Vanished

by Danielle Steel

  “I beg your pardon.” Malcolm looked outraged. “Miss Sanders has been my secretary for the past six years, as I'm sure you know, and I'm not in the habit of becoming involved with my secretarial assistants.”

  John Taylor looked amused at that. “I believe you married your last one.”

  Malcolm flushed a deep purple and did not look amused. “Miss Sanders has a character of the highest order.”

  “That's impressive certainly.” Taylor looked unflustered, and was secretly amused. In fact, he loved it. “But the two of you travel together a great deal, even to Europe. And I notice that even on the ships you take, your cabins are always adjacent to each other.” He had researched it carefully, even with deck plans.

  “That is perfectly normal, if I expect the woman to work with me. Since you've done your research so well, I'm sure that you're aware I frequently take my other secretary as well, Mrs. Higgins. She's in her late fifties, and I'm sure she'd be extremely flattered by your suggestions.” But it wasn't the older woman who interested John, it was Brigitte. And he also knew that Mrs. Higgins hadn't traveled with him in well over two years, but he didn't say that to Malcolm.

  “I apologize if the question seems impertinent, sir. But just as we had to delve into your wife's history, it's important that we are aware of yours as well. Angry lovers can do some very nasty things.”

  “Miss Sanders is neither angry, nor my lover, I can assure you.” His face was still red from Taylor's suggestions. They went on talking for a short time about Malcolm's involvements in Germany, his business dealings in the States, and any people he could have angered with deals he had made. But there seemed to be nothing worth mentioning. All Taylor could figure out by the end of it was that Teddy had been taken either for money or for revenge. If it was money, they'd hear something soon. If it was revenge, it had to be Charles, and John just prayed that Delauney wouldn't hurt the boy.

  They talked about Delauney again, and Taylor reiterated that there was no evidence against the man, there was nothing to link him to the child or the crime, except the foolish things he had said to Marielle. And you couldn't put a man in jail for being stupid. He had an alibi, there was no evidence, and even if he had a motive, it was all still pretty shaky.

  “I still think he's our man,” Malcolm said solemnly as he walked John to the front door, and the inspector nodded.

  “Unfortunately, so do I. And if he is, let's just hope we get him.”

  Malcolm left him at the front door, and Taylor pushed his way through the throng of press outside. Finally, two hours later, as Malcolm and Marielle sat down to dinner in the dining room, the call came.

  Two policemen took the call, pretending to be servants, the recording machine was set in operation instantly, and by the time Malcolm came on the line seemingly innocently, everything was rolling.

  They had asked for him in an accent that screamed of South Bronx or East Jersey. “Yes, this is Mr. Patterson.” Four policemen, and Marielle, were holding on at various extensions. “Who is this?”

  “I've got a friend here … a little guy in red pajamas.” Marielle felt dizzy as she held her hand over the phone and listened. They had taken him exactly forty-six hours before, and as she held the phone in her trembling hand, she was crying.

  “How is he?” Malcolm closed his eyes as he listened.

  “He's fine. Kinda cold, I think. We need some money to buy the little guy a blanket.”

  “May I speak to him?” Malcolm said calmly, but the policeman watching him saw that his hand was trembling.

  “Nah …he's sleeping. Let's talk about the money first.”

  “How much do you need?”

  “Oh … I'd say about two hundred thousand dollars would buy a nice blanket.” It was four times what the Lindberghs had paid and well worth it. “In unmarked bills, Mr. Smart Guy. In a locker at Grand Central Station. You leave it there. No cops. No marked bills. No funny stuff. You leave it there as long as it takes for us to pick it up. And when we're ready, you get your kid back.”

  “How do I know he's all right now?”

  “You don't.” The voice was hard and ugly. “But you screw me around, you tell the cops, you do anything … we kill him.” Marielle felt the room reel as she listened, and perspiration was pouring down Malcolm's face when he hung up. He had written down all the instructions, and in any case, the call had been recorded.

