Stolen Away

Lindbergh looked to his left, then to Irey and said, guilelessly, “The door is closed.”

Edgily, Wilson said, “Colonel, we really should speak to you confidentially.”

Lindbergh’s smile was a tad tired, “Gentlemen, I can’t tell you how pleased and grateful I am that you’ve taken your Sunday to make this trip. Your help, your counsel, is something we greatly need. But the men in this room are my closest advisers.”

Who, me?

“Colonel Breckinridge is my attorney and one of my closest friends,” he continued. “Colonel Schwarzkopf is in charge of the State Police in whose jurisdiction this matter lies.”

Irey said, “With all due respect to Colonel Schwarzkopf, there have already been numerous flaws in the methods employed by the state police.”

“Really?” Schwarzkopf said, icily. “Such as?”

“Your fingerprint man,” Irey said, turning to look at the frowning Schwarzkopf, “failed to find any latents on the ransom letter or envelope, the ladder, the chisel, the window, the crib or the boy’s toys.”

“It took an outsider,” Wilson chimed in, “to come in and take another try…and he found all sorts of prints, even after ruling out those of your own troopers. Thirty to forty on the ladder alone.”

“Have you sent those prints to Washington?” Irey asked Schwarzkopf. “The Bureau of Investigation has a vast collection of fingerprints of known criminals.”

“This is not a federal matter,” Schwarzkopf said stiffly.

Egos. A kid’s life at stake and they were playing at fucking egos.

“Colonel Schwarzkopf stays, gentlemen,” Lindbergh said. “You may disagree with his methods, but he is, after all, the man in charge.”

Said the man in charge.

Wilson said, flatly, “And what about Heller?”

These T-men knew me, a little, from Chicago. I’d been on the fringes of their Capone investigation. They’d been on the fringes of the Jake Lingle trial.

Lindbergh nodded at me and smiled tightly. “Detective Heller is our liaison man with the Chicago Police Department.”

Irey maintained his poker face; Wilson’s cement face cracked a smile.

“Colonel Lindbergh,” Wilson said, “the first thing we of the Intelligence Unit learned when we took on the Capone case was not to count on the Chicago police.”

Irey gave Wilson a quick, cutting glance. “What Agent Wilson means,” Irey said, “is that this case is not a Chicago matter.”

That wasn’t even close to what Wilson meant.

“It isn’t a federal matter, either,” Schwarzkopf insisted.

“Colonel Lindbergh,” I said, rising, “I’ll be glad to step outside.”

“No, Nate,” Lindbergh said, motioning me to sit back down. “Stay, please.”

And Irey and Wilson did double takes, hearing Lindbergh call me by my first name; and at that moment Eddie Cantor had nothing on Schwarzkopf, in the banjo-eyes department.

“Detective Heller,” Lindbergh said, “comes highly recommended by a colleague of yours.”

“Eliot Ness,” Wilson said, with just a hint of a smirk.

“Yes,” Lindbergh said.

“I believe Heller is a police contact of Eliot’s,” Irey said. “Isn’t that correct, Heller?”

“That’s correct, Elmer.”

Irey, who hadn’t looked at me when he spoke to me, now turned his head my way. His eyes were blue-steel and hard in his placid face. “Heller, you don’t know me well enough to use my first name.”

“My apologies, Mr. Irey. You might attach a ‘mister’ to my name, while you’re at it.”

Lindbergh smiled faintly, briefly.

Irey nodded. “Point well taken, Mr. Heller.” He turned his attention back to Lindbergh. “I don’t want us to get off on the wrong foot, Colonel. While I don’t wish to be critical, I would be less than frank if I didn’t say I’m disturbed by the presence of questionable characters such as…” And I thought he’d insert my name here, but he didn’t. “…Morris ‘Mickey’ Rosner.”

“I can well understand that, Mr. Irey,” Lindbergh said. “But I hope you can understand, gentlemen, that I’m pursuing every avenue that presents itself, where the safe return of my son is concerned.”

Wilson sat forward; he turned his hat in his hand, slowly, like it was a steering wheel. “Colonel, according to newspaper accounts this morning, Rosner has engaged the services of two more underworld types…”

“Salvatore Spitale,” Irey said, reading from a small notebook, “and Irving Bitz.” He looked up from the notebook. “Proprietors of a speakeasy on Forty-First Street in New York.”

Lindbergh nodded. “And I’ve given all three of them expense money. Gentlemen, your disapproval is noted—and I thank you for expressing that disapproval in so restrained a fashion. Rest assured you’re not alone in your opinion.”

Schwarzkopf cleared his throat. “Colonel Lindbergh feels that by letting the underworld know we’ve appointed go-betweens from their ranks, we may facilitate negotiations with the kidnappers. Personally, I share your misgivings, Mr. Irey, Mr. Wilson…but I will accede to the wishes of the Colonel.”

There he went again, treating Lindbergh like his goddamn boss. At least Irey and Wilson knew that the coppers ought to be in charge.