Stolen Away

“They showed me some of the ransom money.”

I looked sharply at Lindbergh and Breckinridge.

“Fifteen hundred in fives, tens and twenties,” Curtis continued. “They gave me a list of the bills, in a newspaper clipping, and I checked several against it.” He took a breath and nodded, once. “These are the men who have the Colonel’s money, all right.”

Silence hung in the room like humidity.

Then Lindbergh, clearly sold, said, “I think we can proceed with depositing that twenty-five thousand and arranging the safe return of my son.”

Curtis sighed in relief “Thank God, Colonel. Of course, you know I’m at your service.”

Lindbergh rose. “I need a few moments, in private, with my attorney and my police consultant. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Curtis said, heartily, rising.

“I would like you to stay for supper, of course, and we’ll talk this evening.” Lindy reached his hand across the desk.

Curtis, beaming, shook Lindbergh’s hand, then did the same with Breckinridge and myself, as we stood briefly, politely, till he was out the door.

“What do you think, Nate?” Slim asked, sitting back down.

“Much of what he says does jibe with things that the man on the street couldn’t know.”

Breckinridge, who’d been quiet, said, “Much of it jibes with Condon.”

“And even with Gaston Means,” I said. “And Curtis—despite a flair for theater that rivals the Great Jafsie—seems a reliable go-between. Did you check up on his financial standing?”

I was asking Lindy, but Breckinridge answered. “His shipping firm has had its ups and downs, in these hard times. But he appears solvent. And his social standing is unquestioned.”

Lindbergh was nodding. “And his fellow go-betweens Dobson-Peacock and, of course, Admiral Burrage are unimpeachable.”

“Well, then,” I said, “play out the hand—but, of course, you’ll bring in Irey and Wilson.”

“What do you mean?” Lindbergh asked, as if the concept I’d suggested were arcane.

“Slim—if we’ve learned anything from Condon, not to mention Gaston Means, it’s that we can’t play by the rules in a game set up by cheaters. Curtis is running around with these ‘kidnappers’ like a freshman on a fraternity hazing. You need to have the authorities in on this—carefully, secretly, without Curtis’s knowledge—but in on it. He has to be shadowed, and when the ransom payment is made, you follow the fucker who gets the money to wherever he goes and…”

“No,” Lindbergh said, shaking his head vigorously. “Nate, no. We play it straight.”

I looked at him the way you look at a driver who signals right and turns left. “What do you mean, ‘straight’?”

“Curtis is honest, and reliable. I trust him. I think he can get Charlie back.”

“That isn’t the point!” I was on my feet now, leaning my hands on his desk. “If these are in fact the same sons of bitches who took that fifty grand from Condon, then they’ve already screwed you, once! And if they’re just some interloping extortionist gang, then you’re going to just throw more goddamn dough out the window.” I took my hands off his desk; I was shaking my head, frustrated, disgusted. “You can’t be serious, Slim—you have to have learned something from the Condon experience….”

His face was stone.

Breckinridge seemed sympathetic to my stance, or at least his expression said so, even if he didn’t.

I backed away from the desk. I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. Summoned a sense of calm and crawled inside. “Well, then, that’s it, Slim. This is where I get off.”

“I’d like you to stay.” His voice was earnest; his eyes were hurt. “We’re still dealing with bootleggers, rumrunners…we can’t rule out the Capone connection.”

“I don’t rule that out. But I can’t be party to this any longer. It just goes against my grain as a cop. All due respect.”

“If that’s how you feel…”

“It’s how I feel.”

He stood. “I do understand, Nate.” His words were cordial, but his tone was tense. “I…respect what you’re saying. But you know how I feel about getting my son back.”

“I know,” I said, trying to sound at least a little conciliatory. “My point is, you’ve been going about it all wrong.”

A frown grazed his face—nobody talked to him that way—but it was gone as he came out from around the desk. “Then, uh…you’ll be heading back for Chicago soon?”

“I’ll drive Mrs. McLean back to Washington, tonight. I’ll catch the train there, tomorrow.”

“Fine.” He dug in his pocket. “Here’s some expense money.” He peeled off five twenties.

I had a hunch I was supposed to feel insulted. Maybe I did feel a little insulted. But I put the money in my pocket.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You’ll stay for supper?” he asked.

“Yes. And we’ll have to talk to Evalyn, about Means.”

“The Means information was a dead end?”

He didn’t know how dead.

“Slim, Means is a completely unreliable go-between. Don’t ask how I know, but any lines of communication he may have had with the kidnappers have been severed.”

He wondered about that, but I’d asked him not to ask how I knew, and he was goddamn good about playing by the rules some other asshole imposed on him.