Stolen Away

by Collins, Max Allan

  “‘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.

  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?”