Nonetheless I kept my eyes on the window where I saw half a dozen specks turn into trim Coast Guard cutters; a Navy man-of-war steamed into view, as well. Lindbergh throttled down, dropping us near a few boats bobbing gently at anchor near the shore. Soon we were flying so low we were almost skimming the sea; then the twin engines would gather volume as Lindy would pull us up, swinging wide, turning to again swoop low.
I got used to it; I did get used to it. And I never again, as long as I lived, felt uneasy in an airplane—after all, I had survived “hedgehopping” with a daredevil stunt-pilot, as we played tag with the tips of swaying masts.
For better than six hours, we roared over and swooped down near dozens of boats, fishing boats and pleasure craft alike, never seeing Cemetery John’s “small boad.”
Around noon, Lindbergh turned away from the search area and the seaplane roared steadily ahead for a while and then swooped down again, and out the window I saw the sea, churning whitely as we settled down in Buzzard’s Bay. We taxied to Cuttyhunk Island, and I was eager to place my feet on the relatively solid, dry land that was the bouncy wooden dock.
A swarm of reporters awaited. They called questions out to all of us, trotting along beside us as Lindbergh walked stoically forward; they badgered him, trying to find out who Condon was, who Irey and I were, Lindy never acknowledging their presence with even a glance.
“Now, now, boys,” Breckinridge said, waving them off. “Please leave us alone. We’ve nothing to tell you.”
They backed off long enough for us to have a quiet lunch at the old Cuttyhunk Hotel. Condon chowed down; I was able to eat a little. Breckinridge and Irey had modest appetites. Lindbergh, his face pale and his eyes dead, ate nothing; when any of us asked him a question, he’d grunt a monosyllabic nonresponse.
After lunch we went back to the Sikorsky and the afternoon was a replay of the morning, minus the joking: in silence, Lindy swept the sea off southern Massachusetts. No boat resembled the “boad”
Night began to settle in on us.
“Something’s gone wrong,” Lindbergh finally admitted. “Maybe the Coast Guard activity spooked them.”
Breckinridge, in the copilot’s chair, cleared his throat and said, “There seems little point going on with the search, for the time being.”
Lindbergh answered him by making one last swing through the Sound at near sea level; then the plane picked up altitude, leveling out, and turned homeward, to the southeast.
We landed on an airstrip in Long Island. Lindbergh had arranged for a car to be waiting at the Aviation Country Club at Hicksville. We piled in and rode in silence to Manhattan. The bundle of blankets, baby clothes and milk had been left behind in the seaplane. The milk was probably sour by now, anyway.
Lindbergh spoke for the first time as the car was stopped at a light in the Thirties on Third Avenue. “I’ll take you home, Professor.”
“Please don’t, Colonel,” Condon said; he was sitting between Irey and me, again, in the backseat. “Let me out here—I can get home very nicely on the subway.”
“I’ll take you.” Slim’s voice was strangely cold.
“It isn’t necessary,” Condon said, a certain desperation in his voice.
“All right.” Lindbergh swung over by the stairway of an uptown station. He turned and looked at us. His face was gaunt and grim. “We’ve been double-crossed, you know.”
Condon said nothing. His lips were trembling under the walrus mustache.
Lindbergh got out and let Condon out; in doing so, I had to get out as well, and I heard Slim coldly say to the professor, “Well, Doctor—what’s the bill for your services?”
I thought Condon was going to cry. His face fell farther than my stomach had on takeoff. Unbelievable as it seems, I felt sorry for the old boy.
“I…I have no bill,” he said.
Lindbergh seemed a little ashamed, suddenly. “I’d feel better if you let me reimburse you for…”
“No,” Condon said, with some dignity. “I never accept money from a man who is poorer than myself.”
With a nod to Lindbergh, and another to me, he descended into the subway station.
After Lindbergh dropped Irey and Breckinridge off at their respective stops in Manhattan, I shifted to the front seat and we began the ride back to Hope well. Again, I slipped off into sleep. When I awoke we were in the wilds of New Jersey.
Lindy smiled sadly over. “Among the living again, Nate?”
“Technically,” I said. “How are you doing?”
“Been thinking. Do you think the old boy took us for a ride?”
“Condon? I don’t know. I keep thinking about those Harlem spiritualists who knew about him before we did.”
Lindbergh nodded. “I’m not writing him off, just yet, or that ransom I paid. I’m heading out again, tomorrow. For another look.”
I shrugged. “Like you said, maybe all that naval activity frightened ’em off. Maybe they disguised the
“It’s possible,” he agreed, a little too eagerly. “I’ll call Newark airport when I get home—arrange for a monoplane.”
“Good.”
We rode in silence; the woods were on our either side.
