Stolen Away

by Collins, Max Allan

  Condon’s expression turned shrewd and he said, “And what was his name?”

  “Why, dear,” she said, “he didn’t give it.”

  No shit.

  “That ‘money is ready’ ad of yours appeared in the morning edition,” I said. “That’s pretty quick action.”

  Condon’s eyes tightened in attempted thought. “You think this phone call, then, was a message from the kidnapper in response to the ad?”

  I sighed. “Gee, Professor. It just might be.”

  Any irony I allowed to show in my voice was lost on Dr. and Mrs. Condon, but Myra the Younger smirked at me mirthlessly.

  “Dad,” the daughter said, sitting forward, “I’d like to see that baby returned as much as anybody. But don’t you think you should withdraw, graciously, and just let somebody else take your place as intermediary?”

  He raised his chin. Where was Dempsey when you needed him. “I’ve sworn to see this thing through to the bitter end.”

  “But, Dad—you’re not a young man. This is dangerous for you…”

  “We can’t think of that,” he said. “When the time comes that a respectable man cannot walk out of the door of his own home merely because he is attempting to assist one of the greatest heroes of all time, well, then…then I do not care to live a day longer.”

  Was he trying to cheer me up?

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Condon?” I asked.

  “Yes. Thank you. I didn’t get your name, young man…?”

  “My name’s Nathan Heller. I’m a police officer from Chicago. I appreciate your hospitality.”

  “Actually,” she said, a hand to her generous chest, “I’ve been a bit shaken up. Luckily Myra stayed over, and fixed a nice supper. Plenty for everyone.”

  I turned to Myra. “You don’t live here?”

  “No,” she said, and smiled at me tightly, the sort of smile that contradicts itself.

  “It is typical of little Myra,” Condon said, “that though she thoroughly opposes my determination to enter this case, she made arrangements to be here with me, in the Bronx, to absorb some of my routine duties.”

  “Such as?” I asked her.

  “Father received several hundred letters today,” she said, “in response to that letter to the editor he wrote to the News. It’s been like that every day since it appeared.”

  “You should save those letters,” I said, “and give them to the cops.”

  “Colonel Schwarzkopf, you mean?” Condon asked.

  “That would be better than nothing,” I said. “But this is New York. You got cops in this state, too, you know.”

  There was a knock at the door; Condon’s daughter rose languidly to answer it, and moments later she was ushering Colonel Breckinridge into the living room.

  I filled him in, quickly, about the telephone call Mrs. Condon had received earlier.

  “It’s almost six-thirty now,” Breckinridge said. “No call yet?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Why don’t we eat?”

  “Sir!” Condon said, sitting up straight. “How can you think of food, when a child’s life hangs in the balance?”

  “Well, if we eat,” I said, “it won’t tip the scale, one way or the other. Or, we can all sit around jumpy as cats in a rainstorm.”

  We ate. The dining room was behind the living room, and Myra—a sour hostess but a sweet cook—served up a pot roast with oven-browned potatoes, carrots and onions.

  “Colonel,” Condon said, working on his second helping of everything, baby in the balance or not, “as you may recall, I mentioned that the distinctive red-and-blue-circle signature of the kidnappers reminded me of a Sicilian Mafia sign.”

  “Yes,” Breckinridge said tentatively. He was picking at his food.

  “Well, I replicated the symbol and began showing it around Fordham today.”

  “You what?” I said.

  He sipped his drink—a big wholesome glass of milk—and repeated his sentence word for word.

  I just shook my head. His daughter Myra glared at me.

  Proud of himself, a forkful of food poised in midair, Condon said, “Mind you, I’ve said nothing to anyone of my trip to Hopewell the other night. But I’ve been determined to learn, if possible, the meaning of that mysterious symbol.”

  “Professor,” Breckinridge said, his face whiter than Condon’s cow juice, “that really may not have been wise.”

