Stolen Away

“He said he didn’t blame me for being skeptical about him. He said he’d committed just about every kind of sin under the sun. But what he said next convinced me.”

“What was that?”

“He said, ‘I haven’t come forward to the police or press with what I know about the Lindbergh case because of the tissue of lies that my life has been so far.’ That phrase struck me: ‘tissue of lies.’”

“Con men always have a way with words, Evalyn.”

“He claimed he’d been in a New York speakeasy about ten days before, where he’d run into an old cellmate of his from Atlanta. The old friend asked Means, or so Means said, if he was interested in playing ransom negotiator in a big kidnapping that was going to be pulled around March first.”

“Did Means say his friend specifically mentioned Lindbergh?”

“Means said he’d been told only that it was a ‘big-time snatch.’ But Means turned down the opportunity, saying that ‘napping’ was one crime he wouldn’t touch.”

The fire crackled.

I sat sideways and looked right at her, getting her attention away from the flames. “So then when the Lindbergh kidnapping broke on the radio and in the papers, Means figured it must be the ‘big-time snatch’ his pal mentioned.”

She nodded; her eyes looked unblinkingly my way, the fire reflecting in them, the stone on her chest doing the same. “Means claimed he’d contacted several prominent men here in Washington, including Colonel Guggenheim, but hadn’t gotten anywhere. Means was viewed as the little boy crying wolf. I later ascertained from Colonel Guggenheim and a prominent local judge that this was quite true.”

I’d lost count of the colonels in this case, a long time ago.

“Means offered to get in touch with his old cellmate, and I urged him to do so. The next morning he told me he’d succeeded in contacting his old friend, and that the man was indeed the ‘head of the Lindbergh gang,’ and eager to open negotiations for the baby’s return. Then began the continuing succession of meetings, including several with Jerry Land present, working with Means as the intermediary with the kidnappers.”

Jerry Land was Admiral Emory S. Land, the Lindbergh relative who’d conveyed word of what Mrs. McLean and Means were up to, to Slim.

“Where do things stand now?” I asked her.

“Last Monday, I gave Means a big pasteboard carton filled with bills in denominations of five, ten and twenty dollars.”

“You gave that to him already?”

She nodded. “One hundred thousand dollars.”

I sighed. “Have you seen him since?”

“Oh yes. He lives over in Chevy Chase with his family. He has a wife and son, you know—the son is his motivation, he says. He says he hopes to atone for his past and make his boy proud.”

“Yeah, well, that’s touching. But that was days ago. Has he delivered the ransom to the ‘gang’? He obviously hasn’t delivered the baby to you.”

“It’s supposed to happen soon. I’m going to Far View tomorrow—that’s where the kidnappers have agreed to make delivery. Means is meeting me there.”

“Where and what is Far View?”

“My country home. In Maryland. I’ve made arrangements with a doctor friend of mine for anyone who might inquire, that for the next few days to a week, I’m at Union Memorial in Baltimore taking a rest cure.”

“There’s a lot of intrigue in this thing, isn’t there?”

She shook her head, laughed a little. “Yes there is. And Means insists on using code names and numbers…he was a double agent at one time, you know.”

“Yeah. He worked for the Germans just before the World War.”

“I’m Number Eleven. The baby is referred to, always, as ‘the book.’ Means himself is ‘Hogan.’ Admiral Land is Number Fourteen. And so on.”

“I need another drink.” I got myself one. “How about you, Evalyn?”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Anybody who can hand Gaston Means a cardboard box with one hundred grand in it can risk a second glass of sherry.”

“Valid point,” she said, and took the sherry. “I’ve involved you, I’m afraid, in the intrigue.”

“Oh? How in hell?”

“Well, I knew Colonel Lindbergh wanted me to meet with you, but if Gaston Means, or the kidnappers, knew I was dealing with a policeman…even one so far off his beat…it might prove disastrous. I can trust my staff—they’ve all been with me for years. But if anyone, Gaston Means in particular, should ask them—you came here today to be interviewed for a position.”

“What position is that?”

“Chauffeur.”

I snorted a laugh, finished my Bacardi. “That’s rich. I couldn’t find my way across the street in this town. Well, I’d like to meet Means. And maybe it would be best if I did it undercover.”

“Undercover?”

I pointed to myself with a thumb. “Meet your new chauffeur. Who’s going to escort you to your country place—where I’ll size Means and his story up for myself.”

Her smile was almost demure. “That would be wonderful, Nate. You think…you think I’m a foolish old woman, don’t you?”

“You’re not old at all.”

“The fire’s dwindling. Would you put some wood on?”

“All right.”