tobacco. He slipped a fatherly arm around my shoulder. “I have my confidants in that horse’s ass Schwarzkopf’s camp.”
“Do tell.”
“I hear you’re the boy who has stood up to that asshole of creation, Welch.”
“Well, that’s true.”
“I hear you suggested that he kiss your behind.”
“Words to that effect.”
He laughed heartily—he apparently liked subtle humor—and patted me on the back. “Allow me to introduce my deputies.”
He did. I don’t remember their names.
“Maybe one of these days Constable Dixon here will come work for me,” Parker said, finally relinquishing my shoulder.
Dixon lit up like an electric bulb. “I’d like that, sir.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have any pull with the Colonel, would you, son?”
“Schwarzkopf?” Dixon asked.
“Hell’s bells, no! Not that asshole. Lindbergh! We’ve been cooling our heels for two hours, waiting to see Lindy. Schwarzkopf’s giving me the goddamn runaround.”
I raised a hand. “Let me see what I can do.”
Parker’s lumpy face broke apart in a smile. “That’s goddamn white of you, son.”
I went inside, through the servants’ sitting room and then the kitchen, where I saw Betty Gow and Elsie and Ollie Whately in passing, as well as Welch and several of Schwarzkopf’s upper echelon lounging having coffee and sandwiches. The living room was empty, but for the little dog Wahgoosh, who barked at me as usual, and I growled back at him. Rosner wasn’t around, either, his chair outside the study empty but for yesterday’s folded-up racing form.
I knocked on the study door. “It’s Heller, Slim.”
“Come in, Nate,” Lindbergh said, and I did.
“I hear you stayed over in Princeton last night,” he said, looking up from some mail he’d been reading, material the troopers had culled from the hundreds of letters that had come in today.
“Yeah, I was able to, uh, get into that room a day early.”
He nodded noncommittally, only half-listening. “Henry went into the city, to his office, early this morning. He said he felt these spiritualist people were probably charlatans.”
“Yeah, probably,” I said, and sat down. “Where’s Rosner?”
“Pursuing some underworld leads in New York City, today.”
Cops and robbers, with the robber playing cop.
“Slim—there’s somebody outside you ought to give a few minutes to.”
“Who would that be?”
“Ellis Parker.”
Lindbergh nodded, blankly. I might have said Santa Claus or Joe Blow.
“Surely you’ve heard of him,” I said.
“Yes. He’s very well known.” He paused. He sighed. “If you think I should see him, I will.”
“Okay. Slim—are you holding up okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You getting any sleep? You took like hell.”
He smiled thinly. “It’s nice to have somebody around who isn’t afraid to tell me the truth. Yes, I am getting some sleep. Some.”
“Okay. I’m not your nursemaid or anything. But if you’re going to be the guy making the key decisions, you got to be on top of things.”
“I know.”
“Good. I’ll bring Parker around.”
Minutes later, I was ushering Parker in, and Lindbergh rose and the men exchanged greetings and admiration. Then everybody settled into their chairs, Parker leaning forward.
He had the foul-smelling corncob pipe going, held in one hand.
“Colonel Lindbergh, I’ve been a detective for over forty years. I’ve investigated twenty thousand cases, including over three hundred homicides. All but twelve of those homicide cases wound up in convictions.”
Lindbergh’s face was impassive; but his eyes tensed, just barely, at the mention of the word “homicide.”
Parker inserted the pipe in his tight mouth; he looked a little like Popeye the Sailor. “I’ve offered my services to Colonel Schwarzkopf, but have been rudely rebuffed—and as you may know I’m on the outs with Governor Moore. So coming aboard in an official capacity hasn’t been open to me. But I couldn’t sit idly by, just one county away, and not offer you my services. I’d like to be of help to you, sir.”
Lindbergh smiled politely. “That’s kind of you, Chief Parker. But I have to say I’m satisfied with the way Colonel Schwarzkopf is handling the matter.”
Parker grimaced. “No offense meant to you, Colonel, but that jackass has done every damn thing wrong, in this case, from A to Z. His failure to make a thorough search of the entire community within a wide radius of your estate is frankly, sir, shameful, inexcusable.”
Lindbergh said nothing.
“Ideally, I would like to head up the team of detectives in charge of the case—a mixture of my own boys and state troopers. But I’m available strictly as a consultant, if that’s your pleasure.”
Lindbergh said nothing. His eyes were like stones.
Parker shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Then Lindbergh spoke. His voice was as expressionless and unemotional as a telephone operator’s. “I have great respect for your achievements, Chief Parker. But I’ve already read and heard some of your opinions about this case, in the papers and on the radio. And I will have no truck with cheap shots, second-guessing and theorizing.”
