Stolen Away

I nodded and smiled at Wilson, who nodded and smiled back at me. We were one big happy family—three cops sitting in a posh townhouse library, while an eccentric professor and a stunt flyer were off in the night somewhere with seventy grand to turn over to some self-proclaimed kidnappers.

Earlier that afternoon, when Lindbergh and I had spoken about the marked bills, I’d attempted to make another point, with considerably less success.

“Why don’t you,” I’d suggested, “let Irey and maybe the New York cops follow you to wherever the ransom drop is, then pull in undercover men to throw a net over the area?”

He shook his head sternly, no. “That’s out of the question. That would be much too dangerous….”

“No it wouldn’t. You’d have cops acting as cabbies, drunks, truck drivers, washerwomen, priests…undercover cops do that kind of thing all the time, and well.”

“The kidnappers wouldn’t be that easily fooled, Nate. They’ll go into this thing suspicious as hell.”

“Slim, it’s not suspicious to be passed on the street by a milk wagon or a bunch of college whoopee boys…it’s natural to have people on the streets, even at night, especially at night, when this ransom drop will probably come off.”

But he wouldn’t hear of it.

Later Irey confirmed that he’d made a similar plea to Lindbergh to no avail; and in this case, the word from above was to stay out of Lindy’s way.

So those of us who were thinking like cops were one for two—and batting .500 in the Lindbergh game was a goddamn good average.

I’d been at Condon’s most of the day and into the evening, when the doorbell rang around a quarter to eight; the daughter, Myra, answered the door and a cabbie—she described him as young, thin, dark—handed her an envelope and scurried back to his cab and was gone before any of us could stop him or even get his license number.

Lindbergh tore open the envelope, read the note, with Condon and Breckinridge looking on.

When I made a move to look at it, Slim’s boyish face was cold; he shook his head, no.

“You’re not part of this, Nate,” he said. “We’ll take the professor’s car. You drive into mid-Manhattan and join the IRS boys. And wait.”

I sighed, irritably. “You don’t usually order me around, Slim. I’m not sure I like it much.”

He lifted a hand, as if about to place it on my shoulder, then saw from my expression that it wouldn’t be appreciated.

He said, “I know you don’t approve of how I’m going about this. But you’re just a consultant—you’re not really part of the police, here. I don’t want you knowing where we’re going…” He was clutching the note, wadding it a bit. “…and I don’t want you following us.”

“What good would it do me? You’ve got my gun.”

He smiled shyly, embarrassed, and went ahead and put the hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Promise me, Nate.”

People kept asking me to make promises I didn’t feel like keeping. But I nodded anyway.

“Thank you.” He looked at Breckinridge. “Would you stay here, with the professor’s family, Henry?”

Breckinridge nodded in his sad, dignified way.

Condon’s daughter brought her father his coat and hat and helped him into them, telling him to be careful. The professor, bug-eyed, red-faced, calm as a walrus in heat, said, “Allow me to handle the parcel,” and grabbed up the cord-wound, split-apart, jam-packed ballot box, as well as the separate package with the twenty grand in gold notes.

That was fine with Lindbergh, who viewed the money with disinterest and even disdain, and the two men hurried out to the Ford coupe and, Lindbergh behind the wheel, Jafsie with the loot on his lap, disappeared down the street and turned south.

Now it was almost midnight; four hours later, in the Morrow library, and no sign of Lindbergh or the professor.

“They could be dead in a ditch somewhere,” I suggested.

“If they are,” Wilson said, “it won’t be our fault.”

“Tell that to the press,” Irey said glumy.

“Success, gentlemen!”

The booming, overly well-modulated voice belonged to none other than Professor John F. Condon, who entered the chamber with his arms outspread as if looking for someone to embrace. I wasn’t volunteering.

Lindbergh and Breckinridge came in on the professor’s heels; all three men were still in their topcoats and hats, except for Slim who was hatless to begin with. Two Morrow butlers hurried after the men, who had burst into the apartment without any of the usual amenities, and began collecting coats and hats.

“We delivered the ransom,” Lindbergh said, digging in his jacket pocket, “and we have been given directions.” He smiled, and the smile mingled joy with desperation. “We can find Charlie if we follow this.”

He placed a small note on the conference table, and we all gathered round. It said:

the boy is on Boad Nelly it is a small Boad 28 feet long, two person are on the Boat. The are innosent you will find the Boad between Horseneck Beach and gay Head near Elizabeth Island.

It lacked the usual circles, and holes signature, but the handwriting was as before.