Stolen Away

“What the hell is Black Mariah?” Peters wanted to know. A chain-smoker, he was a brown-haired, rosy-cheeked guy whose eyebrows were almost always knit, as if he were suspicious people smarter than him were taking advantage. Which they often were.

“Seven card stud,” I said. “High spade in the hole splits the pot.”

“Oh,” Peters said, and sucked in some smoke.

Dixon seemed to know the game and, from the forced poker face he maintained glancing at his two hole cards, probably had the ace of spades down. Harrison was the youngest man at the table and he was just playing, and losing, without comment.

I had barely finished the deal when Colonel Breckinridge came bustling in. The usually dignity-personified Breckinridge was wearing a plaid dressing robe and in stocking feet, legs bare and white and hairy.

“Heller,” he said, relieved. “You’re still here.”

Normally I was gone by nine at night, heading over to Princeton in the flivver Lindy loaned me. I had hung around tonight to take money from these eastern hick cops.

“Yeah,” I said, checking my two hole cards. Queen of spades. All right. “What do you need?”

“You,” he said, and grabbed me roughly by the arm and pulled me away from the table.

“Hey!” I said, cards spilling from my hands.

“Come along,” he said, and I was following him back into the house, leaving the cards and my money behind.

“I was winning,” I said, indignantly. “I must have been up three bucks…”

“Never mind that,” he said. “I need you to be Colonel Lindbergh.”

“What?”

Breckinridge led me to the hall phone outside the study. The receiver was off the hook.

“There’s an elderly fellow named Dr. John Condon on the line,” he said. “Claims he’s received a letter addressed to him, with an enclosure addressed to Colonel Lindbergh.”

“So?” Calls like this came in all the time.

“Dr. Condon says he doesn’t know if there’s anything to it—the letter may be from a hoaxer or a crank; but recently he sent a letter to the Bronx Home News offering a one-thousand-dollar reward to anyone who returned little Charlie safely. And they printed the letter, and he thinks this may be an answer to that.”

“What the hell is the Bronx Home News? Sounds like some bush-league suburban rag.”

Breckinridge shrugged. “It is.”

“Then it’s not very likely the kidnappers would’ve seen his letter, there.”

“I know—but this man is no crank—he’s a professor at Fordham University. At least he says he is—and the credentials and degrees he reeled off sound legitimate.”

I made a farting sound with my lips.

“But,” Breckimidge continued, “he refuses to speak further unless he’s speaking to Colonel Lindbergh himself—who I’m not about to disturb…Charles has only begun sleeping again, these last few nights.”

“Oh. Well, fine. Sure, I’ll play Lindy.”

Breckinridge smiled. “Thanks, Heller. You know the Colonel wants every lead, every call, taken seriously.”

“Sure,” I said, picking up the receiver. Queen of spades down. Damn! “This is Colonel Lindbergh. What is it?”

“Ah, Colonel! I’m so relieved! I’ve just received a letter, which may be of importance to you.”

His voice was well modulated but blustery.

“Do they usually deliver your mail at midnight, Professor?”

“I didn’t get home until ten—I had classes today. I was sorting through perhaps twenty pieces of correspondence when I came upon this one. Shall I read it?”

“Please, Professor.”

He continued in a declamatory style. “It says—and I must make allowances for misspellings and poor syntax—‘Dear Sir: If you are willing to act as go-between in Lindbergh case please follow strictly instruction. Hand enclosed letter personally to Mr. Lindbergh. It will explain everything. Don’t tell anyone about it. As soon we find out the press or police is notified, everything are cancel and it will be a further delay.’ Atrocious spelling!”

“Is there more?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Professor, you can flunk the guy later. Finish reading the thing, please.”

“Certainly. ‘After you get the money from Mr. Lindbergh, put these three words in the New York American: Money is ready.’”

I covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Breckinridge. “I think this old boy’s just after some easy dough.”

“‘After that we will give you further instruction,’” Condon continued. “‘Don’t be afraid, we are not out for your one thousand—keep it.’ That’s a reference to the one thousand dollars I offered for the baby’s safe return, in my letter to the Bronx Home News. I wish I could have offered more, but it was all I could scrape together in my hope that a loving mother might regain her child.”

“You’re too generous,” I said, stifling a yawn.

“‘Only act strictly,’” he went on. “‘Be at home every night between six and twelve—by this time you will hear from us.’ That last isn’t quite clear.”

“How is it signed?”

“With the mark of the Mafia!”

Right.

“Is that it, Professor?”