they bought a new outfit for the little boy.”
All of the latter tallied with Condon’s cemetery contact: the nurse following the diet; buying a new outfit, after the sleeper had been sent along.
“Sam told me,” Curtis said, “that you’re negotiating with another member of the same gang up here. Sam says the man up here wants fifty thousand dollars, maybe as much as one hundred thousand dollars. But Sam says he can deliver your son for twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Lindbergh and I exchanged sharp glances. Not a word about Condon had leaked to the press—yet the Norfolk gang seemed to know about Jafsie’s negotiations, and the increased ransom demand.
“The token of good faith the kidnappers are demanding,” Curtis said, “is that sum—twenty-five thousand dollars—deposited in a Norfolk bank in the name of the three of us…Reverend Dobson-Peacock, Admiral Burrage and myself. We have been accepted as the committee of intermediaries.”
Curtis sat back, finished with his tale, and Lindbergh sat and stared at his folded hands. The fire crackled and snapped. The three gents from Virginia exchanged uneasy glances. Silence hung in the room like steam.
Awkwardly, Curtis broke the silence. “Colonel—how much ransom are you willing to pay? Is that figure too high…?”
Without looking up, Lindbergh said, “I can’t agree on any sum, until I have positive proof that I’m dealing with the right people.”
Of course, he couldn’t tell these three that he was already deep in negotiations with Condon’s Cemetery John. Even if their contact, Sam, already seemed to know as much, it was clear that Curtis, Dobson-Peacock and Burrage didn’t.
“If they really have my child,” Lindbergh said, “they can prove it by describing certain physical characteristics the boy has, which haven’t been shared with the press.”
Curtis, obviously disturbed by the tentativeness of this, said, “Colonel, I’ve told Sam repeatedly that under no circumstances will any money be handed over until you hold your boy in your arms…”
Lindbergh rose. “I have no doubt, gentlemen, of your good intentions.” He looked at Burrage and said, “Admiral, I know you want only the best for Anne and Charlie and me.”
The three men, sensing their imminent dismissal, stood. They looked crestfallen to a man.
Lindbergh came around and placed a hand on Burrage’s shoulder. “But, gentlemen, I’m in no position right now to deposit that twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Curtis said, “If that’s the case, Colonel, I’m sure I could raise the money myself, among my friends at the club…”
Lindbergh raised a hand, gently. He said, “I’m not closing any doors, Commodore. Tell your friend Sam that if he can give you—or the Admiral or the Reverend—a photo of Charlie taken since the night he disappeared, I’ll be convinced.”
Curtis nodded, apparently pacified.
“Or,” Lindbergh said, “get a few words in writing from them, and tell them to sign the note with a certain symbol.”
“Certain symbol?” Curtis asked.
“They’ll know,” Lindbergh said. “At least they will, if they’re for real. I want to thank you for your trouble, for your concern, for your long trip north…could I invite you to stay for dinner?”
“We’d be honored,” Curtis said, quickly.
Reverend Dobson-Peacock, who clearly loved to eat, was nodding his second. Burrage seemed vaguely embarrassed, but he thanked Lindbergh and also accepted.
Lindbergh showed them into the living room, gesturing to Schwarzkopf and myself to stay in the study. We could hear the dog’s bark echoing out there.
Lindy returned without them, shortly, and said, “Well?”
“I can’t read it,” I said.
Schwarzkopf laughed shortly. “That’s not like you, Heller. You always have an opinion. Particularly, a negative one.”
“Not this time. The Admiral and the Reverend are legit—Curtis is maybe a wild card. He seems a little full of himself.”
“He’s a successful shipbuilder,” Lindbergh said.
“These are hard times,” I said. “A check on his financial status wouldn’t hurt.”
“I agree with Heller,” Schwarzkopf said, a little surprised that he did.
Lindbergh nodded his assent. “But some of what Curtis said does jibe with information from Professor Condon’s contact.”
“Except his ‘Sam’ is willing to settle for twenty-five thousand,” Schwarzkopf pointed out. “‘John’ wants seventy.”
Lindbergh sighed. Shook his head. “I don’t know what to think. Hell. Maybe we should be encouraged that a gang member is offering my son’s return at a bargain rate.”
“This half-price sale,” I said, “may not be a good sign.”
They both looked at me.
“It may mean there’s dissension in the ranks. If this is the same group, and different members are approaching different parties to sell the kid to, well…” I shrugged.
