Stolen Away

by Collins, Max Allan

  Her smile was amused and pleased. “I told you I could dazzle, if I chose.”

  “You look great,” I said, lamely, getting up.

  She gestured for me to sit and soon we were enjoying her chef’s filet of lemon sole (“with Marguery sauce”).

  “Maurice,” she said, referring to her chef, “is the most priceless gem in this house.”

  “I hope he doesn’t come with a curse.”

  “No,” she said, smiling a little, more relaxed now despite her more formal attire, “just with the pedigree of the best cafés in Paris and London. He trained as a caterer. That’s the only sort of chef to go after.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. I suppose tartar sauce is out of the question.”

  She laughed; I was glad she was finally getting my jokes—too bad I hadn’t been joking.

  “You know,” she said, reflecting a while later over Maurice’s “patented” parfait, “money is lovely to have and I do love having it—but it doesn’t really bring the big things of life. Friends, health, respect. And it’s apt to make one soft, selfish, self-indulgent.”

  “You mean, while we’re eating parfaits in this palace, people are out there scrounging for scraps, living in shacks made out of tin cans and cardboard.”

  She nodded, sadly, even as she tasted a bite of parfait. “If only I’d had the courage, years ago, to lead my own life…apart from Ned and his family and my parents and my family…I might by now have helped so many poor souls…. I might have done infinitely more good with my life.”

  She licked ice cream from her lips as she shook her head regretfully.

  “Well, you are trying to do some good,” I said. “For the Lindberghs and their boy.”

  “Yes. In my small way. If you’re finished, Mr. Heller, we can move to the sitting room, and I’ll explain everything.”

  I took her by the arm and we moved through that excessive, magnificent house through the Louis XV ballroom, not to the sun porch this time, but to a room nearly as large as the ballroom where plush comfortable furnishings crouched in the golden glow of a massive marble fireplace.

  “I’ve had two glasses of wine already,” Mrs. McLean said, standing at a liquor cart about the size of a Maxwell Street pushcart, only mahogany and gold-inlaid. “That is my limit. But if you’d like more…”

  “No, that’s fine,” I said, settling down into an oversize sofa opposite the glowing fire. This modest little drawing room was paneled in mahogany, had a twenty-foot ceiling, a massive pipe organ built into one wall, and a Persian rug smaller than Lake Michigan partially covering its parquet floor.

  She sat next to me, pulled up an ottoman, kicked off her shoes and put her silk-stockinged feet up on it. A thick arch support tumbled out of her right shoe. She noticed me noticing that and tugged on my arm and pointed to her tiny feet; she wiggled the toes of her right foot.

  “See,” she said. “Shorter. From that accident, years ago. I told you.”

  “They look fine to me.”

  “Mr. Heller, you’re a charming man.”

  “Everybody says so. Why don’t you break your rule and let me get us a couple of drinks.”

  Her smile was impish. “Why don’t I?”

  I poured myself some Bacardi, no ice, and some sherry for her.

  “Thank you, Mr. Heller,” she said, sipping hers.

  “Why don’t you call me Nate?”

  “Why don’t I? Why don’t you call me Evalyn?”

  “Why don’t I. And why don’t you tell me all about Gaston Bullock Means.”

  “All right.” Her lovely features were serene in the firelight; she was looking into the flames, held by them, as she spoke. “As I said, from the beginning I felt the Lindbergh kidnapping was an underworld job. But I could hardly offer myself as an intermediary—what self-respecting criminal would deal with a flighty society woman like Evalyn Walsh McLean! Besides—they say it takes a crook to catch a crook—and Gaston Bullock Means was the perfect crook for what I had in mind.”

  “What made Means the ‘perfect crook’ for the job?”

  She raised an eyebrow, sipped her sherry. “I knew he’d done a lot of dirty work for the Harding administration—he certainly knew his way around the capital, from the back alleys to the front parlors.”

  “He did time, didn’t he?”

  She nodded. “Until recently, he was in the federal penitentiary at Atlanta, on prohibition charges, stemming from abuses when he was a Justice Department agent.”

  “Taking bribes from bootleggers?”

