I drove—the most famous pilot in the world my passenger. We rode silently for a good long time. We approached the George Washington Bridge, its silver arc indistinct against the night, a parade of flickering lights moving across it over the Hudson. We joined that parade and when urban New Jersey faded into rural New Jersey, he began to speak.
“You think I’m foolish, don’t you, Nate?”
“I think you’re human. The problem is, most of the people you get advice from don’t.”
He was looking absently out the side window, into darkness. He was still wearing the amber glasses and cap; he wore them all the way home. “I’m anxious to have this over.”
“Don’t get too anxious.”
He looked at me. “Do you trust Condon?”
“Not particularly.”
“Do you think he’s an accomplice?”
“Maybe. Or a dupe.”
“Or exactly what he seems to be?”
“Which is what, Slim?”
“A good-hearted old patriot who wants to help out…” And he trailed off.
“Who wants to help out the ‘Lone Eagle’? Maybe. A bigger question is, are these extortionists the people who have your son?”
“You don’t think they are?”
“They could be operating off inside information from servants, or from Mickey Rosner. They don’t know anything I don’t know, for example. And what the hell do you know about me?”
“I know I trust you.”
“Well, you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t trust any fucking body.”
“I trust my own instincts.”
“And your instincts tell you that ‘John’ is one of the kidnappers?”
He shook his head from side to side, but it was not in a “no” gesture. “I’m not closing off any avenue I can go down to find my son. And this sleeping suit…”
“This sleeping suit is standard, issue, Slim. Store-bought, lacking in laundry marks, or any other identification. There are thousands, tens of thousands, like it.”
“I gave the newspapers a false description of the garment, remember?”
“I remember. So the extortionists could have got lucky, or they could have had inside information. Here’s another thought—doesn’t your son have his own bedroom at your wife’s mother’s house, at Englewood?”
“Why, yes,”
“How many of these sleepers, how many sleepers just like this one, are there in a drawer in that Englewood nursery?”
“I don’t know. I don’t believe we have an exact inventory for such things.”
“Right. And how many servants do they have in that joint? Around thirty—any one of whom could have provided a description, or plucked a sleeping suit from a drawer. That would explain why it took several days for Cemetery John and crew to deliver those pj’s. And why it’s freshly laundered.”
He didn’t say anything.
“For that matter, Condon himself could’ve taken a sleeper from your son’s drawer.”
“Are you serious?”
“He could’ve, just like I could’ve. We both slept in that room. I caught Condon going through your kid’s toy box, remember?”
He said nothing; he was frowning.
I shook my head and drove. We were driving through farm country, now, that might well have been Illinois. I wished it were.
“Anne will know,” he said.
“What?”
“If it’s Charlie’s sleeping suit. Anne will know.”
I knew enough not to respond to that one.
We drove in silence again. I mulled a few things over that I didn’t share with him. How phony the German phrasing of the notes seemed to me, particularly in light of the Sicilian phrase—statti citto—in the phone call to Condon, and Condon’s own discovery of the Black Hand meaning of the “singnature” on the notes. This latest note again contained a suspicious number of correctly spelled, difficult words, among the misspelled smaller ones. And John in the cemetery used gangland phrases—“The boss would smack me out,” “drill us both.” I supposed a Scandinavian immigrant could have picked up such talk. But somehow it just didn’t ring true.
“The other day,” I said, breaking the silence as the black sky began turning gray, “you indicated there were other ‘parties,’ besides the professor, who might be in contact with the kidnappers. You wouldn’t want to let me in on any of that, would you?”
He didn’t hesitate in his response. “Actually, you should know. It involves your specialty: gangsters. It’s one of the reasons why I asked you to stick around.”
It seemed there was a socially prominent individual in Norfolk, Virginia, a certain Commodore John Hughes Curtis, who’d been approached by a bootlegger who claimed to be one of a gang of six who kidnapped Lindbergh’s son.
“Curtis is the president of one of the largest ship-building companies in the South,” Lindbergh said. “He has impeccable credentials—Admiral Burrage called me, in fact, to arrange a meeting between Curtis and myself.”
