Stolen Away (4 page)

“I’m sorry you have to wait to see Charles,” she said, sipping her tea (she’d provided me with some, as well). “But things are hectic here, as you might imagine.”

I nodded.

“Actually, it’s settled down, some, the last two days. Those first several days were sheer bedlam. Hundreds of men stamping in and out, sitting everywhere…on the stairs, on the sink. People sleeping all over the floors on newspapers and blankets.”

“The press is a problem, I suppose.”

“Terrible,” she admitted. “But the troopers are keeping them at bay…and, in their defense, the news people
were
cooperative when I gave them Charlie’s diet.”

Charlie, of course, was her missing son.

“They published it widely,” she said, with satisfaction. “He has a cold, you know.” She swallowed, smiled her prim, charming smile and said, “I admire men like you, Mr. Heller.”

I almost did a spit take. “Me?”

“Such self-sacrifice and energy. Such selfless devotion.”

She sure had me pegged.

“You brought a mother and a child back together,” she said, “didn’t you?”

“Well…yes, but…”

“You needn’t be modest. You can’t know the hope that gives us, Charles and me.”

She reached out for my hand and squeezed it.

Had I given her false hope? Maybe. But maybe false hope was better than no hope at all.

“Excuse me,” a voice behind us said.

The voice came from the doorway that led to the sitting room and outside; it was a male voice, so my first thought was of Lindbergh himself. Instead it belonged to a square-jawed six-footer about forty with dark blond hair combed straight back and a small, perfectly trimmed and waxed mustache. He was in an officer’s variation of that blue uniform with yellow-striped riding britches; all he lacked was a riding crop, a monocle and a saber.

“Colonel Schwarzkopf,” Anne Lindbergh said, without rising, “this is Nathan Heller of the Chicago Police Department.”

Schwarzkopf nodded, resisting any urge to click his heels. “Mr. Heller—if I might have a moment?”

“Colonel,” Anne said, troubled by Schwarzkopf’s expression and tone, “I thought you were in conference with Charles.”

“Yes, Mrs. Lindbergh. But he and Colonel Breckinridge needed a word in private. Mr. Heller?”

I thanked Anne Lindbergh for her kindness in general and her ham sandwich in particular. Schwarzkopf bowed to her, in his silly formal way, and the two of us stepped into the room beyond the kitchen, a spacious well-stocked pantry.

He looked at me with disdain. “I don’t know how you people do things in Chicago. Judging by what I read in the newspapers, you don’t do them very damn well. Murder in the street. Corruption in city hall. It took the
federals
to nail Capone.”

“This is fascinating, learning all about Chicago like this. But don’t I have an appointment with Colonel Lindbergh?”

He trained his hazel eyes on me like the twin barrels of a twelve-gauge. “In New Jersey, I run a force of one hundred and twenty hand-picked, highly motivated and rigidly disciplined men.” He thumped my chest with a forefinger—just like that inspector out in the garage had. “You’re in my territory, mister. You’ll play by my rules, or you won’t play at all.”

I grabbed his finger in my fist; I didn’t squeeze it, I didn’t get tough with him. I just grabbed the finger and stopped him thumping me with it. His eyes and nostrils flared.

“Don’t put your hands on me,” I advised. “You might get your uniform mussed.”

I let go of the finger and he drew it back, indignantly.

Through clenched teeth, he said, “You were rude and disrespectful to one of my key people, Inspector Welch, who is no doubt twice the policeman you’ll ever be. You used coarse language of a kind that may be acceptable in Chicago circles, but will not, mister, be countenanced here—not in my world.”

I smiled pleasantly. “Colonel Schwarzkopf, let me make a couple things clear. First of all, I’m just here to advise and to help, because several people wanted me to come, including Colonel Lindbergh. Second, that asshole Welch called me ‘sonny boy,’ twice. Do I look like a refugee from a Jolson picture to you?”

That froze him. He did not know what to say to me. He did not know what to make of me. He just knew, whatever I was, he didn’t like it or me.

“I don’t think you’re going to fare very well with Colonel Lindbergh,” he said, finally, with an icy smile.

“Well,” I said, shrugging. “Why don’t you lead the way, and let’s see.”

Nodding curtly, he did.

