Stolen Away

“Well, the letter is postmarked Station T, New York City; it came in a long, plain, white envelope. Inside is a smaller envelope, also plain white, which says: ‘Dear Sir: Please hand enclosed letter to Colonel Lindbergh. It is in Mr. Lindbergh’s interest not to notify the police.’ I did not open this enclosure, sir.”

Pompous ass.

“Well, open it and read it to me.”

Like a sound effect on a radio program, the tearing of the envelope found its way to me over the phone.

“‘Dear Sir,’” he read, “‘Mr. Condon may act as go-between. You may give him the seventy thousand dollars.’”

I perked up a little: the seventy-thousand figure was correct—it had been fifty, but the most recent note had raised it.

“‘Make one packet,’” he said. “The size will be about…There is a drawing of a box, here, Colonel. Its dimensions are indicated—seven by six by fourteen inches. Shall I continue reading the letter?”

No, stand on your head and whistle “Dixie,” dickhead.

“Please,” I said.

“The rest reads: ‘We have notified you already in what kind of bills. We warn you not to set any trap in any way. If you or someone else will notify the police there will be a further delay. After we have the money in hand, we will tell you where to find your boy. You may have a airplane ready—it is about one hundred fifty miles away. But before telling you the address, a delay of eight hours will be between.’”

“Is that it?” Despite hitting the ransom figure right, this guy seemed an obvious fraud, looking to pick up a fast dollar. Seventy thousand fast dollars.

“Well, as I told you, it’s signed with what I believe is the mark of the Sicilian Mafia. There are two circles intersecting…”

“Circles?” Now I perked up a lot. Breckinridge saw that, and leaned forward. “Intersecting?”

“I would call them secant circles, if I might be permitted…”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re permitted. Keep describing.”

“There are three dots or holes across the horizontal diameter of the intersecting circles. The circles are tinted—one red, one blue.”

Shit.

“Is this letter important, Colonel? I hope I have not wasted your valuable time, sir.”

“It’s very important, Professor,” I said. “Where are you? We’ll come for you, right away.”

“I’m in the Bronx. But suppose I come to you, Colonel. You have anguish enough and are needed at home. I’ll come to you—to Hopewell.”

“When, Professor?”

“At once,” he said, melodramatically, and hung up.

I stared at the phone a moment.

Then I looked at Breckinridge, whose eyes were wide.

“Better get Slim out of bed,” I said.

An hour and forty-five minutes later, I was standing with my hands in my topcoat pockets, leaning against the whitewashed stone wall, near the locked gate where Featherbed Lane turned into the Lindberghs’ private drive. I was hiding from the wind, waiting for Condon to show. A trooper stood in front of the nearby weathered contractor’s shack with a rifle cradled in his arms; he looked like a prison guard. There were no reporters this time of night.

I heard footsteps crunching the cold ground behind me and my hand drifted toward the nine millimeter, which I’d taken to wearing under one shoulder, lately; but when I turned, I saw Breckinridge approaching in a topcoat, but bareheaded.

He stood with his hands tucked in his pockets and said, “I woke up the chancellor of Fordham University and he confirmed Condon’s credentials. Seventy-two years old, retired grade-school teacher. Teaches part-time, physical fitness buff, coached football, still gives swimming lessons.”

“At seventy-two?”

Breckinridge raised an eyebrow. “He’s apparently quite a character. A real self-styled patriot—featured at public events singing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ bringing himself to tears each time.”

“I may cry, myself.”

The night was crying already, moaning like a sick trapped beast. I pressed against the wall, turned up my topcoat collar to shield my face; even a guy from Chicago could die in this icy wind.

“I also rang up the editor and publisher of the Bronx Home News,” Breckinridge said.

“Colonel, you’re turning into a better cop than Schwarzkopf.”

He paused, wondering if that was much of a compliment. Then he said, “The editor, a Mr. O’Flaherty, said he was an ‘old dear friend’ of Condon’s, and that the good doctor had contributed poetry, essays and letters to the News over the years, on current topics of many a stripe…signing them P. A. Triot and J. U. Stice, among other quaint noms de plume.”

I snorted a laugh. “He sounds like a crank and a busybody to me. Why the hell would the kidnappers pick a goof like this? All kinds of big-shot public figures have offered their services as go-between.”

“I can’t begin to answer that. Nor could editor O’Flaherty—who said the circulation of the News was less than one hundred thousand.”