Now, added to the endless list of colonels, were an admiral and a commodore.
“Admiral Burrage,” Lindbergh explained almost defensively, reading my cynical expression no doubt, “was in command of the cruiser Memphis, the ship that brought me back from Paris.”
Back from his legendary solo transatlantic flight to Paris, he meant.
“Besides,” he said, “the Very Reverend H. Dobson-Peacock has vouched for Curtis, as well.”
Now we had a Reverend on the list. A Very Reverend.
“Who is this Peacock, anyway?”
“Reverend Dobson-Peacock is an old friend of the Morrow family. The Reverend was in charge of a church in Mexico City.”
The late Dwight Morrow had been Ambassador to Mexico; it was during that period that Anne Morrow and Charles Lindbergh met, wooed and fell in love.
“I’ve agreed to meet tomorrow afternoon with the Admiral, the Reverend and the Commodore,” he said. It sounded like a nursery rhyme. “I’d like you to sit in.”
I turned onto the rutted dirt road that was Featherbed Lane. Dawn was starting to sneak through the thickets on either side of us, like another nosy sightseer.
Suddenly, Lindbergh burst out with something as if both eager and embarrassed to say it. “Did you ever hear of a man named Gaston Bullock Means?”
I snorted a laugh. “Are you kidding? Sure I’ve heard of him. Biggest con man who ever lived, in a couple senses of the word ‘biggest.’ Chicago is one of that fat bastard’s favorite sucker ponds.”
There was a faint defensiveness in Lindbergh’s soft response: “My understanding is that he’s a former Justice Department operative.”
“Yeah—he worked for Bums, before J. Edgar Hoover cleaned house. Hoover’s an ass, but he’s not a crook like Bums and his boys. Gaston Means was the Ohio Gang’s bagman, during the Harding administration. What in hell are you asking me about that son of a bitch for?”
Lindbergh was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Means also claims to be in touch with the kidnap gang.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“I had a call from Admiral Land…”
Another admiral!
“…who’s a relative of mine. My mother’s cousin. Anyway, Admiral Land was approached by Mrs. Evalyn Walsh McLean, the Washington society woman.”
“The Hope diamond dame?”
“That’s the one. She lost her own son a few years ago—whether it relates to the Hope diamond curse is anybody’s guess—but at any rate, she’s sympathetic to Anne and my situation. Means is in her employ.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know exactly. He’s done some private detective work for her before. But through her he passed along two pieces of information that make me think we shouldn’t rule him out.”
“Which are?”
“He says the kidnappers have raised their ransom demand from fifty thousand to one hundred thousand dollars. That ties in, at least roughly, with the notes we’ve received, from Cemetery John
and his gang.”
“And the other?”
Lindbergh seemed hesitant to share that. But finally, as we were drawing up to the closed, locked gate, he said, “He told Mrs. McLean the description in the papers of the sleeping suit was a false clue.” Lindbergh pointed to, but did not touch, the loosely wrapped brown-paper package next to him. “And he described the sleeping suit Charlie was really wearing.”
“A lot of that going around,” I said, “wouldn’t you say?”
He frowned, but not in anger. Frustration.
It was light out by the time we reached the house. Anne Lindbergh, in a thin blue robe, met us at the door to the servants’ sitting room; her face was pale, bare of makeup, her hair drawn back tightly. She looked haggard but hopeful.
I was carrying the package. Lindbergh nodded to me and I handed it to her.
She drew out the sleeping suit and held it in her hands out away from her, like something both precious and terrible. Then she clasped the package to her bosom, the paper crackling, one arm of the garment slinging itself over her shoulder.
Her eyes were glittering and her smile was a tragic fucking thing.
“It’s his,” she said. “It’s Charlie’s.”
“It’s a good sign,” he told her, with a deathly smile. “It means the kidnappers can be trusted. It means negotiations are finally, truly, fruitfully, in full sway.”
She hugged the brown paper and the Dr. Denton and said, again, “It’s Charlie’s. It’s his.”
