Stolen Away

by Collins, Max Allan

  “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.

  After breakfast, Lindbergh hustled Condon into the study; Breckinridge and I followed.

  “I am convinced,” Lindbergh said, taking a seat behind his desk, “that you are in contact with the people who took my son.”

  Condon sat across from Lindbergh, on the edge of his chair; Breckinridge and I stood.

  “Professor, I’ll arrange to place fifty thousand dollars in your bank account,” Lindbergh said, as he wrote something on a slip of paper. “Since the original amount asked for has been raised to seventy thousand, I’ll make every effort to have the additional twenty to you within a day or two.”

  He handed Condon a note. I moved in and read it over his shoulder: “I hereby authorize Dr. John F. Condon to act as go-between for my wife and myself.” It was signed Charles A. Lindbergh.

  “This afternoon,” Lindbergh was saying, “Colonel Breckinridge will insert the notice ‘Money is ready’ in the New York American, per the letter’s instructions.”

  “It would be disastrous if the newspapers got wind you’re in touch with the kidnappers,” Breckinridge told Condon. “We need to find some pseudonym for you to sign the ad with.”

  Condon rubbed his chin; he hadn’t shaved this morning, and it was stubbled with white. “By putting my initials together,” he said thoughtfully, “J.F.C.—I come up with Jafsie.”

  I looked sharply at Breckinridge and he looked at me the same way.

  Sister Sarah Sivella, two days ago, while in the sway of Chief Yellow Feather, had spoken—and even spelled out—that name: Jafsie.

  “Fine,” Lindbergh told Condon. “That’s fine—use that. It’ll hide your identity from everyone except whoever it was who wrote to you…and to me.”

  “Before I return to the Bronx,” Condon said, “do you have pictures of your son I might study, that I might indelibly impress upon my mind his features?”

  “Certainly.”

  I gestured to Breckinridge and he stepped out into the hall.

  “One of us has to stick with the old boy,” I said. “You heard him—that pen name he supposedly just made up…”

  “Jafsie,” Breckinridge said, nodding. “We heard that before, didn’t we?”

  “We sure did. But Lindy’s liable to dismiss it as Sarah Sivella tapping into the spirit world or ESP or some ridiculous damn thing.”

  “True.” Breckinridge was troubled. Then his expression sharpened. “Let me handle this.”

  We went back into the study, where Condon was studying baby photos like a student cramming for an exam.

  Breckinridge touched him on the shoulder and said, warmly, “Professor, I wonder if I might stay as your houseguest, until any negotiations with the kidnappers are concluded? I’d consider it a great favor.”

  “My entire home and everything that is in it,” Condon said grandly, “is at your disposal as long as you wish.”

  “You’re most gracious, Professor,” Breckinridge said, and the men shook hands. “We’ll start today.”

  12

  Mickey Rosner, snazzy in a three-piece black suit with white pinstripes and a flourish of white silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, was holding court. His dark face, average in every way but for his large, flattened nose, was cracked in a smile; the little bastard was beaming like a new father handing out cigars. He was seated at a table for four in a speakeasy in the back of the Cadillac Restaurant on East Forty-First Street in Manhattan. With him were his two cronies, Irving Bitz and Salvatore Spitale, proprietors of the speak, which was suitably dark, smoky and crowded
. Most of the crowd was reporters, which made sense, because the joint was right behind the New York Daily News building.

  Spitale was perhaps forty, dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-complected, with a round face that didn’t match his slender frame, and a suit just as expensive as Rosner’s. His partner Bitz was a smaller, fatter version of Spitale only with a cheaper suit, jug ears and dumb, hooded eyes.

  The three men were conducting an informal press conference; reporters juggling notebooks and beer mugs were tossing the trio of hoods questions, but not too hard: underhand softball pitches.

  “Mickey,” one reporter said, “you interviewed a prisoner at the Tombs last night, for Colonel Lindbergh. What did you learn?”

  “Not at liberty to say, fellas,” Rosner said, and he bit off the end of a fat Havana.

  “What about the rumors you’re holding secret talks with a top underworld figure, who’s currently in prison?”

  Rosner shook his head no, lit up his cigar, waved the match out.

