“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!
