“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.”
12
Mickey Rosner, snazzy in a three-piece black suit with white pinstripes and a flourish of white silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, was holding court. His dark face, average in every way but for his large, flattened nose, was cracked in a smile; the little bastard was beaming like a new father handing out cigars. He was seated at a table for four in a speakeasy in the back of the Cadillac Restaurant on East Forty-First Street in Manhattan. With him were his two cronies, Irving Bitz and Salvatore Spitale, proprietors of the speak, which was suitably dark, smoky and crowded. Most of the crowd was reporters, which made sense, because the joint was right behind the New York
Spitale was perhaps forty, dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-complected, with a round face that didn’t match his slender frame, and a suit just as expensive as Rosner’s. His partner Bitz was a smaller, fatter version of Spitale only with a cheaper suit, jug ears and dumb, hooded eyes.
The three men were conducting an informal press conference; reporters juggling notebooks and beer mugs were tossing the trio of hoods questions, but not too hard: underhand softball pitches.
“Mickey,” one reporter said, “you interviewed a prisoner at the Tombs last night, for Colonel Lindbergh. What did you learn?”
“Not at liberty to say, fellas,” Rosner said, and he bit off the end of a fat Havana.
“What about the rumors you’re holding secret talks with a top underworld figure, who’s currently in prison?”
Rosner shook his head no, lit up his cigar, waved the match out.
Another reporter said, “Come on—weren’t Spitale and Bitz in Chicago a few days ago?”
“Yeah, Salvy,” another said, turning his attention to Spitale. “How ’bout it?”
“No comment,” Spitale said, and grinned at Rosner and then at Bitz.
“Mickey,” another newsman said, “how in hell did
Rosner’s smile disappeared and he gestured with the fiery end of the cigar. “I’m a respectable businessman, gents. You know that—I deal in real estate.”
There were some muffled laughs and some laughs that weren’t so muffled.
“Mickey,” said a reporter, a disembodied voice out of the swirling smoke, “why are we here? I mean, we appreciate the free suds—but you haven’t given us jack shit.”
Rosner grinned again. “Maybe you ain’t asked the right questions.”
There were mutterings and moans, mostly good-natured, from the well-lubricated press contingent.
Another reporter tried a question—for Spitale, this time. “Hey, Salvy—what’s this about the cops dropping a couple bootlegging beefs against you guys? Did Lindy pull some strings?”
Spitale laughed. “I won’t dignify that with a response.”
“Well, tell us about your role in the Lindbergh case, then.”
He splayed a hand to his chest. “It’s this way, boys—I was asked to use my influence in getting the kid back. If professionals have got a hold of him, they know where to get in touch with me in five minutes, day or night, rain or shine. Right, Irv?”
Bitz nodded dutifully.
Then Spitale continued: “But I’m not a cop, see? Get it straight—I’m no cop; I don’t go snooping around.”
“You almost sound sorry you got involved.”
He shrugged facially. “I am kinda sorry I got mixed up in this thing, yeah. You guys are printing pictures of my kids and my family, and my policy of keepin’ out of the papers has been knocked for a loop. Can’t you fellas cover something else—like the Shanghai War, or wherever?”
