that Italian gangsters frequently frequent graveyards….”
Frequently frequent? What was this clown a professor of, anyway? Redundancy?
“And our pair of cemetery conferences,” Condon continued, “would tend to confirm my belief that the gang is a mixture of Mafia members and the Scandinavian, ‘John.’”
Lindbergh, thankfully, picked up the story at that point.
Condon had stood outside the car, reading the note by flashlight, hoping to attract the attention of any lookout that the kidnap gang might have posted. A man in a brown suit approached, brim of his brown felt hat pulled down; he walked with a decided stoop. When he passed the car, he covered the bottom half of his face with a handkerchief, eyeballing the two men.
When the apparent lookout was out of sight, Lindbergh began to climb out of the coupe, but Condon stopped him: the note had said that the professor must come alone.
But Jafsie was less of a stickler about the note’s other directions: he left both the ballot box and the separate packet of money behind, telling Lindy, “I want to talk to John first.” And he had walked east, not south, on Whittemore—“This enabled me to look behind most of the tombstones and bushes that fronted the avenue.”
Peering into the “eerie semidarkness” of the cemetery, however, Condon saw nothing but shadows.
When he had walked past the cemetery gates, Condon turned and walked slowly back; he called out to Lindbergh, “There seems to be no one here, Colonel.”
A voice called, then, from behind a tombstone: “Hey, Doctor!”
A figure rose specterlike from behind a gravestone.
“Hey, Doctor—over here!”
Both Condon and Lindbergh heard the voice, which they described as “guttural.”
Condon moved toward the tombstone, but the figure moved away, and the professor followed him into the cemetery, where, after zigzagging among the graves, the figure crouched behind a hedge.
“I said to him, ‘What are you doing crouched down there—stand up if you want to talk to me!’” Condon was gesturing theatrically; Lindbergh didn’t seem to mind, but Wilson looked up from his note-taking to roll his eyes at me, discreetly. Condon was saying, “He asked me if I remembered him from that other Saturday night, at Woodlawn Cemetery. I said I did. He asked, ‘Have you got it, the money?’ And I said, no, I didn’t bring any money. That it was up in the car.”
Cemetery John had then asked if Colonel Lindbergh was armed, and the professor had said no (“I lied,” he said, proud of himself), and then John demanded his money.
“I refused” Condon told us. “I said, ‘Not until you give me a receipt!’”
“A receipt?” I said. “You asked the kidnapper for a
“It was a business transaction of sorts,” Condon said, stiffly, defensively. “I was well within my rights to demand a written receipt, paying over such a sum.”
Irey looked stunned; Wilson, frozen in his note-taking, had the expression of a man examining shit on his shoe.
“Further, I demanded a note specifying where the baby is—and that, gentlemen, is the very note.” He pointed to the small note, which still lay on the table, like a cocktail napkin.
“Yeah,” I said sarcastically, “but where’s your receipt?”
The professor ignored that. He went on to say that John had said he would have to go and get a note ready; he’d be gone a few minutes, during which time Jafsie could go to the car and come back with the seventy thousand dollars.
“And here,” Condon said, regally, “was my masterstroke—I talked him out of twenty thousand dollars.”
“You
Condon beamed, in his apple-cheecked way, saying, “I told him, ‘John, Colonel Lindbergh is not so rich. These are depression times—he couldn’t raise that extra twenty thousand. But I can walk up to that auto right now and get you fifty.’”
Wilson was slumped over his notebook, covering his eyes with one hand. Irey’s face remained stony, but red was rising out of his neck like a metal poker getting hotter. Slim, who seemed to sense a major blunder had been pulled, was shifting uneasily in his chair.
Condon didn’t read any of this; he was wrapped up in his own wonderfulness. “And John said, ‘All right—I suppose if we can’t get seventy, we take fifty.’”
“Do you know what you’ve done?” Irey said.
“Why, yes. I’ve saved Colonel Lindbergh twenty thousand dollars.”
“I could shoot your head off,” Irey said.
Condon blinked; his expression was as innocent as it was stupid. “Have I done something wrong?”
“The little package you left behind,” I said, “was full of fifty-dollar gold certificates. Big bills—easy to trace. The largest bills in the ballot box were twenties—not near as conspicuous.”
Condon thought that over. Then, summoning his dignity, he said, “I would do it again if I had the chance—I would save Colonel Lindbergh every possible penny.” And he smiled at Lindy, who smiled back, wanly.
Approximately fifteen minutes after Condon had headed back to the car for the money, while Cemetery John headed wherever for some notepaper and a pencil(!), the two men met again at the same spot in “the city of the dead.” Condon passed John the ballot box of money, and John passed the professor a sealed envelope, instructing him not to open it for six hours. John, looked at the money, pronounced it satisfactory; Condon pledged to John that if this were a “double cross” he, Condon, would pursue the gang to the ends of the earth, if necessary!