  Condon didn’t seem to hear; his eyes and smile were glazed and inwardly directed. “I sketched it on a piece of paper, that symbol, and carried it with me these last two days. I’ve been showing it to everyone I meet, asking them about it.”

  “Swell idea,” I said.

  “Finally,” he said, raising a significant forefinger, “this afternoon I found someone who recognized it—a Sicilian friend of mine.”

  Breckinridge touched a napkin to his lips and pushed his plate of mostly uneaten food away.

  “As a result,” Condon said, “I’m convinced our kidnappers are of Italian origin. My Sicilian friend confirmed my suspicion, explaining that the symbol was that of a secret criminal organization in the old country—the symbol is the trilgamba, or ‘three legs.’”

  “Three legs?” Breckinridge asked.

  “My Sicilian friend explained that two legs were fine, but ‘when a third leg walks, beware.’”

  “Let me write that down,” I said.

  “Its symbolic meaning,” Condon continued, “is that if a third leg, a stranger, enters into the province of the secret society, the Mafia, that intruder can expect a stiletto through the heart.”

  His daughter Myra, cutting her meat, dropped her own knife clatteringly. “Daddy,” she said. “Please don’t do this. Please withdraw from this silly dangerous escapade.”

  Colonel Breckinridge looked at the young woman with mournful eyes. “Please don’t ask that, miss. Your father may be the only honest person on earth actually in contact with the kidnappers.”

  “Excuse me,” Myra said stiffly, “I think I’ll pass on dessert,” and hurled her napkin to the table and got up and went out through the front parlor; her footsteps on the hall stairs, several rooms away, conveyed her annoyance.

  After apple pie, Breckinridge stepped out onto the porch for a smoke—the professor allowed no tobacco of any kind in his “domicile”—leaving Mr. and Mrs. Condon to keep watch by Mr. Bell’s invention, which was on a stand in the hallway outside the living room.

  “Can you believe that man?” Breckinridge said bitterly, puffing greedily on a cigarette. “Showing that signature around the Bronx! To some ‘Sicilian friend’!”

  “He’s a dunce, all right,” I said. “Unless he’s very clever.”

  “Clever?”

  I nodded, tapped my temple with one finger. “Something clicked in this hat rack I call a head, while he was babbling about that Mafia sign. When I first talked to him on the phone, back at Hopewell, Condon told me that the letter to him was signed with ‘the mark of the Mafia.’”

  “Yes. I remember. So?”

  “He went to great lengths to assure me that he hadn’t opened the interior envelope, the one addressed to Slim.”

  “Right.”

  “I even heard him rip it open, over the phone.”

  “Yes. I recall.”

  “Well, the note to Slim was signed with the ‘mark of the Mafia,’ all right—but the note to Condon was unsigned.”

  Breckinridge thought about that. “But how could the professor know about the signature before he opened the letter…?”

  “Exactly. Of course, he may have already opened that inner letter, and just ripped some other piece of paper for the benefit of my ears. But either way…”

  “Yes. Worth noting, Heller. Worth noting. And there’s something I might tell you.”

  “Well, hell, go ahead.”

  Breckinridge drew on the cigarette, exhaled a wreath of smoke. “Last night Condon was, as usual, running off at the mouth. He was talking about his daughter, Myra, how
she’d been a teacher before her marriage. And then he got into a spiel about how ‘the love of teaching runs strongly’ in his family. That Mrs. Condon had been a ‘splendid schoolteacher herself,’ that he and she had first met when they were teaching at the same public school.”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “Heller, they taught at Old Public School Number Thirty-Eight, in Harlem.”

  That hit me like a sack of nickels. “Harlem! As in Sarah Sivella and Martin Marinelli, Harlem?”

  “Exactly.” He pitched his cigarette into a small bank of snow on the lawn. “Shall we go in?”

  But before we could, an eager Mrs. Condon appeared in the doorway and said, “The phone is ringing, gentlemen…my husband is about to answer it.”

  We moved quickly through the house and saw Condon pick up the phone in the midst of a ring.

