“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
“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.”
