Stolen Away

Irey passed the note to Wilson, who’d already leaned over to read it, but now read it again. “I’m no handwriting expert,” Irey said, “but that does look very similar. As does the distinctive symbol.”

“It’s not exactly the same,” I pointed out.

“But close,” Irey said. “Can I see the first note again?”

Lindbergh obliged him.

“They contain many of the same misspellings,” Irey said, pointing to the first note. “Good is ‘g-u-t,’ money is ‘m-o-n-y.’”

“Signature is misspelled in both notes,” I pointed out, “but in two different ways.”

Wilson said, to nobody in particular, “A German, you think?”

“Possibly,” Irey said. “Probably.”

“Or somebody trying to sound German,” I said.

Lindbergh’s eyes narrowed. “Why would anyone do that?”

I shrugged. “Same reason you’d try to disguise your handwriting. To leave a false trail. The war’s not that distant in the American mind—Germans make swell fall guys.”

“You might be right, Mr. Heller,” Irey admitted. “There’s another oddity, here—particularly in the second note. Small, easy words like ‘not’ and ‘soon’ and ‘hole’ are misspelled; but larger, more difficult words, such as ‘consequences,’ ‘appointment,’ ‘interested,’ among others, are spelled correctly.”

“So maybe somebody’s posing,” I said. “Maybe it’s somebody literate playing semiliterate German immigrant.”

“Or,” Wilson offered, “a semiliterate German using an English/German dictionary…looking up only the hard words.”

“Could be that,” I admitted.

Lindbergh seemed to be enjoying listening to some real cops discuss the case; Schwarzkopf, not surprisingly, hadn’t contributed a goddamn thing. His face twitched with frustration.

“What interests me more than the way the letter looks,” Lindbergh said, “is what it says. It says my son is in good health, and that his abductors saw the diet Anne and I gave to the papers, and they’re following it. That’s good news.”

“They’re also hitting you up for another twenty grand,” I said.

“That doesn’t concern me,” Lindbergh said.

I didn’t know whether that meant that he was rolling in dough, or that he didn’t measure his son in monetary terms.

“It’s clear to me,” Lindbergh continued, “that police participation in this case has to be minimized.”

“What?” Irey said. “Colonel Lindbergh, you can’t be serious…”

“I’m deadly serious. The biggest mistake I made was waiting two hours for the fingerprint officer to arrive, before I allowed that first note to be opened. I’d already called the police in, and the newspapers were already all over the story, before I knew that that note would warn me against the participation of either group.”

“Colonel Lindbergh,” I said gently, “there’s no way you could’ve kept either the cops or the reporters out of this case.”

“Gentlemen,” Lindbergh said, standing, “I appreciate your counsel.”

He extended his hand to Irey, who suddenly realized he was being dismissed; awkwardly Irey stood, as did Wilson.

“Colonel,” Irey said, as they shook hands, “I have to return to Washington, but Agent Wilson is setting up shop with several other agents, in New York. They’ll be working the case from there.”

“Discreetly, I hope,” Lindbergh said.

Irey didn’t seem to know what to say to that.

“We’ll, uh, keep Colonel Schwarzkopf informed of our progress,” Wilson said. “I hope he’ll pay us the same courtesy.”

Lindbergh came out from around the desk and put a hand on Irey’s shoulder; it was a rare gesture of warmth from this reserved man.

“I know you’re disappointed by my desire to deal honestly with the kidnappers,” he said. “You want to capture them, and of course I would like to see that happen, one day, as well…but my priority now is to get my son back, safe and sound.”

“I’m a father myself,” Irey said softly.

“On the other hand,” Lindbergh said, walking the men to the door, “as far as Capone is concerned…I wouldn’t ask for the release of that monster, if it would save a life.”

Irey nodded solemnly.

Then Wilson asked if they could have a look at the nursery, the kidnap ladder and so on; Lindbergh put Schwarzkopf in charge of that.

Which I thought was a smart move. Even Lindbergh knew that Schwarzkopf and the feds had better get used to each other.

Then I was alone with Lindbergh and Breckinridge.

“Thanks for your insights, Nate,” Lindbergh said.

“My pleasure, Slim,” I said, trying to get comfortable with this level of familiarity.

“What do you know about psychics?” he asked, suddenly.

“Not a hell of a lot. Most of ’em are bunco artists.”

“But some aren’t?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I’d like you to help Colonel Breckinridge check a couple of them out. One of them has quite a reputation. His name is…what is it, Henry?”

Breckinridge checked his notes.

“Cayce,” he said. “Edgar Cayce.”

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