  Another reporter said, “Come on—weren’t Spitale and Bitz in Chicago a few days ago?”

  “Yeah, Salvy,” another said, turning his attention to Spitale. “How ’bout it?”

  “No comment,” Spitale said, and grinned at Rosner and then at Bitz.

  “Mickey,” another newsman said, “how in hell did you end up Lindy’s rep? You’re still facing a grand larceny charge on that stock-kiting scam from last October.”

  Rosner’s smile disappeared and he gestured with the fiery end of the cigar. “I’m a respectable businessman, gents. You know that—I deal in real estate.”

  There were some muffled laughs and some laughs that weren’t so muffled.

  “Mickey,” said a reporter, a disembodied voice out of the swirling smoke, “why are we here? I mean, we appreciate the free suds—but you haven’t given us jack shit.”

  Rosner grinned again. “Maybe you ain’t asked the right questions.”

  There were mutterings and moans, mostly good-natured, from the well-lubricated press contingent.

  Another reporter tried a question—for Spitale, this time. “Hey, Salvy—what’s this about the cops dropping a couple bootlegging beefs against you guys? Did Lindy pull some strings?”

  Spitale laughed. “I won’t dignify that with a response.”

  “Well, tell us about your role in the Lindbergh case, then.”

  He splayed a hand to his chest. “It’s this way, boys—I was asked to use my influence in getting the kid back. If professionals have got a hold of him, they know where to get in touch with me in five minutes, day or night, rain or shine. Right, Irv?”

  Bitz nodded dutifully.

  Then Spitale continued: “But I’m not a cop, see? Get it straight—I’m no cop; I don’t go snooping around.”

  “You almost sound sorry you got involved.”

  He shrugged facially. “I am kinda sorry I got mixed up in this thing, yeah. You guys are printing pictures of my kids and my family, and my policy of keepin’ out of the papers has been knocked for a loop. Can’t you fellas cover something else—like the Shanghai War, or wherever?”

  “Have you found any trace of the baby, Salvy?”

  “Well, to be honest, I have not. In fact, I’m a little discouraged.”

  Rosner cut in. “I have better news to report, fellas.”

  The reporters glanced around at each other, their expressions saying, About damn time.

  “The baby is alive and well,” Rosner said, flicking ash off his cigar onto the floor. “I give you my personal assurance that the baby is about to be returned to his folks.”

  Even Spitale and Bitz seemed surprised by that.

  The reporters began hurling questions at Rosner, hardballs this time, but he held up a hand in a stop gesture; the hand glittered with diamond rings.

  “What I’m saying don’t represent my opinion,” he said, “but what I actually know.”

  “Are you negotiating the return of the baby?”

  “If I was, saying so would put those efforts at risk, right? So let’s cut this off right here, okay? Thank you, fellas.”

  He rose and pushed through the reporters, leaving a confused Spitale and Bitz to field the rest of the questions. Rosner was heading toward the men’s room; nobody bothered following him.

  Except me.

  I’d driven into Manhattan midmorning, to check in with IRS man Frank Wilson and to meet with Breckinridge after work. The plan was to spend the evening with the attorney and the eccentric Dr. Condon at the latter’s Bronx bungalow, waiting to see if the ad that ran today (“Money is ready—Jafsie”) got a response.

  Among a handful of other things I wanted to do while I was in New York City was check out Spitale and Bitz’s speakeasy; I’d stopped in for the free lunch, heard the scuttlebutt about the “press conference” and hung around nursing beers for two hours waiting for Rosner and company to show.

  Now Mickey was standing at the urinal. He and I had the small room to ourselves; I hook-and-eye latched the door, waited for him to finish, and as he turned, buttoning up, he sneered.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Heller?”

  “What do you think, Mickey? Checking up on you.”

  He started to brush past me. “Stay out of my way.”

  I took him by the arm. “You didn’t wash your hands, Mickey. Stick around a second, and wash your hands.”

  He jerked loose of my grasp. “I’ll wash my hands of you, flatfoot.”

  But I was blocking the way. “Tell me, Mickey. What was that bullshit about being sure the kid was safe? That he’d be returned any second now?”