“Colonel Lindbergh, my only concern is to offer my help in your time of…”
Lindbergh raised a hand in a stop motion. “I won’t have police officers from every which where tripping over themselves, seeking their own glory at the possible expense of my son’s life. Colonel Schwarzkopf and I have the situation in hand. Good day to you, sir.”
“Colonel Lindbergh…”
“Thank you for coming.”
Parker rose; his neck was red with anger, but he merely nodded to Lindbergh and went out.
I stayed behind.
“That guy is one of the most brilliant detectives alive,” I said. “And your boy Schwarzkopf is a goddamn department-store floorwalker!”<
br />
“Nate,” Lindbergh said tersely, his hands flat on his desk, “Ellis Parker is accustomed to getting the lion’s share of the limelight—he’s done remarkable work in the past, but he’s dazzled by his own publicity.”
“I’m sure he is jealous of Schwarzkopf,” I said with a shrug. “But a guy like that, who is a great detective by anybody’s yardstick, ought to be turned loose on a major crime like this—particularly when it’s in his own backyard, for Christ’s sake. It only makes sense!”
“No,” Lindbergh said.
I looked at him.
“Okay,” I said.
I went out. Lindy wanted to hear the truth from me, it seemed, but didn’t necessarily want to pay it any heed.
I caught up with Parker outside, just as he was about to climb into a Burlington County police car.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,” I said. “I’d like to have had you involved.”
“Who says I’m not going to be?” he said, one foot on the running board. And he winked at me.
The dust of Parker’s Ford on the dirt lane hadn’t settled when Breckinridge’s familiar Dusenberg pulled in. The lawyer looked grayer than usual as he climbed down from his fancy car and came straight over to me. He took me by the arm, took me aside.
“Heller,” he said. “What did you do last night?”
“It wouldn’t be gentlemanly to say.”
“You spent the night with that medium, didn’t you?”
I shrugged. “Slim said I was the resident spook chaser. Who else are you going to get to lay a ghost?”
He grabbed me by one arm. Almost shook me. The unflappable Breckinridge was definitely flapped. “What did she have to say?”
Actually, she hadn’t said much at all. She’d moaned a good deal and even screamed a couple times. But I wasn’t about to share my memorable evening with Sister Sarah with Breckinridge. I’m just not that kind of guy.
Besides, what would a stuffed shirt like Breckinridge know about a night of wild passion with a woman whose pale flesh glowed in the half-light of a flickering candle, who let me ride her and who rode me, till I was raw and sweating and dead from exhaustion. Sister Sarah could make a ghost out of any man.
But we hadn’t talked. I knew no more about her from spending the night with her than I did after that séance. Including going through her purse and her suitcases and other personal belongings, after she went to sleep.
“Hey, pal,” I said indignantly, “I don’t kiss and tell, okay?”
“She said a letter would come today. To my office.”
“Yeah, so?”
“This came by mail, to my office,” he said grimly, “this morning.”
He took an envelope out of his pocket, hastily opened it and held the letter up for me to see.
Specifically, he showed me the signature: blue and red interlocking circles with three holes.
10
The letter Breckinridge received included a brief note telling the attorney to “handle inclosed letter to Col. Lindbergh.” The letter itself said the following:
Dear Sir: Did you recieve ouer letter from March 4. We sent the mail in one off the letter pox near Burro Hall—Brooklyn. We know Police interfere with your privatmail; how can we come to any arrangements this way. In the future we will send ouer letters to Mr. Breckenbridge at 23 Broadway. We belive Polise captured our letter and dit note forwarded to you. We will note accept any go-between from your seid. We will arrange this latter. There is no worry about the Boy. He is very well and will be feed according to the diet. Best dank for Information about it. We are interested to send your Boy back in gud Health.
Below this, again labeled “singnature,” were the distinctive blue and red circles with a trio of small holes. On the reverse the letter continued:
Is it nessisery to make a world’s affair out off
it, or to get your Boy back as soon as possible.
Why did you ingnore ouer letter which we
left in the room? The baby would be back
long ago. You would note get any result
from Police, becauce this Kidnaping was
planed for a year allredy. But we was afraid,
the boy would not be strong enough.
Ouer ransom was made out for 50.000 $
but now we have to put another lady to it and
propperly have to hold the baby longer as we
expectet so it will be 70.000 $.
20000 in 50 $ bills 25000 in 24 $ bills 15000
in 10 $ bills 10000 in 5 $ bill. We warn you again
not to mark any bills or take them from one serial
No. We will inform you latter how to deliver
the mony, but not befor
the Police is out of this cace and the
pappers are quiet.
Please get a short notice aboud this letter in the
New-York American.
Frank J. Wilson squinted behind his round black-framed glasses as he read the note, and read it again.