Footsteps echoing on hardwood floors, I trailed Schwarzkopf through the foyer past the second-floor stairs and into a large living room where a dog was barking. I didn’t see the animal at first, but its bark was ringing through the open-beamed room, the shrill sound of a small, hysterical pooch. To my left, French doors led to a flat terrace where a New Jersey trooper, in his perfect light-blue uniform jacket with orange piping, stood guard. Despite the bustle of activity elsewhere, this room was empty, but for the barking dog, who revealed himself as a little white-and-brown wirehaired fox terrier on a pillow on a green sofa. Fireplaces stood like brick bookends at either side of the big room, both unlit, emphasizing the coldness of the house.

That coldness wasn’t restricted to temperature: the newness of everything—the vague smell of recent paint and plaster, the absence of personal touches (the hearth was bare)—made the house seem charmless, impersonal.

“Wahgoosh!” Schwarzkopf barked back at the dog as we passed.

I didn’t understand what he was saying—some Teutonic curse, for all I knew.

“Mutt’s been barking constantly since we got here,” Schwarzkopf said, with quiet irritation.

“Did he bark the night of the kidnapping?”

Schwarzkopf shook his head no.

“You know what Sherlock Holmes said about the curious incident of the dog in the night.”

Schwarzkopf frowned, nodded toward the terrier. “That damn dog didn’t do a damn thing in the night.”

“That was the curious incident,” I said. “Inside job, you think?”

Schwarzkopf shrugged, but his manner said yes.

Just beyond the living room, sitting on a straight-back chair leaned against the wall, was a small, dark man in a three-piece black-and-gray pinstripe with a flourish of white silk handkerchief flaring out of his breast pocket.

“Hiya, Colonel,” he said to Schwarzkopf, not getting up. His accent was New York through and through.

Schwarzkopf, who seemed to like this guy even less than he liked me, grunted.

“Ain’t ya going to introduce us?” the cocky little guy asked, nodding toward me. He had a tabloid newspaper,
Daily Variety
, in his lap.

“No,” Schwarzkopf said, as we moved past.

I jerked a thumb back at the guy and began to speak, but Schwarzkopf cut me off with: “Don’t ask.”

He came to a halt before a big white door and knocked twice.

“Come in,” a voice within said. The voice of a young man—a weary man, but most of all young.

Slender, blond, handsome, haggard, Lindbergh stood behind a big dark oak desk cluttered with notes and phone messages, and smoothed his brown suit coat—he wore no tie, his collar loose—smiling warmly at me, extending a hand, as if we were old friends. Seated across from him was a lanky, distinguished-looking gray-haired, gray-mustached fellow in his fifties in a three-piece gray tailored suit. He also rose as I entered, and just kept rising—he was as tall as Lindbergh, easily, and Lindbergh was probably six-three or-four.

“You’d be Mr. Heller,” Lindbergh said. He nodded to the man in gray and said, “And this is my attorney, Colonel Henry Breckinridge, from New York.”

I reached across the desk and received the firm handshake I’d expected from Lindbergh; Breckinridge was equally firm with his handshake and smiled in a tight, businesslike but friendly manner. His face was soft, his features bland, but his steel-gray eyes under bold strokes of black eyebrow hinted at something stronger.

Lindbergh gestured to the chair next to Breckinridge and I sat, while Schwarzkopf stood behind us, at parade rest. Lindbergh’s smile disappeared. “Sorry about the mix-up—Whately was supposed to bring you directly to me.”

“That’s no problem, Colonel.”

He sat. “Well, I apologize if there’s been any inconvenience. God knows we appreciate your presence. I know Anne is thrilled to have you on the case, after your success with those kidnappers in Chicago.”

“Well…thank you. I’m just here to help, if I can.”

Attorney Breckinridge spoke up in a mellow, modulated voice that must have served him well in court. “We’re expecting agents Irey and Wilson of the Treasury Department later this afternoon.”

“They’re good men,” I said.

“I received a call from Eliot Ness,” Lindbergh said, “recommending you highly, Mr. Heller. We hope you can stay on until—well, until Charlie is home and in his mother’s arms.”

“I’d like that.”

“I’ve spoken to Mayor Cermak,” Lindbergh said, “and he indicated your department would assign you here until I choose to release you.”

“Well…that’s fine.” It seemed odd, though, to be assigned directly to the victim’s father; why not to Schwarzkopf? Not that I wanted to be.

