Bonfires burned orangely against the night, flames fighting the icy wind, kindled by troopers keeping vigil on the periphery of the Lindbergh estate.
Inside the command-post garage, two members of the New Jersey State Police were keeping vigil with a deck of cards. The two troopers-a kid named Harrison and a guy about thirty named Peters-had joined Constable Dixon and myself for a quiet game of poker. At a little after midnight, the rest of the skeleton crew of troopers were stretched out and snoring on army cots.
The only guy on duty was a fellow named Smith who was on the switchboard; but he was slumped and sleeping, too. The only calls that came through were those directed to the troopers themselves; Lindbergh had rejected Schwarzkopf’s request that calls to the house be routed here first for monitoring purposes. Every call, crank or otherwise, from anybody savvy enough to wrangle the unlisted number of the Hopewell estate, went straight to the phones inside-one on Lindy’s desk, another in the hallway, another upstairs (though at night the latter was disconnected).
Once Inspector Welch had answered the hall phone and Lindbergh snapped at him, “What the hell are you doing?”
And it was fucking rare that Lindbergh cursed.
“It rang and I answered it,” Welch had said.
Lindbergh’s expression and tone rivaled the weather in coldness. “I want it understood very clearly, and right now, that neither you nor any other policeman is to touch that phone for any reason. You are here through my courtesy and I ask you not to interfere with my business.”
On the other hand, Mickey Rosner, pride of New York’s underworld, frequently answered the phone and had full access to it.
Dixon, the two troopers and I were sitting at one of the tables where mail was sorted; bags of the stuff were crowded up against the wall behind us, like Moran’s men in that Clark Street garage where Capone held his St. Valentine’s Day dance. The picnic-type table was littered with nickels and dimes and quarters. The majority were piled before me. It was my deal.
“Black Mariah,” I said, dealing them down.
“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?”
“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.”
Headlights cut through the darkness and up Featherbed Lane. As the car drew to a stop, an elderly, walrus-mustached fellow climbed quickly out, nimble for a man his age and size, at six feet something and maybe two hundred-some pounds. No topcoat in sight, he wore a neat, dark, out-of-fashion three-piece suit with a golden watch fob and speckled tie, and a bowler hat, which he was even now removing politely; he looked like somebody who’d gone to a party in 1912 and arrived a few decades late.
“Would this be the Lindbergh home?” he said. It was the voice I’d heard on the phone two hours before.
Through the barred gate, Breckinridge said, “It would. Are you Dr. Condon?”
The old man bowed, making a sweep with the bowler. “I am Dr. John F. Condon.”
Two other men were in the car. I unbuttoned my topcoat; I had a clear path to the nine millimeter.
“You have a letter for the Colonel?” Breckinridge asked.
“I do, sir. I prefer to deliver it to him, personally.”
From just behind Breckinridge, I called out, “Who’s that with you?”
Condon squinted; he had apple cheeks and stupid eyes. “Colonel Lindbergh?”
“No,” I said. “I’m a cop, and I’m armed. Who’s in the goddamn car?”
Condon lifted his chin and his eyes and nostrils flared. “Language of that sort is unnecessary, sir.”
“Who’s in the goddamn car?”
“Heller,” Breckinridge whispered harshly. “Please!”
Condon stepped gingerly forward, hat in his hands. “I was accompanied by two friends, one of whom was generous enough to drive me here. When I called I was in Max Rosenhain’s restaurant, and Max came along with me; our mutual friend, Milton Gaglio, a clothier, was also present. He drove.”
“Tell ’em to get out of there and put their hands up,” I said.
“Really,” Condon said stiffly, head high, “this is most undignified.”
“It gets worse if your friends don’t get out of the car.”
They got out of the car; a small dark man, about thirty, and a stockier guy in his late fifties. Both wore topcoats and hats.
The smaller, younger one said, “I’m Milton Gaglio. Sorry it took us so long to get here. We got lost. Had to stop at the Baltimore Lunchroom to get directions.”