  John Taylor arrived at the house less than half an hour later, Malcolm was still looking gray, and Marielle was shaking. They hadn't let them speak to the child, and he reminded them that there was no way of knowing if the call was for real, or from some crank, or someone who wanted to make some easy money. People were cruel, and sometimes they wanted to get in on the excitement. But at least it was a hope, something to cling to, and when Taylor left the room, Malcolm dropped his face in his hands and sobbed. It was their only hope of seeing Teddy.

  The money was organized by midnight that night. The Intelligence Unit of the Treasury Department had placed half a million dollars in marked bills in Malcolm's account the day before, and Taylor called the president of the bank and asked him to release two hundred thousand of it. A small black alligator bag was filled and by two a.m., everything was in place in a locker in Grand Central Station. They'd been told to place an ad in the Daily Mirror when the bag was in place, and by the next morning, the ad was where it should be, and hundreds of plainclothes cops were swarming all over Grand Central Station, walking back and forth, sleeping on benches, eating hot dogs, reading magazines, looking like anyone else, and waiting for someone to pick up the ransom. But after three days, it was clear that no one was going to take it. The call was a cruel prank, and as hope waned, Marielle couldn't even make herself get out of bed. By Saturday, she looked gray, and Malcolm looked even worse than she did. The strain was telling on both of them, and somehow it all seemed worse because it was only six days till Christmas. The prospect of spending Christmas without him made it an added agony, as Malcolm stared at Marielle across their uneaten dinner.

  “Why? Why didn't they come for it?” She was haunted by the call, and the threat to kill him if anything went wrong. What if they had? What if they'd panicked and killed him?

  “Taylor says it was a prank, you know that.” He was being sharp with her again. But he couldn't stand the strain anymore either. “I still think it was Delauney.”

  “Then why don't they find something, dammit? Why in God's name can't they find who did it!” She went back upstairs again then, unable to sit there any longer. Even the now familiar sight of John Taylor was no longer reassuring, and the next day Malcolm begged him to search Delauney's house again, and Taylor promised to do it.

  It was Sunday afternoon, almost exactly one week after the kidnapping when they found it. It was in the basement of the Delauney mansion, in the wine cellar, hidden behind some old cases. One of the police found what he thought was a rag at first, it didn't look like much more than that, but when he moved the case aside he saw it, and he held it up with a look of astonishment, and then he knew he'd found what they had come for. It was a pair of red child's pajamas, with little blue embroideries on the collar. He walked upstairs as fast as he could, and asked to speak to Inspector Taylor, and then he showed him what he'd found. Taylor stood and looked at it for a long moment, and then wondered where the child had gone, what Delauney had done with him. There was a lot they had to find out now. He went back to where Delauney sat and told him what they'd found as Charles dropped his face into his hands and swore he hadn't done it.

  “My own son died years ago.” He looked up at John imploringly. “I know what it's like …why would I do that to someone else?” It didn't make sense, and in John's heart he hoped Charles hadn't done it.

  John Taylor snapped handcuffs on him, and moments later he was downtown, the red pajamas carefully sealed in an envelope in Taylor's hand, and Charles Delauney was booked for kidnapping.

  John called Malcolm and Marielle, and she cried when she
heard they had found Teddy's pajamas.

  “But where is he?” That was all that mattered.

  “We don't know yet. We're going to question Delauney now. But I wanted to bring him downtown to do it. We can be rougher here.” They both knew John Taylor meant business. “I'll call you as soon as we know anything.” But this explained why there had been no real requests for ransom. Charles had done it for revenge, or out of anger, or to get Marielle and he certainly didn't need any money from them. He had the only thing he wanted: the boy. But the real question was, what had he done with him after he took him? And where was he now? And worst of all …was he still living?

  Marielle looked heartbroken when John Taylor hung up, and she couldn't help wondering what Malcolm was thinking. He said not a single word to her. He simply walked upstairs, and silently closed the door to his bedroom.