The phone rang, once, and Lindbergh answered it. His responses were monosyllabic and I couldn’t get the gist of the conversation; I let my eyes roam around the dark-wood-paneled study. Several walls were dominated by books, not the usual unread, leather-bound variety you see in a wealthy home, but novels and books of poetry mingled with scientific and aviation tomes. A fireplace on the wall opposite the door cast a warm glow; above the mantel was a framed aeronautical map. Light filtered in through a sheet that had been hung over the uncurtained window, across the room behind me. This was, I knew from what I’d read, the window directly under the one that the kidnapper had gone in. The nursery would be directly above us.

There were no mementos of fame in this room: no replicas of his silver monoplane, no medals, no trophies. Other than the well-read books and several framed family photos on his desk—among them the curly-haired cherubic Charles, Jr.—this study seemed as unlived-in as the rest of the house.

Lindbergh hung up the phone and smiled tightly. “They’ve picked up Red Johnson in Hartford.”

“Good!” Schwarzkopf said.

It struck me as strange that this call had come directly to Lindbergh; shouldn’t the chief investigator, who was obviously Schwarzkopf, receive it? Why did the head of the New Jersey Police seem to be reporting to the victim’s father? Curiouser and curiouser.

“Red Johnson,” I said, remembering the newspaper accounts. “Isn’t he the sailor-boy boyfriend of your nurse, Betty Gow?”

Lindbergh nodded; his face revealed nothing. He had a pale, hollow-eyed look, but no emotion, nothing, could be read there.

“The Hartford boys will hold him and grill him,” Schwarzkopf said. “But we’ll get our shot.”

“Did you meet Betty?” Lindbergh asked me.

“Coming in,” I said. “Pretty girl. Seems nice enough.”

Lindbergh nodded. “She’s innocent in this,” he said, with a troubling finality.

Schwarzkopf spoke up. “That doesn’t mean
Red Johnson
is innocent. That sailor may have pried some information loose from the girl. She could be the ‘inside man’ without intending to be, Colonel—let’s not lose sight of that.”

Reluctantly, Lindbergh nodded.

Breckinridge turned toward me in his chair. “How much do you know about the case?”

“Just what I’ve read in the
Trib,
back home,” I admitted. “But I’m not so convinced it had to be an inside job.”

Lindbergh looked up. “Oh?”

I shrugged. “There was a lot in the papers about the construction of your house, here. I remember seeing pictures and articles about the layout of the rooms, who was to occupy them and so on, months ago. And hell, I live in Chicago. Surrounded by these woods, you could be observed easily—a guy posted in a tree, with binoculars, could determine in a matter of weeks what your pattern was.”

Schwarzkopf, shaking his head, no, said, “Their pattern was broken. The Lindberghs had been staying here weekends only. But because little Charles caught a cold, Mrs. Lindbergh didn’t want to travel, and they stayed over an extra night.”

“That does sound like an insider tipped an outsider off,” I allowed. “And the dog not barking indicates a friendly, familiar face might be involved.”

Schwarzkopf grunted in vindication.

But I continued, directing my comments to Lindbergh: “I’m just saying I wouldn’t rule out a gang specializing in the so-called snatch racket keeping your house staked out, ’round the clock, seven days a week. In which case, the change of pattern becomes irrelevant.”

Lindbergh was looking at me carefully. “I’d like to show you around myself, Mr. Heller,” he said, standing. “I’d like to get your firsthand reaction to some things.”

“That’s why I’m here, Colonel,” I said, with a serious smile.

Schwarzkopf was frowning again.

Lindbergh caught it.

“Colonel,” Lindbergh said, addressing the cop, not the lawyer, “I expect you to cooperate fully with Detective Heller. He’s come a long way to lend us a hand.”

“Yes, sir,” Schwarzkopf said dutifully, respectfully. The guy really did seem to view Lindbergh as his boss.

Lindbergh was out from behind the desk now; he gestured to the phone. “Henry, if you wouldn’t mind…”

“Gladly,” Breckinridge said, and rose and took Lindbergh’s position behind the desk. One of the most expensive lawyers in New York—in the country—was playing secretary for Lindy.

Schwarzkopf stepped between Lindbergh and me. “Would you like me to accompany you, Colonel?”

“That won’t be necessary, Colonel,” Lindbergh said.

If one more colonel showed up, I’d jump off the roof.

“I’d best join my men at the command post,” Schwarzkopf said, summoning his dignity. His footsteps were echoing across the living room as Lindbergh and I exited the study. That dark, dapper little guy was still sitting in the hall, reading his show-business paper. He stood up, upon seeing Lindbergh.

