Stolen Away

I stood. “The house wall is a foot and a half thick, and the sill is almost as wide. Anybody entering through that window would have to span a distance of almost three feet to actually get in this room proper. Doing that without leaving mud, without moving the chest, without disturbing the suitcase or toy rabbit, and all without making a ruckus…very improbable.”

Lindbergh said nothing.

I opened the window and felt the rush of cold air. The shutters wouldn’t close. “Are the shutters on any of the other windows warped like this?”

“No.”

“They must have known about this,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to shut them.

“A chisel was found outside,” Lindbergh said, “which would indicate they thought they’d have to break in. They just got lucky, picking this window.”

“I don’t know what the chisel was for, other than maybe to make somebody assume what you just assumed. This window wasn’t pried open, was it?”

“No. It wasn’t locked; we lock the shutters, not the windows.”

“But this window is directly over the curtainless window of your study below. The French windows, on the other side of the room, over a side door, are what a kidnapper who didn’t know about the broken shutter would’ve come in through.”

Lindbergh said, “Now you’re sounding like Schwarzkopf.”

“Good,” I said. “Then he’s thinking like a cop.”

“You’ve changed your mind, then. You’re convinced this is an ‘inside job.’”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” I said. “I’m just keeping it open. The worst and most common investigator’s error is making a snap decision at the outset about who or what is behind a crime. I noticed some scientific studies and books and such in your library.”

“Yes.”

“Well, in science, if you start out with an answer you want to prove is correct, it screws your research up, right? Because you’re only looking for the evidence that proves your point.”

Lindbergh nodded.

I walked over to him. He was still in the doorway.

“You don’t want to think your servants could be involved, do you? You trust them. You like them.”

“I hired them,” he said.

And that, of course, was the nub: if a servant did it, then Lindy was, ultimately, responsible. And he couldn’t face that.

“In science,” I said, “the truth hurts sometimes. You wouldn’t want a doctor to lie to you, would you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then I’m not going to lie to you. Nor am I going to kiss your ass. I’m going to level with you, and tell you how I see things.”

His face was deadpan for what seemed an eternity. I realized I may have crossed the line with Lindy; tomorrow at this time, I could be getting off the train back in Chicago. Which was fine, if the alternative was standing around making like a horse’s-ass yes-man.

But I wouldn’t have to, because Lindbergh smiled, big and natural.

“Do you mind if I call you ‘Nate’?”

“I’d be honored,” I said, and meant it. “Could I call you something besides ‘Colonel’? Every time I say that, eight heads turn.”

He laughed softly. He extended his hand to me, as if we hadn’t shaken before.

“My friends call me ‘Slim.’ I’d appreciate it if you called me that, at least when we’re more or less in private.”

We shook hands, loose and casual.

“Okay…Slim,” I said, trying it out. “I’ll be more formal when it seems appropriate.”

“Thanks.”

We headed back downstairs, where Schwarzkopf—looking like a hotel doorman in that fancy-ass uniform—met us halfway.

“Colonel,” he said, “agents Irey and Wilson are waiting to see you.”

5

Elmer Irey and Frank J. Wilson were waiting in Lindbergh’s study; neither had taken a seat. They stood there, hats in hand, both in black, like twin undertakers.

Irey and Wilson were the Ike and Mike of law enforcement—wearing different-color ties wasn’t enough to lessen the sameness. Both men were in their mid-forties and wore round-lensed black eyeglasses like Robert Woolsey of the Wheeler and Woolsey comedy team—a couple of solemn, long-faced, round-jawed, dark-haired, jug-eared feds as interchangeable as a pair of socks.

Irey was the boss; he was the chief of the Internal Revenue intelligence unit. Wilson—and if you had to tell them apart, Wilson was the balding one—was his chief agent.

The two men traded blank looks upon seeing me, but in that blankness was a wealth of contempt.

Then Irey stepped forward and, with a smile as thin as the ace of spades, offered his hand to Lindbergh, saying, “It’s a great honor meeting you, Colonel. I wish the circumstances were otherwise. This is Agent Wilson.”

Wilson stepped forward, shook hands with Lindbergh, saying, “An honor meeting you, Colonel.”

Lindbergh offered them chairs and, as Breckinridge had just hung up the phone, took his position behind the desk. Breckinridge stood behind him and to his left, like a field marshal. Schwarzkopf and I took chairs on the sidelines.

Irey, his hat in his lap, glanced around the study at what must have seemed to him an unnecessary crowd of observers.

“I think, Colonel,” Irey said, in a voice bread-and-butter bland, “that we might want some privacy.”