Stolen Away

Lindbergh went over and poked at the fire. It was dying. His mouth was drawn tight.

“By the way, Colonel,” Schwarzkopf said, “I want to make it clear that I was not the one who gave Admiral Burrage the run-around on the phone.”

“Mickey did that,” I said, “dollars to doughnuts.”

“Certainly at the very least,” Schwarzkopf said, “that little hoodlum was goddamned rude to the Admiral.”

Lindbergh said nothing. Just poked the fire.

“You know that splash in the papers the other day,” I said, “where Rosner and Spitale and Bitz spouted off to the press? Well, it wasn’t quite how it played in the papers.”

“What do you mean?” Lindbergh asked.

The papers had indicated each man had been tracked down at his home or business, for interview; I explained that in fact the three had held a press conference in their speakeasy, which catered to the yellow press.

“Colonel,” Lindbergh said to Schwarzkopf, rather distantly, “I notice you’ve sent some of your men home.” He stirred the glowing ashes. “How should I interpret that?”

Schwarzkopf stood as if at attention. “Strictly a budgetary measure. I’m afraid we’ve exhausted the five thousand dollars in the State Police Emergency Fund.”

“I see.”

“We’ve cut off the catering from New York, and are now having meals prepared at Lambertville Barracks, and shipped here by car every day.”

Lindbergh nodded. He looked at Schwarzkopf; the fire glowed orangely on the young Lindbergh’s rather bland face. He said, “I wish I could afford to feed your men myself, Colonel. God knows I appreciate what they, and you, have done.”

“And will continue to do. I’m simply curtailing all unnecessary expenses. I’ll be appearing before the State Finance Committee next week, looking for more funds.”

“I’m sorry you’ve run through your emergency kitty.”

“Colonel, we’ve already spent far more than that.”

“How much has this effort cost, thus far?”

Schwarzkopf swallowed. “Fifty thousand dollars, Colonel.”

Lindbergh looked blankly into the fire. “Fifty thousand dollars. The initial ransom figure. There’s an irony in that, somewhere.”

“If there is,” Schwarzkopf said, “I’m sure your friend Mr. Heller will find it.”

Schwarzkopf nodded curtly to Lindbergh and went out, revealing Mickey Rosner leaning against the wall, reading the Daily News.

“Step in here, Mr. Rosner,” Lindbergh said.

“Sure, Colonel.”

Mickey, wearing a cocky little smile, stood and rocked on his heels.

“I want you to do something for me.”

“Just name it, Colonel.”

“Take Spitale and Bitz off the case.”

“Well…sure. But, why?”

“They aren’t acceptable intermediaries.”

“Well…you’re the boss. Anything else?”

“Yes. Clear out.”

“Clear out? You mean…clear out?”

“Clear out. You’re off the case, too.”

Rosner looked at me and sneered. “Thanks for nothing, Heller.”

“Any time, Mickey,” I said.

Rosner breathed through his nose, nodded to Lindbergh and shut the door behind him.

“No answer to our ad,” Lindbergh said, turning to me, what just happened with Rosner already forgotten, or anyway, filed away.

“Give it time,” I said. “These boys have moved slowly all the way. No need to read anything into it.”

“I suppose. Anyway, this time the money is ready. Fifty thousand of it, at least. This afternoon armed guards from J. P. Morgan brought the cash to the Fordham Branch of the Corn Exchange Bank, where I’ve arranged for Professor Condon to have twenty-four-hour access to it.”

“You’ve made a list of the serial numbers, surely?”

“No.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.