  “Who is it, please?” he said formally; he stood with chin high, light-blue eyes about as alert as a Chinese opium addict’s.

  After a beat, he said, “Yes, I got your letter.”

  I stood close to him and bent the receiver away from his ear, so that I could hear, too. Condon gave me a reproving look but didn’t fight me.

  “I saw your ad,” a crisp, clear voice said, “in the New York American.’”

  “Yes? Where are you calling from?”

  Brilliant question! Fucking brilliant!

  “Westchester,” the voice said.

  Condon’s brow knit as he tried to think of something else incisive to ask.

  “Dr. Condon, do you write sometimes pieces for the papers?”

  That seemed to take the professor aback. After a moment, he said, “Why yes—I sometimes write articles for the papers.”

  A pause was followed by the voice speaking in a dim, muffled tone to someone standing by: “He says sometimes he writes pieces for the papers.”

  The voice returned, strong and clear and a bit guttural. “Stay in every night this week. Stay at home from six to twelve. You will receive a note with instructions. Act accordingly or all will be off.”

  “I shall stay in,” Condon said, putting his hand on his heart.

  “Statti citto!”

  Another voice on the phone had said the latter, cutting in.

  Almost half a silent minute crawled by. Then the crisp, guttural voice said, “All right. You will hear from us.”

  Condon blinked at the click of the phone, then said, self-importantly, and pointlessly, “They have severed the connection.”

  He severed his own connection—that is, he hung up—and I said to Breckinridge, “Could you hear all that?”

  “Yes,” Breckinridge said. “What was that foreign phrase?”

  “Statti citto,” I said. “It means, ‘shut up,’ in Sicilian. My guess is they were using a public phone, and someone was walking by.”

  “I think,” Condon said, thinking deeply, “he may have been deceiving us when he said he was calling from Westchester.”

  “No, really?” I said archly. “That hadn’t occurred to me.”

  “We’ll have to get the money together quickly,” Breckinridge said, distractedly, pacing in the small area.

  “The kidnappers’ last letter was quite specific as to the dimensions of the money box,” Condon said. “Might I offer to have such a box built, tomorrow?”

  Breckinridge looked at me and I shrugged.

  Condon went on, raising a lecturing forefinger. “Upstairs, in my study, I have the ballot box of the Lieutenant-Governor of the State of New York in eighteen hundred and twenty.”

  Whoop-de-doo.

  “It has a lid, two hinges and a casement lock. The box I shall have constructed will duplicate that ancient ballot box.”

  “What’s the point?” I asked.

  Condon’s apple cheeks were a pair of pink balls in his ludicrous smiling face. “I’ll specify that it is to be of five-ply veneer. We’ll use different types of wood in its construction. Maple, pine, tulipwood…and a couple of other varieties. Five different in all.”

  “Which will make the box easy to identify,” I said.

  Breckinridge looked at me, curiously.

  “It’s not a bad idea,” I said, surprising us all.

  “Doctor,” Breckinridge said, putting a hand on the old boy’s shoulder. “I’m not unaware of the sacrifice you’re making. I’m aware that members of your family don’t look favorably upon your participation in this case. But some day, I hope, you’ll in some way be rewarded for what you’re doing.”

  “I do not expect a small reward for anything I might do,” Condon said, with the usual pomp and circumstance. “Perhaps the reward I intend to ask for is too large.”

  I didn’t for one second think Condon was going to ask for dough, though. He was either too square a john or too crooked a one to do that.

  He didn’t disappoint me.

  “I ask only,” he said, “that when that little baby is recovered, I be the one to place him back in his mother’s arms.”

  Breckinridge bought it, apparently; he shook Condon’s hand and said, warmly, “You’ll deserve that. And I’ll see to it that you get what you deserve, Doctor.”

  My feelings exactly.

  13

  The bronze Tiffany clock on the mantel in the dining room of the Condon home chimed seven times. In the adjacent room, the living room, the shades drawn, we sat: Condon, his wife, Breckinridge and me. Tonight the daughter was back in New Jersey, having had enough of this intrigue.