  He straightened his suitcoat, tried to summon some dignity. “Just tossin’ the newshounds a bone.”

  “Are you, or any of your people, negotiating with Capone?”

  “Maybe.”

  I unbuttoned my coat, put my hands on my hips, letting him get a look at the nine millimeter under my shoulder. “That’s not much of an answer, Mickey.”

  “Fuck you. You don’t know who you’re messing with. You can wake up dead, messing with me.”

  I grabbed him by his tailored lapels. “Don’t get tough with me, you greasy little fucker. You’re going to spill, or drown.”

  “Drown?”

  “Guess how.”

  Rosner licked his lips, and said, “I don’t know a goddamn thing, goddamnit! Now, back off, Heller—or I’ll tell Lindy you been shovin’ me around.”

  I let him go, roughly.

  “Why don’t you do that?” I said. “And I’ll tell him why.”

  I let him pass. He never did wash his hands.

  I’d met with Wilson earlier; the T-man had had little to report on his end: no news on Capone’s missing man Bob Conroy; Agent O’Rourke had infiltrated the Marinelli/Sivella spiritualist church, but had nothing yet to report.

  I’d filled the agent in about Condon, and he was furious Lindbergh hadn’t brought him in on it.

  “Maybe you ought to shadow the professor,” I said. “He may be tied in with those spiritualists—unless you think Sister Sarah really did pull the name ‘Jafsie’ out of the spirit world.”

  “The Bronx and Harlem are next-door neighbors,” Wilson said, reflectively. “You don’t need a Ouija board to get from one to the other.”

  “If Lindbergh finds out I tipped you, I’ll be persona non grata. So keep it under your hat.”

  Condon lived in the Bedford Park section of the Bronx, just west of Webster Avenue, in a neat, modest two-story white clapboard on quiet, tree-fined Decatur Avenue. Shrubbery hugged the house and the well-tended lawn was brushed with snow.

  It was a little before six o’clock when I found myself on Condon’s front porch, knocking on a door inset with stained glass. Darkness had already settled upon the Bronx—the most beautiful borough in the world!—and the night air was nippy. I was just about to knock again when the door was answered by a dark-haired, dark-eyed attractive woman in her mid-twenties; her eyes were tense as she asked
me who I was.

  “Detective Heller,” I said, not bothering to mention what police department I was attached to. “I’m expected.”

  She nodded tiredly and opened the door.

  As inconspicuously as possible, I traced the trim lines of her figure in the brown dress with white collar. “And you are?” I asked.

  She smiled with quiet irony. “Married, for one thing. Dr. Condon’s daughter, Myra, for another. And disgusted with this whole affair, for one more.”

  “Well, we have the latter in common anyway,” I said, handing her my hat and coat, which she didn’t seem particularly inclined to receive. We were in an entryway that faced the second-floor staircase. She listlessly led me through a nicely but not lavishly furnished parlor so old-fashioned the doilies had doilies. Then she summoned me into an adjoining living room where a grand piano was covered by a paisley shawl like somebody’s grandmother; sitting on the brocade davenport were the professor and a pleasant-looking, plump woman in her late sixties wearing a floral print dress and a concerned expression.

  Condon was patting her hand and saying, “There, there, Myra…nothing to worry about.”

  “I thought you were Myra,” I whispered to my reluctant hostess.

  “That’s my mother,” she said, blandly. “I was named after her.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  She sat on the couch next to her parents and crossed her nice legs but made sure I didn’t see much.

  “Good afternoon, Detective,” Condon said, hollowly.

  “Good afternoon, Professor,” I said. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

  Condon uncharacteristically skipped the formalities. “Mrs. Condon had a phone call earlier today.”

  I pulled up a chair; it looked like something Marie Antoinette might have sat on, eating cake. “Tell me about it, please,” I said to Mrs. Condon.

  “Someone called on the telephone for my husband,” she said, in a warm alto, the faintest vibrato of nervousness coloring it, “around noon.”

  “Man or woman?” I asked.

  “It was a man. I told him that my husband was giving a lecture and would be home between six and seven. He said he would call again about seven this evening.” She looked at the professor, who had a sick-cow expression. “He said you were to stay in and wait for his call, dear.”