Stolen Away

“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.