And after that, there was never any doubt of it.
Slim wouldn’t allow any.
15
Late the next afternoon, Lindbergh, Schwarzkopf and I met a black touring car that rolled to a stop near the garage command post. The car had Virginia license plates and a small American flag on its radio antenna. Three men stepped out.
The driver was a long, lean man in his late sixties wearing a well-tailored navy-blue suit under a tan camel-hair topcoat; his face was hawklike, with a trim gray mustache, his stone-gray hair parted neatly in the middle. In the backseat had been a stocky, balding fellow in black and his vague fifties, several chins rubbing his clerical collar, his eyes wide-set and buggy. Riding in front had been the most prepossessing of this singular trio, a big, tanned, muscular-looking man with a round, pleasant face under a jaunty bowler; he wore a gray topcoat over his dark suit, a red-white-and-blue tie peeking out from under.
Lindbergh greeted them, speaking to the thin, mustached hawk-faced man first. “Admiral Burrage,” he said. “Good of you to come.”
“Pleasure to see you again, Colonel,” he said, his smile somber. “Sorry the circumstances are such as they are. Is your mother well?”
“She is, thank you.”
“Good. Good.” Burrage introduced the clergyman as the Very Reverend Dobson-Peacock, and the tanned hail-fellow-well-met as Commodore John Hughes Curtis.
“This is Colonel Schwarzkopf of the New Jersey State Police,” Lindbergh said, gesturing to the impressively uniformed police official, and the men began shaking hands all round. “He’ll be sitting in with us. So will Detective Nathan Heller, of the Chicago Police Department.”
They looked at me curiously, as well they might, and Curtis said, with a pixie smile, “Have you wandered off your beat, son?”
“Not really,” I said, shaking the hand he offered. “From the first day of this affair there’ve been indications the Capone outfit may be involved. I’m here to check that angle out.”
Curtis nodded somberly. “That certainly doesn’t contradict what I’ve experienced, Detective Heller.”
“Just out of curiosity, Commodore,” I asked, “what are you commodore of?”
“The Norfolk Yacht Club.”
“Why don’t we all step inside,” Lindbergh said, gesturing toward the house. “We have much to discuss.”
In the study, Elsie Whately brought in a tray of tea and coffee, and we got settled around in chairs all cozy with our cups in hand, the fireplace going. Lindbergh, who was drinking milk, took his position behind the cluttered desk and said, “I’m sorry if there were problems getting in touch with me.”
Dobson-Peacock spoke up; his voice was as British-sounding as his name.
“Frankly, Colonel,” he said, not hiding his exasperation, “it’s been a frustrating experience, getting through. I left a message with a gentleman…” The word “gentleman” was invested with considerable sarcasm. “…who identified himself as your ‘secretary’—a Mr. Rosner. This was some days ago, Colonel.”
Lindbergh lifted one eyebrow, barely, and set it back down.
“I’m sorry, Reverend. But things have been harried here. It took me two days to return a call to the White House, last week.”
“Charles,” the admiral said gently, “I hope you know that I would go to the ends of the earth to help you get your boy back.”
“Thank you, Admiral.”
“Then forgive me for asking, but have we spoken recently?”
“Why, no. I received your letter, and had Colonel Breckinridge contact you…”
“Well, when I called here, I spoke with someone who identified himself as you but—clearly wasn’t.”
I’d played that game once myself, but wasn’t the guilty party this time.
Burrage was saying, with stiff formality, “At first I spoke with this fellow Rosner—who said, and I quote, ‘Oh, another admiral, huh?’ Soon I spoke to someone who identified himself as ‘Colonel Lindbergh,’ and met my information with utter indifference. I’m not convinced it wasn’t the same man.”
“Gentlemen,” Lindbergh said, his weariness apparent, his embarrassment, too, “I’m sorry you were inconvenienced, and treated disrespectfully…”
“Charles,” Burrage said, “no one is looking for an apology, good Lord, not at all. We merely want to make clear to you why it’s taken us so long to put this possibly vital information before you.”