  “That’s right. Anyway, I first met him several years ago, when some friends of ours in the administration were reluctant to contact Means directly about some documents he’d pilfered. They seemed in mortal fear of the barrel-bellied blackguard. So I called him up, arranged a meeting and picked the papers up from him, myself—as a favor.”

  Evalyn Walsh McLean seemed an unlikely bagman for the Ohio Gang; but there it was.

  “At our meeting,” she said, with a self-satisfied smirk, “Means made some threatening remarks about several friends of Ned’s and mine—Andrew Mellon, Harry Daughtery—and I put him in his place.”

  Andrew Mellon was then Secretary of the Treasury; Daughtery had been Harding’s Attorney General.

  “How did you do that, Evalyn?”

  She shrugged, but her nonchalance wasn’t convincing. “I told Means I’d always been curious to know what it would be like to meet a murderer. And now I knew.”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  “He asked me what I meant by that, and I said, ‘I think you know,’ and he said, ‘Oh…Maude King.’ And then he paused—such an innocent-looking, dimpled, moon-faced miscreant—and said, ‘Accidents will happen.’”

  I knew about Maude King—she was an eccentric, wealthy widow from Chicago, the kind the papers like to call a “madcap heiress,” and Gaston Means had wormed his way into her confidence by foiling some thugs who accosted her on a street corner in the Loop. He became her financial adviser, and bilked her out of an estimated $150,000, before taking her on a hunting trip in North Carolina, where Mrs. King was “accidentally” shot to death.

  It seemed Means had taken the target pistol the two of them had been using and left it in the crotch of a tree while he wandered off for a drink of spring water. Somehow the gun had discharged in Means’s absence, and Mrs. King managed to get shot behind the left ear. The North Carolina jury acquitted Means; the Chicago press had not.

  “Means has a history, obviously,” I said, “of taking advantage of attractive, wealthy women.”

  Her smile was as many-faceted as the gleaming jewel that rode her gently moving bosom. “Attractive wealthy older women, don’t you mean?”

  “Not really. I remember seeing photos of Maude King—she didn’t look any older than you. Which is to say, not old at all.”

  “That’s diplomatic, Nate. But I’m at least ten years your senior….”

  “The point is,” I said, “Means has fixed his sights on women with money before. Are you sure he didn’t seek you out?”

  “Absolutely not. I called him. He came here, to my home.”

  “When was this?”

  “The fourth of March.”

  Hell, that was several days before I even got involved in the case.

  She pointed off vaguely to the rest of the house. “There’s a drawing room on this floor, with a balcony overlooking it. I met Means there, while my friend Elizabeth Poe, a reporter from the Post, hid above with a revolver.”

  It was obvious from the sparkle in her eyes that she loved the intrigue.

  “I asked him point-blank if he knew anything about the Lindbergh kidnapping. Without hesitation, he said, ‘It so happens that I do. Why?’ I might have asked, is it true blue is your favorite color?”

  “Evalyn, a good con man never misses a beat. You toss him a curve, he’ll bat the ball out of the park.”

  “Perhaps. At any rate, I told him of my concern, my sympathy, for the
Lindberghs, and said I wanted to aid in effecting the boy’s return. Then I asked him what he knew about the kidnapping, warning that if there was any funny business, I’d see him sent to prison.”

  She tried to sound stern and tough, but it was about as convincing as Means’s story about the pistol in the crotch of the tree.

  “He said he didn’t blame me for being skeptical about him. He said he’d committed just about every kind of sin under the sun. But what he said next convinced me.”

  “What was that?”

  “He said, ‘I haven’t come forward to the police or press with what I know about the Lindbergh case because of the tissue of lies that my life has been so far.’ That phrase struck me: ‘tissue of lies.’”

  “Con men always have a way with words, Evalyn.”

  “He claimed he’d been in a New York speakeasy about ten days before, where he’d run into an old cellmate of his from Atlanta. The old friend asked Means, or so Means said, if he was interested in playing ransom negotiator in a big kidnapping that was going to be pulled around March first.”

  “Did Means say his friend specifically mentioned Lindbergh?”