  When news of Charles Delauney's arrest leaked out, the press went wild, and there were ten times as many reporters outside the Patterson home the next morning. Malcolm only went out under heavy police escort. The reporters hounded John Taylor now too, and the chief of police. They wanted to know everything. This was big news and they wanted the story. The heir to one of the most important fortunes in the country had been arrested for kidnapping …more than that, it was a crime of passion, a saga of revenge …the accused had been married to another scion's wife, and held her responsible for the death of their child. Despite all of John's efforts, word had leaked out, and the scandal was full-blown and out of control by Christmas. By then, Charles had been in custody at Federal Detention Headquarters for five days, and still there was no news of Teddy. Delauney still swore he had no idea where he was and had had nothing to do with it, which led John Taylor to fear that he had killed him. Much to his own chagrin, he told Marielle and Malcolm that on Christmas night. But he felt certain now that Delauney's stubbornness about the crime meant that he had done it as revenge, and Taylor thought it more than likely that he had killed him.

  “Oh my God.” Malcolm's whole body swayed when Taylor told him, but this time Marielle held firm, and put an arm around him as though to soothe him. She hadn't had a headache in days, and her whole life centered around waiting for news of Teddy.

  “I can't believe that,” she said quietly in answer to Taylor's news. “I can't believe we'll never see him again. No matter what Charles did, I can't believe he would have killed him.”

  “Come to your senses!” Malcolm shouted at her in front of John Taylor. “When are you going to understand that the man took him as revenge for his own child? His child is dead and so is mine….” And somehow the way he said it told her in no uncertain terms that he blamed her. John Taylor heard the implication too, but there was nothing he could say to help her. He wanted to whisper to her, “Be strong,” or hold her for a moment before he left the room. But he could say nothing. He only squeezed her hand, imperceptibly, and then he left her with Malcolm.

  Christmas didn't even exist for them this year, there was no exchange of gifts, of warm thoughts or feelings. There were no decorations put up anywhere, and Teddy's room was like a little altar to all they'd lost. They both seemed to go there constantly, to renew their hope and spirit. Marielle couldn't believe she'd never hold him in her arms again, couldn't believe he was gone … it wasn't possible …Charles just couldn't do it.

  She lay awake all that night after John had gone, and she knew what she had to do. The next morning when Malcolm went out, to attend to some business, she ordered the car brought around and she asked one of the policemen to drive her downtown. They seemed a little startled at first, but after consulting with the sergeant in charge, they agreed to do it. They spirited her out the servants' door, in a black dress and hat and an old fur coat of her mother's, and the car plowed through the reporters outside the house, and headed downtown as Marielle sat shaking between two policemen in the backseat. She hadn't been out of the house since the kidnapping, and it was terrifying pressing through crowds, and being driven to a police station by four policemen. But she knew that this was something she had to do. No matter what they said, she had to see him.

  He was being held at Federal Detention Headquarters and he had been there for six days. Formal charges had been made almost immediately, for kidnapping. Taylor was still hoping to get a confession out of him, or at least learn the whereabouts of the child, if they could force that out of him. But so far, he had given up nothing.

  There was a handful of reporters on the front steps when she arrived, and as soon as they got a glimpse of her, they went wild, but her escort forced their way through, and a moment later she was inside, breathless and shaking. She explained whom she had come to see, and there were whispered conferences and murmurings. It wasn't a visiting day, and this was highly irregular, but she told them who she was and that she had to see him.

  Finally one of the sergeants in charge took her in, and left her in a small bare room, and ten minutes later, they brought him to her. He was wearing rough pants, one of his own shirts, what looked like combat boots, and he had a week-old beard, and an expression in his eyes she hadn't seen in years, an expression of pain and sorrow that told her what she had come to learn even before she asked him any questions. He began to cry the moment he saw her, and the guard left them alone in the room as he took her in his arms and held her.

