Stolen Away

“It’s simple,” Condon said, with a self-satisfied smile. “And, I believe, entirely logical. I am taking the pins so that when I meet the man who wrote to me, I can show them to him and ask him where he saw them. If he can tell me exactly where they were fastened on the night of the kidnapping, then we’ll know we are dealing with the person who actually entered this nursery and took your son.”

“I could use some coffee,” I said.

“Let’s go down, then,” Lindbergh said, and led the way.

Darkly attractive Betty Gow helped horsey Elsie Whately serve us breakfast—orange juice, bacon, eggs, toast and coffee—which we took informally, at the kitchen table. Condon babbled about the Bronx and spouted homilies, showing off for Anne Lindbergh and her mother, who were breakfasting with us, as well.

After breakfast, Lindbergh hustled Condon into the study; Breckinridge and I followed.

“I am convinced,” Lindbergh said, taking a seat behind his desk, “that you are in contact with the people who took my son.”

Condon sat across from Lindbergh, on the edge of his chair; Breckinridge and I stood.

“Professor, I’ll arrange to place fifty thousand dollars in your bank account,” Lindbergh said, as he wrote something on a slip of paper. “Since the original amount asked for has been raised to seventy thousand, I’ll make every effort to have the additional twenty to you within a day or two.”

He handed Condon a note. I moved in and read it over his shoulder: “I hereby authorize Dr. John F. Condon to act as go-between for my wife and myself.” It was signed Charles A. Lindbergh.

“This afternoon,” Lindbergh was saying, “Colonel Breckinridge will insert the notice ‘Money is ready’ in the New York American, per the letter’s instructions.”

“It would be disastrous if the newspapers got wind you’re in touch with the kidnappers,” Breckinridge told Condon. “We need to find some pseudonym for you to sign the ad with.”

Condon rubbed his chin; he hadn’t shaved this morning, and it was stubbled with white. “By putting my initials together,” he said thoughtfully, “J.F.C.—I come up with Jafsie.”

I looked sharply at Breckinridge and he looked at me the same way.

Sister Sarah Sivella, two days ago, while in the sway of Chief Yellow Feather, had spoken—and even spelled out—that name: Jafsie.

“Fine,” Lindbergh told Condon. “That’s fine—use that. It’ll hide your identity from everyone except whoever it was who wrote to you…and to me.”

“Before I return to the Bronx,” Condon said, “do you have pictures of your son I might study, that I might indelibly impress upon my mind his features?”

“Certainly.”

I gestured to Breckinridge and he stepped out into the hall.

“One of us has to stick with the old boy,” I said. “You heard him—that pen name he supposedly just made up…”

“Jafsie,” Breckinridge said, nodding. “We heard that before, didn’t we?”

“We sure did. But Lindy’s liable to dismiss it as Sarah Sivella tapping into the spirit world or ESP or some ridiculous damn thing.”

“True.” Breckinridge was troubled. Then his expression sharpened. “Let me handle this.”

We went back into the study, where Condon was studying baby photos like a student cramming for an exam.

Breckinridge touched him on the shoulder and said, warmly, “Professor, I wonder if I might stay as your houseguest, until any negotiations with the kidnappers are concluded? I’d consider it a great favor.”

“My entire home and everything that is in it,” Condon said grandly, “is at your disposal as long as you wish.”

“You’re most gracious, Professor,” Breckinridge said, and the men shook hands. “We’ll start today.”

12

Mickey Rosner, snazzy in a three-piece black suit with white pinstripes and a flourish of white silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, was holding court. His dark face, average in every way but for his large, flattened nose, was cracked in a smile; the little bastard was beaming like a new father handing out cigars. He was seated at a table for four in a speakeasy in the back of the Cadillac Restaurant on East Forty-First Street in Manhattan. With him were his two cronies, Irving Bitz and Salvatore Spitale, proprietors of the speak, which was suitably dark, smoky and crowded. Most of the crowd was reporters, which made sense, because the joint was right behind the New York Daily News building.

Spitale was perhaps forty, dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-complected, with a round face that didn’t match his slender frame, and a suit just as expensive as Rosner’s. His partner Bitz was a smaller, fatter version of Spitale only with a cheaper suit, jug ears and dumb, hooded eyes.

The three men were conducting an informal press conference; reporters juggling notebooks and beer mugs were tossing the trio of hoods questions, but not too hard: underhand softball pitches.

“Mickey,” one reporter said, “you interviewed a prisoner at the Tombs last night, for Colonel Lindbergh. What did you learn?”

“Not at liberty to say, fellas,” Rosner said, and he bit off the end of a fat Havana.