  “Means said he’d been told only that it was a ‘big-time snatch.’ But Means turned down the opportunity, saying that ‘napping’ was one crime he wouldn’t touch.”

  The fire crackled.

  I sat sideways and looked right at her, getting her attention away from the flames. “So then when the Lindbergh kidnapping broke on the radio and in the papers, Means figured it must be the ‘big-time snatch’ his pal mentioned.”

  She nodded; her eyes looked unblinkingly my way, the fire reflecting in them, the stone on her chest doing the same. “Means claimed he’d contacted several prominent men here in Washington, including Colonel Guggenheim, but hadn’t gotten anywhere. Means was viewed as the little boy crying wolf. I later ascertained from Colonel Guggenheim and a prominent local judge that this was quite true.”

  I’d lost count of the colonels in this case, a long time ago.

  “Means offered to get in touch with his old cellmate, and I urged him to do so. The next morning he told me he’d succeeded in contacting his old friend, and that the man was indeed the ‘head of the Lindbergh gang,’ and eager to open negotiations for the baby’s return. Then began the continuing succession of meetings, including several with Jerry Land present, working with Means as the intermediary with the kidnappers.”

  Jerry Land was Admiral Emory S. Land, the Lindbergh relative who’d conveyed word of what Mrs. McLean and Means were up to, to Slim.

  “Where do things stand now?” I asked her.

  “Last Monday, I gave Means a big pasteboard carton filled with bills in denominations of five, ten and twenty dollars.”

  “You gave that to him already?”

  She nodded. “One hundred thousand dollars.”

  I sighed. “Have you seen him since?”

  “Oh yes. He lives over in Chevy Chase with his family. He has a wife and son, you know—the son is his motivation, he says. He says he hopes to atone for his past and make his boy proud.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s touching. But that was days ago. Has he delivered the ransom to the ‘gang’? He obviously hasn’t delivered the baby to you.”

  “It’s supposed to happen soon. I’m going to Far View tomorrow—that’s where the kidnappers have agreed to make delivery. Means is meeting me there.”

  “Where and what is Far View?”

  “My country home. In Maryland. I’ve made arrangements with a doctor friend of mine for anyone who might inquire, that for the next few days to a week, I’m at Union Memorial in Baltimore taking a rest cure.”

  “There’s a lot of intrigue in this thing, isn’t there?”

  She shook her head, laughed a little. “Yes there is. And Means insists on using code names and numbers…he was a double agent at one time, you know.”

  “Yeah. He worked for the Germans just before the World War.”

  “I’m Number Eleven. The baby is referred to, always, as ‘the book.’ Means himself is ‘Hogan.’ Admiral Land is Number Fourteen. And so on.”

  “I need another drink.” I got myself one. “How about you, Evalyn?”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Anybody who can hand Gaston Means a cardboard box with one hundred grand in it can risk a second glass of sherry.”

  “Valid point,” she said, and took the sherry. “I’ve involved you, I’m afraid, in the intrigue.”

  “Oh? How in hell?”

  “Well, I knew Colonel Lindbergh wanted me to meet with you, but if Gaston Means, or the kidnappers, knew I was dealing with a policeman…even one so far off his beat…it might prove disastrous. I can trust my staff—they’ve all been with me for years. But if anyone, Gaston Means in particular, should ask them—you came here today to be interviewed for a position.”

  “What position is that?”

  “Chauffeur.”

  I snorted a laugh, finished my Bacardi. “That’s rich. I couldn’t find my way across the street in this town. Well, I’d like to meet Means. And maybe it would be best if I did it undercover.”

  “Undercover?”

  I pointed to myself with a thumb. “Meet your new chauffeur. Who’s going to escort you to your country place—where I’ll size Means and his story up for myself.”

  Her smile was almost demure. “That would be wonderful, Nate. You think…you think I’m a foolish old woman, don’t you?”

  “You’re not old at all.”

  “The fire’s dwindling. Would you put some wood on?”

  “All right.”

  When I returned to the couch, she was sitting with her legs tucked up under her, illuminated by the blaze I’d rekindled. I sat next to her and she moved closer.