  “My friend is a first-rate cabinetmaker,” Condon said, hands on his knees. Then he added, “A Bronx cabinetmaker,” as if that made all the difference.

  “This ballot box you’re having duplicated,” I said, “how long will it take your Bronx cabinetmaker to do the job?”

  “He promised delivery within four days,” Condon said, as if sharing something miraculous with us. “The cost will be three dollars—materials and workmanship included!”

  “Well, that’s swell,” I said, “but suppose they ask for delivery of the dough sooner than that?”

  Colonel Breckinridge said, “I hope to God they do. We’ll have the money together by Monday afternoon.”

  “Perhaps I should call my cabinetmaker friend,” Condon said, thoughtfully, “and bid him hasten.”

  “If they contact us tonight,” Breckinridge said to me, “it will be to arrange the money drop, correct?”

  “Probably,” I said. “But you guys did run an ad saying ‘Money is ready’—and it isn’t.”

  “But that was the specific language,” Condon said defensively, “the kidnappers required!”

  “I know,” I said. “I was here. But you shouldn’t have run it before the money was ready.”

  That shut Condon up; and Colonel Breckinridge sank into a gloomy silence.

  I’d already had a confrontation with Lindbergh over this earlier, at Hopewell.

  “I thought you had the money together,” I’d told him.

  We were walking with the leashed Wahgoosh around the barren outskirts of the yard of the house; it was midmorning and windy and cold.

  “Frankly, Nate,” he said, “I’m a little strapped for ready cash.”

  “Well, hell, your credit’s good—wasn’t your father-in-law a partner at J. P. Morgan’s banking house?”

  Lindbergh nodded. “My wife’s mother has offered me the money, but I refused it.”

  “Slim! This is no goddamn time to stand on ceremony…”

  He raised a hand. “I’ve been liquidating stocks. The ransom’s damn near raised.”

  “These are stocks you bought before the crash, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did they cost you?”

  He took a moment or two to answer; without looking at me, he said, “Three hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “Which you’re selling to raise seventy.”

  He shrugged with his eyebrows. “Actually—fifty. I’m still working on the other twenty.”

  The wind nipped at my face. “I
had no idea…they really got you over a barrel, don’t they?”

  “They do. I hope we can arrange for proof that I’m not being hoaxed…. Nate, I’ve kept you in the dark about it, and for the time being I still have to, but Condon isn’t the only party who can make a convincing case for being in touch with the kidnappers.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t say anymore right now. I’m looking into these other claims. In the meantime, Condon seems perhaps the most reliable option.”

  My eyes rolled like marbles. “If Condon is the most reliable option, God help you with the others.”

  He said nothing. We paused while Wahgoosh pissed.

  I turned my face away from the March wind. “I heard Schwarzkopf say something about keeping Condon’s house under surveillance, and shadowing him to any ransom drop point.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m glad. There’s hope for Schwarzkopf yet.”

  “Perhaps, but I’ve forbidden it.”

  “You’ve what?”

  “Colonel Schwarzkopf withdrew his proposal to stake out Condon’s house, when I objected.”

  “On what goddamn grounds did you object?”

  “That it might endanger the safe return of my son.”

  What could I say to that? Other than it was fucking nuts. I could only hope Frank Wilson had taken my advice and put Condon under government surveillance. We walked. The dog crapped.

  “You have to call Wilson in, Slim.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Agent Wilson of the IRS. And his boss Irey. Especially his boss Irey.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve got to record all the serial numbers of the ransom money, before you pay it out. Irey can help you with that, and he’s the guy who can track the money, once it’s started getting into circulation.”

  Lindbergh shook his head, no. “I made a statement to the press that I wouldn’t pay the kidnappers in marked bills. I won’t break my word.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I said. I shook my head, said, “That tears it,” turned and headed for the house. The wind pushed at my back, encouraging me.