That was at the Hopewell crossroads.
“I’m Max Rosenhain,” the older man said, with a nervous smile. “We’re kind of a committee-a wop, a Jew and a harp.”
Nobody laughed.
“Put your hands up, gentlemen,” I said.
They looked at each other, more surprised than anything; only Condon seemed offended.
“I can understand your concern for security…” he began.
“Then shut up,” I said, “and do as you’re told.”
Breckinridge, who seemed slightly taken aback by my police tactics, unlocked and swung open the gate, and I went out and frisked the three men. Condon’s two pals took it stoically, but the professor made little huffing and puffing sounds.
“Let’s see the note, Professor,” I said.
“I prefer to show it to Colonel Lindbergh.”
“Just show me the signature.”
He breathed heavily through his nose, thought my request over, then dug a white envelope out of his suitcoat pocket, removed from it a second, smaller envelope and held the note up. The familiar blue and red circles and punched holes were there, all right.
“Stand away,” I told him, and then nodded to the other two, to communicate the same thing. I looked inside the car, a black Chevy; poked at and looked under the seats, checked the glove compartment. I asked Gaglio to open the trunk and he did; it was empty but for a spare tire and a jack.
“Okay, boys,” I said, gesturing grandly. “Get back in your buggy.”
Condon nodded stiffly and with silly precision returned the letters to their envelopes and walked with exaggerated dignity to the black Chevy. The other two moved quickly, like the soles of their feet were hot.
I called over the trooper from the contractor’s shack and had him and his rifle climb aboard the running board, to accompany them to the house.
Then I said to Gaglio, who was behind the wheel, “Drive around back. Park near the garage. And wait for us.”
The car pulled away and eased up the dirt lane as Breckinridge swung the gate shut and locked it again. The red eyes of their taillights moved slowly toward the mostly dark house, a few rectangles of yellow light glowing on the first floor; the trooper rode along the side of the car like a stunt pilot riding the wing of a plane.
“You were a little rough on them, weren’t you?” Breckinridge asked.
“That professor is either a con man or a jackass,” I said. “And I got no patience with either.”
Breckinridge had no reply to that; we walked up to the house, nodding as we passed to two troopers who stood forlornly near a dwindling bonfire.
The trooper who’d ridden the running board had the three men grouped at the door that led through the servants’ sitting room. Breckinridge sent the trooper back to his post, and opened the door for his guests. We gathered in the kitchen, where only one small light over the stove burned. The little terrier, Wahgoosh, came scrambling in from the living room.
“Breckinridge is my name,” the Colonel said, talking over the dog’s incessant barking. “This is Detective Heller of the Chicago Police.”
“Chicago?” Gaglio said. “What are you doing here?”
“That’s none of your business,” I said affably, kicking the dog. “But I’m making why you boys are here, mine.”
“You’re a crude, rude young man, Detective Heller,” Condon said.
“When visitors drop by at two in the morning, I am.”
Breckinridge said, “Colonel Lindbergh is waiting to see you, if you’re ready.”
“I’m always ready,” Condon said, with a smile.
We walked through the living room, while Wahgoosh trailed along, going completely fucking berserk; if anyone was still sleeping in this house before, they weren’t now.
Breckinridge sat Gaglio and Rosenhain down on the sofa, where the dog snarled at them and they sat looking at it with wide frightened eyes, hands in their laps like wallflowers at a cotillion.
Lindbergh was not behind his desk; he was pacing in his study looking even more haggard than usual. He had not brushed his hair and his baby face was darkly unshaven; he wore brown slacks and a brown leather flight jacket thrown over an undershirt.
“Good evening, Colonel Lindbergh,” Condon said, stepping forward grandly, offering his hand as if bestowing a medal. “I would recognize you anywhere, sir.”
That put Condon in the select company of everybody in the United States over the age of three.
“Allow me to say that all patriotic Americans are grateful to you, sir, for your pluck and daring…and our hearts go out to you in this your time of need.”