  “I haven’t been with a man since my husband and I separated,” she said.

  I didn’t believe that, but I said, “A lovely girl like you?”

  She was amused. “You think calling me a ‘girl’ is going to win me over?”

  “You look like a girl to me.”

  The amusement dropped like a mask; something was smoldering in her expression, and the fire had nothing to do with it. “Nate. Nate. Why don’t you just kiss me?”

  “We just met. You don’t know anything about me, Evalyn.”

  “You have a dry wit. You have a gun in your suitcase. You have nice eyes, a little cruel, but nice. Your hair looks red in the firelight. I know all that, and more.”

  “More? What else do you know?”

  “I know you have a gun in your pocket, too.”

  “That isn’t a gun.”

  “I know.”

  I kissed her. Her mouth was wet and warm and tasted like sherry. Her tongue flicked my tongue.

  “More,” she said.

  I kissed her some more; it was nice and got nicer. Hot and got hotter. I slid my hand up the slope of her bosom—I felt the chill cut stone of the Hope diamond and pulled my hand away like I’d been burned. I drew the rest of me away, too, head reeling from rum and where I was.

  “Let me get this off,” she said hastily. She removed the diamond necklace, and the pearls, too, and tossed them on an overstuffed chair nearby, as casually as if she’d slipped off her shoes. The diamond was catching the fire and flashing.

  “Help me with this,” she said, reaching behind her, and I did, and soon the gown was around her tiny waist and her breasts, perfect, high, full, enormous, were basking in the golden glow of the fire. I put my hands on them. I put my mouth on them. Sucked the tips till they were hard.

  “What about your servants?” I asked, gasping, my face half-buried in her treasure chest.

  “They’ll only come when I ask them,” she said.

  “Me too,” I said.

  18

  We arrived at Far View after dark the next night. Behind the wheel of Evalyn McLean’s powder-blue Lincoln Continental, I was every bit the perfect chauffeur, wearing a spiffy gray woolen uniform with shiny bla
ck buttons and matching cap, bequeathed by a driver who’d recently retired from the Walsh family’s employ after thirty faithful years. He’d been heavier than me, but Mrs. McLean had someone on her staff take it in. Evalyn and Inga—her fortyish, blonde maid, a dourly attractive woman who’d been with her “mistress” over twenty years, and who was aware of my true identity—sat in the backseat and directed me; I didn’t mind having two backseat drivers: my only flaw as a chauffeur, after all, was my complete lack of familiarity with Washington, D.C., and its environs.

  From Massachusetts Avenue, we had headed in the direction of Baltimore, then doubled back; we were soon off the main highway and exploring the wilds of Maryland via narrow, rutted back roads, occasionally gravel, usually dirt. The private drive to Far View was gravel, but neglected, weeds overtaking it; the same was true of the grounds, where weeds poked up between the patches of snow. Nonetheless, the house itself—which I had foolishly pictured as the modest “country place” Evalyn had casually mentioned—was impressive in the moonlight, a sprawling Southern mansion of the plantation variety, pillars and all, ghostly white amidst tall skeletal trees.

  “My mother spent a lot of time here,” Evalyn said, leaning up from the backseat. “I haven’t been out here, since she died.”

  “When did she die?” I asked.

  “Last month.”

  It was the first she’d mentioned it, but I found that telling. She’d jumped on the Lindbergh bandwagon within weeks of her mother dying. Evalyn—a woman in mourning, her emotions frazzled, looking to do something meaningful with her rich, empty life—made easy prey for a shark like Gaston Means.

  “I’m sorry about your mother,” I said.

  “Another victim of the Hope diamond curse?” she wondered aloud wryly. “She was a Christian Scientist, actually…wouldn’t stand for medical help. Thank God I’m a heathen.”

  “You never liked this house anyway,” Inga said.

  “True,” Evalyn said. “I don’t like its history.”

  “What history?” I asked.

  Evalyn leaned back. “A man and wife lived here, a long time ago. They fought continually—he beat her for her supposed faithlessness, and on nights when the wind was blowing a certain way, her screams could be heard for miles, it’s said. Finally he knocked her over the head and put her down a well, here.”