We were in Lindbergh’s study, Lindy, Breckinridge, Schwarzkopf, Wilson and myself. Lindbergh had rejected my suggestions to make the New York cops and J. Edgar’s boys aware of this new communique; but he did agree to call in Treasury Agent Wilson.
“I think the letter is encouraging,” Lindbergh said to Wilson, “don’t you?”
“Encouraging?” Wilson asked. He was seated across from Lindbergh. I was seated next to Wilson; Breckinridge and Schwarzkopf were standing on either side of Lindy like mismatched bookends.
“My son is in good health,” Lindbergh said brightly, “and they want to keep him that way. They’re following the diet…”
“You take these people at their word?”
“I have no reason not to,” Lindbergh said. “I’m reluctant to have you involved in this at all, Agent Wilson. They make clear that if I hadn’t called the police in, at the start, I might well have Charlie back in his mother’s arms, this very minute.”
Wilson didn’t bother discussing that. He knew there was no point.
“They apparently think the police intercepted the previous letter,” Schwarzkopf pointed out, needlessly.
Breckinridge nodded. “Maybe we’ve clamped down the lid on the press too tight. If we’d let it be known the second note had been received…”
“You’re trying to second-guess lunatics,” I said. “They warn you not to let anything out to the press, then wonder why you haven’t let ’em know you got their second letter!”
Wilson was still looking at the note. “As before, the easy words are misspelled, and the more difficult words are frequently correctly spelled.”
“It’s obviously a genuine communication from the kidnappers,” Lindbergh said.
“The unique signature symbol is present,” Wilson agreed. “It makes reference to the letter left in the nursery, as well.”
Breckinridge came around the desk and pointed to a specific line as Wilson studied the letter.
“That sentence bothers me,” Breckinridge said. “‘We will not accept any go-between from your side.’”
“It’s straightforward enough,” I offered. “It’s a rejection of Rosner and his cronies Spitale and Bitz.”
“Perhaps we should publish a message in the press,” the attorney said, “stating that we’re open to following any other methods that the kidnappers might suggest. Anything that will ensure a safe return of the boy.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Lindbergh said.
Wilson seemed to be ignoring all this. He gently returned the letter to the desktop, and removed a small notebook and stubby pencil from his suit coat pocket.
He said, “This psychic who predicted that Colonel Breckinridge would receive a letter today…her name is Sivella?”
“Sister Sarah Sivella,” I said. “Her husband’s name is Martin Marinelli.”
He wrote that down; from my notebook, I gave him the address of the church in Harlem, and he wrote that down, too.
“T
hey knew about the note on the windowsill, as well,” Wilson said.
“Yes,” I said.
“On the other hand,” Wilson continued, “they’ve been hanging out with reporters for days. They may have gathered some information that way.”
“None of the reporters, to our knowledge,” Lindbergh said, “knew that windowsill detail.”
“There’s one other thing,” I said. “One damning little item.”
All eyes were on me.
“Sarah Sivella consistently referred to Colonel Breckinridge as ‘Mr. Breckinbridge,’ at the séance last night. And that is exactly how he is referred to in that letter.”
It was like I’d struck everybody in the room with a board.
Wilson broke the stunned silence: “What else did she say?”
“Some of it was gibberish,” I said, shrugging. We hadn’t mentioned to Lindbergh the prediction that the baby’s body would be found.
Then suddenly, Lindbergh stood. “Thank you for coming by, Agent Wilson.”
Wilson, disconcerted by this quick dismissal, stood and said, “Thank you for sharing this new information with me, Colonel.”
“I want you to stay away from those spiritualists,” Lindbergh told him. It sounded like an order.
“Pardon me?” Wilson asked, hollowly.
“Those spiritualists. If they’re legitimate, and they may well be—extrasensory perception is very real, you know, Agent Wilson—I don’t want them harassed. If they in fact are a part of the kidnap gang, I don’t want my son’s welfare put at risk by police action. These notes make it clear that I’m to keep the police out of this, if I hope to get my boy back alive and well. And Agent Wilson—I intend to do just that.”
Lindbergh nodded curtly, and Wilson knew the meeting was over.
I walked him out to his car. Breckinridge and Schwarzkopf stayed behind with Lindy—which was fine with me. I wanted Wilson’s ear privately.
We stood in the cold and chatted sotto voce, just briefly. I told him about the gangland roadhouse Dixon had shown me and he found that of great interest.
“You know Pat O’Rourke, from Chicago, don’t you, Heller?” Wilson asked.
“Of course,” I said. “Damn good man.”
“He’s working with me in New York, now,” Wilson said. “I’m going to assign him to infiltrate that spiritualist church in Harlem. We’ll find out why these ‘spirits’ know so much about this damn kidnapping.”
Stolen Away Page 12