“Any news, Colonel?” the guy said, eager as a puppy (speaking of which, the dog had begun barking again, at Schwarzkopf).

“Red Johnson is in custody over in Hartford,” Lindbergh said.

“Hey, that’s swell.”

“Nathan Heller, this is Morris Rosner.”

“Hiya,” he said, grinning, extending his hand.

I took it, shook it.

“
Mickey
Rosner?” I said.

“You heard of me?” he asked. It was damn near “hoid.”

“The speakeasy king, right?”

He straightened his tie, hitched his shoulders. “Well, I’m in the sports and entertainment field, yes.”

“There’s nothing sporting
or
entertaining about kidnapping,” I said.

Lindbergh cleared his throat.

“Mr. Rosner has made his services available as a go-between,” he said, “Since it’s the general consensus that the underworld is involved in this…”

“My lawyer is a partner in the Colonel’s office,” Rosner interrupted.

“In your office?” I said to Lindbergh.

“Not that Colonel,” Rosner said.

“Oh,” I said. “You mean Breckinridge.”

“No,” Lindbergh said. “Colonel Donovan.”

Which way to the roof?

“Colonel Donovan?” I asked Lindbergh.

He said, “William Donovan.”

“Wild Bill Donovan,” Rosner said to me, and from the tone of his voice he might as well have added “ya joik.”

While I was trying to sort out how you get from Wild Bill Donovan, currently running for governor of New York, to Broadway bootlegger Mickey Rosner, Lindbergh was explaining to the latter just who and what I was. “Mr. Heller is our liaison man with the Chicago Police.”

“The Chicago Police,” Rosner said, smirking. Then with a straight face, he said to me, “You think Capone’s offer is for real?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “What do you ‘t’ink,’ Mickey?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Capone’s a king in his world. What he says generally goes. I think the Colonel should maybe pay attention to the Big Fellow.”

Mickey didn’t say which colonel he meant.

Lindbergh nodded to Rosner in dismissal, and the little bootlegger sat down and returned to his reading.

The dog had stopped barking, but resumed when he saw me. Lindbergh said, “Shush, Wahgoosh,” and the dog fell silent.

“What the hell is ‘Wahgoosh’?”

“The pooch’s name,” Lindbergh said, with that shy midwestern kid’s smile of his.

“Oh,” I said, as if that made sense.

“You’d have to ask Whately what it means. Wahgoosh was Oliver’s dog, but we’ve kind of adopted the little yapper.”

“Colonel,” I said, “do you really think it’s advisable to have the likes of Rosner around? That no-account bum could be in on the crime…”

“I know,” Lindbergh said, gently. “That’s one of the reasons why he
is
around.”

“Oh,” I said again.

Lindbergh opened the front door and led me outside into the chilly overcast afternoon; he nodded to the trooper on guard at the door. Lindy hadn’t bothered with a topcoat, so I didn’t say anything, but it was goddamn cold. I followed him across the yard to the left, back toward where his study would be.

We walked directly outside his study window, below the second-floor corner window, which faced southeast. He pointed up.

“That’s where they went in,” he said, meaning the kidnappers.

“Why isn’t this area roped off?” I said, looking at the ground, hands tucked under my arms. “Was it
ever
roped off?”

“No,” he said.

“Weren’t there footprints?”

There certainly were now. Hundreds of them. Grass might never grow on this ground.

Lindbergh nodded, breath smoking. “There was one substantial footprint—belonging, apparently, to a man. It seemed to be that of a moccasin, or a shoe with a sock or perhaps burlap around it. There were also the footprints of a woman.”

“A woman? So there were two of them, at least.”

“So it would seem.”

“Have the moulage impressions been sent to Washington?”

Lindbergh narrowed his eyes. “Moulage impressions?”

“Plaster casts of the footprints. Say what you want about J. Edgar’s boys, they have a hell of a lab. For one thing, they’ll tell you exactly what that man was wearing—moccasin or potato sack or glass slipper.”

“Colonel Schwarzkopf’s man took photographs, not plaster impressions. Was that a mistake?”

I sighed. “Is Bismarck a herring?”

Lindbergh shook his head wearily. “I know mistakes were made that night. It’s possible plaster casts weren’t taken simply because the reporters trampled this area before there could be.”