Stolen Away

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.”