Stolen Away

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.

4

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.