“We would hate,” Dobson-Peacock said, teacup daintily in hand, “to be found negligent, when in fact we’ve made every reasonable effort to…”
Lindbergh raised a palm. “You’re here. The delay, whoever’s fault it may have been, is behind us. Commodore Curtis, I’d appreciate hearing your story.”
Curtis beamed. “I’m relieved to be here, at last, Colonel. So very relieved.” He swallowed, and began: “On the night of March ninth I was attending a meeting at the Norfolk Yacht Club. Every yachtsman in the club was there, it was urgent business—winter storms were raising hell with our piers and moorings. You know how it is.”
Lindbergh, hands folded before him prayerfully, nodded.
Curtis went on: “I was one of the last to leave the meeting. And I’d had a little to drink, frankly, but what happened in the parking lot sobered me up immediately.”
An old Hudson sedan had pulled alongside Curtis, actually blocking the path of his green Hudson, making him stop. At first he’d assumed it was one of his yachting friends, but then he recognized the driver as Sam, a rumrunner for whom Curtis had on several occasions arranged boat repairs.
“Sam jumped out of his car,” Curtis said, gesturing with both hands, his eyes intense, “and jumped onto my running board. He leaned in the window and said, ‘Don’t get sore, Mr. Curtis! I gotta talk to you.’”
Sam had slipped into the front seat and was “shaking like a leaf.” The normally “cool as a cucumber” rumrunner made Curtis promise he would not tell anyone what he was about to reveal. Curtis promised. Sam said he’d been sent to Curtis by the gang that stole the Lindbergh baby.
“He said they wanted him to contact me,” Curtis said, gesturing to himself, as if he couldn’t believe his own words, “to form a small, select committee of prominent Norfolk citizens who would act as intermediaries…to arrange the ransom payment and the return of the child.”
Curtis had asked, Why me? And why Norfolk, Virginia, of all places? Sam had answered the latter question by saying that the kidnappers feared a demand for a split, or a flat-
out hijack, from Owney Madden’s New York mob; and as to the former, well, Curtis was known to be a “square John.” He’d repaired boats for rumrunners—like many a dockyard man along the coast—but was at the same time a pillar of society.
“I asked them why they didn’t deal with these appointed underworld go-betweens the papers were talking about,” Curtis said, “Spitale and Bitz. And Sam said the gang wrote them off as small-timers, a joke.”
I interrupted with a question. “How reliable is this guy, this ‘Sam’?”
Curtis shrugged. “I’ve never caught him in a lie or an attempted fraud. I’d say, for a man in a shady line of work, he’s a square-dealer. I’ve even put a good word in for him with the Coast Guard, occasionally.”
“What’s his last name?”
“I don’t know. He has a lot of aliases.”
Lindbergh said, “Can you get in touch with him?”
Curtis nodded. “Yes. But I feel I must protect Sam, at this juncture, to better protect your son. If anyone but me contacts him, it might be risky.”
“I agree,” Lindbergh said.
Here we go again: playing by the rules in a game set up by cheats.
“I told Sam, emphatically,” Curtis said, emphatically, “that under no circumstances would I ask you for any money, Colonel Lindbergh. Sam claimed that the gang understood this, and that they wanted the ransom deposited in a Norfolk bank and only paid after the child had been returned safe and sound.”
Lindbergh’s eyes narrowed.
“At any rate, that was what Sam said on the first meeting,” Curtis said. He almost whispered the next, milking the melodrama: “Sam called again, four days ago. He told me the kidnappers are getting ‘antsy’—though the baby is all right. They hired a special nurse and are following the diet Mrs. Lindbergh published in the papers. They also say they bought a new outfit for the little boy.”
All of the latter tallied with Condon’s cemetery contact: the nurse following the diet; buying a new outfit, after the sleeper had been sent along.
“Sam told me,” Curtis said, “that you’re negotiating with another member of the same gang up here. Sam says the man up here wants fifty thousand dollars, maybe as much as one hundred thousand dollars. But Sam says he can deliver your son for twenty-five thousand dollars.”
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