Lindbergh twitched a smile and said, “Dr. Condon, I’d like to see these notes you received.”
“Certainly, sir. It is my great pleasure.”
It’s always a pleasure to hand ransom notes over to a tortured parent.
Lindbergh studied the notes and then spread them out on the desk. “Nate,” he said. “Henry?”
We gathered around and looked at them. Their content reflected what I’d heard on the phone, but the spelling and form and signature were those of the notes previously received.
“They’re authentic,” Lindbergh said.
We didn’t disagree.
Then he smiled, sincerely, at Condon and said, “Doctor it was kind of you to come out here. I hope we haven’t caused you too much trouble.”
Condon gave me a sharp sideways glance, but then beamed at Lindbergh. “It is no trouble whatsoever, Colonel. I want you to know, now, that my only purpose is to serve you. I am completely at your disposal.”
Lindbergh glanced at me; I rolled my eyes.
“Tell me something about yourself, Doctor,” Lindbergh said.
“I am professor of education at Fordham, and principal of Public School Number Twelve in the Bronx.”
“Been teaching long?”
“Fifty years,” he said proudly. “And in that time I’ve lost only nineteen hours.”
Oh, brother.
“That’s an excellent record. And your birthplace?”
He stiffened, as if trying to grow. “The most beautiful borough in the world-the Bronx! I’ve lived there my entire life.”
I sat down. I wondered if they’d divided up my three bucks out in the garage, or if there was any chance Dixon saved it for me.
“Family?” Lindbergh asked him.
“A wife and three splendid children.”
Lindbergh looked at me. I shook my head. He looked at Breckinridge, who shrugged.
“Professor,” Lindbergh said, “we would be delighted if you would assist us in turning the ransom requested over to the kidnappers, to obtain the return of my son.”
Oh, Christ!
“I’d be honored, sir-but I am a stranger to you. I would much prefer that you verify my standing.”
“We will,” I said.
“You’ll stay tonight?” Lindbergh asked. “It’s late, and I’d like to talk to you tomorrow, at length.”
“Certainly. I’ll be delighted to, if it can be arranged for me to return to Fordham by four in the afternoon. I have a lecture.”
“You’ll be there by four.”
“I have two good friends waiting in the living room, Colonel…”
“I’m afraid we don’t have accommodations for them. I’m sorry.”
“Before they go, they’d appreciate meeting you.”
“Fine,” Lindbergh said, and we all walked out into the living room, where Lindbergh politely shook hands all around, to the accompaniment of Wahgoosh’s yapping. Lindbergh offered his thanks, and Gaglio and Rosenhain assured us all they would say nothing to anyone about the events of the night. On their way out, I told them pointedly that that would be a very good idea.
Lindy, Condon and Breckinridge were chatting quietly in the living room when suddenly a woman in a pink silk robe floated in like an apparition.
Anne Lindbergh, her face pale as chalk, eyes large and luminous, said, “Is there news?”
Lindbergh went to her, took her gently by the arm and walked her over to Dr. Condon. He explained that the professor had received a note from the kidnappers in reply to a letter he’d written a newspaper, offering to serve as intermediary.
“Dr. Condon,” Lindbergh said, “is going to deliver the ransom, so we can get Charlie back.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, studying him with moist eyes. “You seem very kind.”
“My dear,” he said, sidling up to her, “you must not cry-if one of those tears drops, I shall go off the case immediately.”
She smiled-at the absurdity of it, I think-and the professor took that as an invitation to slide his arm around her shoulder.
“Child,” he said, “I shall do everything in my power to return your boy to you.” He raised the forefinger of his free hand like a politician making a point. “You’re talking to a man who once won a twenty-dollar prize for submitting to the Bronx Home News the following New Year’s resolution: ‘That I shall, to the best of my ability, and at all times, help anyone in distress.’”
“Uh, really,” Anne said.
“I swear it is true,” he said gravely.