  “I didn't do it, Marielle … I swear … I would never do that … I was crazy … I was drunk that day … I don't know …just seeing you there with him … it reminded me of Andre….”

  “I know … I know …shhh … I had to talk to you.” She pulled away from him so she could see him, and she was glad she had come. She had needed to hear from him just what had happened. Slowly, he sat down, and she sat down across from him, and looked at him. How far they had come, and how much pain there still was between them. What happened?”

  “I don't know. They said they found his pajamas in my basement. My God, Marielle …tell me you don't believe it's true….”

  “How did they get there?”

  “I don't know. I swear to God, I don't …I'm a fool … I was terrible to you … I was wrong … I was crazy …but I've spent the rest of my life trying to atone for it, I've never hurt anyone …I've fought for my friends, I was willing to die for their causes because I have nothing more to lose …why would I hurt him? Why would I hurt you? I've done enough to you, and by God …” He sobbed as she held his hands. “I still love you.”

  “I know,” she whispered, she still loved him too. But she loved Teddy more. He was her baby. “But where is he?”

  “I swear, I don't know.” He looked up at her then, his eyes clear and deep and true, and she believed him. “I swear, Marielle, even if they kill me. I promise you, I know nothing of the boy's kidnapping. I hope you find him, for your sake. In spite of everything I said so stupidly, you deserve to.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.” How had they gotten into this? How had it happened?

  The guard came back to them then, and he said she had to leave. She nodded and stood up, and Charles looked at her long and hard before he left her.

  “Believe me” was all he said, and she nodded. It sounded like the truth. But if he hadn't taken the boy, who had? She was no closer to knowing anything than she'd been before she'd come. But at least she knew Charles Delauney hadn't done it. And as she left the tiny room, she was startled to see John Taylor coming toward her. He was FBI and not police and he had no business here, although she assumed he had come to see Charles, but he looked very stern as he led her to a private office.

  “What are you doing here?” He seemed angry at her, almost the way Malcolm would have been, but she was glad she'd come anyway. It had been worth it.

  “I had to see him.”

  “You're a fool.”

  She shook her head and knew she wasn't. “He says he didn't do it. And I believe him.” She had had to know, had to ask, had to see him.

  “And what do you think he's going to say to you? That he killed him?” Sh
e flinched as he said the words, but he was angry at her for coming to see him. “He's not going to tell you the truth. His neck is in the noose and right now he's going to do anything he can to save it.”

  “Why would he lie to me?”

  'Why would he tell you the truth? There's too much at stake for him. Marielle, listen to me, stay away from here. Stay away from him. If we can, well find your son for you, but this man can do nothing for you. He's brought you nothing but pain …leave him alone….” It was not his place to say, but he knew she was being duped. He knew too much about Delauney now. The wildness in Spain, the crazed furies he indulged from time to time, the wild drunks, the rage …the fact that he had hit her when he had …the fact that he still loved her. He wasn't even sure he was sane. That was going to be looked into too. But he didn't want her any more hurt than she had been. And when the press got wind of this, they were going to have a field day. “Come on, I'll take you home.” She nodded, willing to go now. “And next time you want to do something like this, call me.”

  “And what will you say?” She smiled as he led her away. He had the policeman start the car, and all they had to do was make a wild dash for it, with the photographers blazing. Later, there was one picture of her swinging into the car with John Taylor just behind her. “What would you have said if I'd asked you to bring me down here?” she asked as they settled back in the car, and he frowned.

  “I'd have said no.” In no uncertain terms.

  “That's why I didn't call you.” She smiled. But she was feeling relieved. She believed Charles. Maybe it wasn't all her fault. And John Taylor sat watching her, thinking that she was a terrific woman and how much he liked her. Much more than he should have.

  “I'll take you out for a drive and give you a nice stern lecture next time you get an idea like that,” he said as though scolding a child.

  “That's what I was afraid of,” she said quietly, and then said nothing more on the drive home.