Lindbergh delicately moved Anne out of Condon’s grasp, and the professor said jovially, “Look at the Colonel, here! I believe he’s jealous of an old fellow like me!”
Anne laughed nervously. “Good night, Doctor,” she said. “Good night, Henry. Nate.”
Lindbergh walked her to the stairs.
When he came back, he said, “Thank you, Professor-my wife hasn’t laughed since the night they took Charlie.”
Condon bowed again; he was just in front of me, and you don’t know the restraint it took, not kicking him in the ass.
“I’m afraid I can’t even offer you a comfortable bed,” Lindbergh said. “Every bedroom in the house is taken.”
“I quite understand.”
“If you can manage camp style…?”
“Perfectly.”
“Henry,” Lindbergh said, “take the doctor up to the nursery, if you would. That cot Nate was using is still up there.”
Breckinridge nodded and ushered the professor upstairs.
“Nate,” Lindbergh said, quietly, taking me by the arm, “do you mind staying over?”
“No. Technically, it’s been morning for several hours now.”
“If I round up some blankets for you, will you sleep in the nursery?”
“Keep an eye on that pompous old goat, you mean?”
“Something like that. I think he’s sincere.”
“He’s also a pain in the ass.”
“Most people are. Would you share quarters with him, just for tonight?”
“Sure.”
When I entered the dark nursery, some light from the hall fell in and revealed Condon on the floor on his knees in his long johns with his hands wrapped around the rungs of the crib. His voice boomed through the room.
“Oh great Jehovah, by Thy grace and that it may redound to Thy credit and that of Thy immortal Son, I swear that I shall dedicate my best efforts and, if necessary, the remaining days of my life, to helping these unfortunate parents.”
He knew I was standing there, as he continued.
“Let me do this one great thing as the crowning act of my life. Let me successfully accomplish my mission to the credit of Thy Holy Name and that of Thy Divine Son. Amen!”
He stood. He turned to me. “Detective Heller. I did not see you there.”
“Right.” I had an armful of blankets and a pillow. I tossed them in the middle of the room. “Make yourself a pallet, gramps. The cot is mine.”
He did that, and was asleep before me; even his snoring seemed pompous.
When I woke up in the morning, he was dressed and at the toy chest by the window, going through it.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I snapped.
It frightened the old coot; he jumped, turned around and said, pointedly, “I find your language most offensive and if you don’t refrain from such talk, we might have to resort to fisticuffs.”
I went over and looked him right in his watery blue eyes. “I said, what the fuck are you doing?”
He had a wood-carved elephant in one hand. “I’m looking for a toy or some other item that the child might be able to identify as his.”
There was a knock at the door behind us and we both turned; Lindbergh peeked in.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “It’s eight o’clock. We’d like you to join us for breakfast.”
“I’d be honored,” Condon said, clutching the toy elephant.
Lindbergh, as before, stayed in the doorway of the nursery; he looked casual and neat at once, wearing a pair of old gray trousers and the leather flying jacket over a darker gray shirt with a tie.
I was standing there in my underwear. “He wants to borrow that toy elephant. For identification purposes.”
Lindbergh seemed confused by that.
Condon held up the wooden elephant. “When I’ve succeeded in establishing personal contact with the kidnappers, I shall ask to be taken where the baby is being kept. I shall show the baby this toy, and watch for his reaction.”
“He can’t say ‘elephant,’” Lindbergh said, quietly. “He says ‘el-e-pent.’”
“Splendid! I’ll ask the child to name this toy, and will know what response to expect! In that way, it will be impossible for them to confront me with the wrong child and deceive me.”
I was getting my clothes on while this brilliant dissertation was delivered. As far as I was concerned, you could deceive this clown with a dime-store doll.
“Take it with you, by all means,” Lindbergh said.
“I’ve already taken the liberty of removing two other items,” Condon said. “I’d like your permission to keep them-two safety pins that secured the blankets under which your son slept, to the mattress.”
“I don’t see why you’d want…”
“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.”