Lindbergh hesitated outside the nursery, and I went on in. He stayed in the doorway and watched me look around.
It was the warmest-looking room I’d seen here-and the most lived-in. Evergreen trees, a country church, and a man with a dog were gaily pictured on the light green wallpaper; between the two east windows was a fireplace with a mosaic of a fisherman, windmill, elephant and little boy with a hoop; on the mantel was an ornamental clock around which were gathered a porcelain rooster and two smaller porcelain birds. A kiddie car was parked near the hearth. Against the opposite wall was the child’s four-poster-style maple crib; nearby was a pink-and-green screen, on which farmyard animals frolicked.
“That’s where he takes his meals,” Lindbergh said from the doorway, pointing to a small maple table in the middle of the room. Specks of dried-up food still remained.
I was looking in the crib. “Are these the baby’s bedclothes?”
“Yes. Exactly as they were.”
The bedclothes-blankets and sheets-were barely disturbed; they were attached to the mattress with a pair of large safety pins. The impression of the child’s head was still on the damn pillow.
“Whoever did this lifted the child out without waking him,” I said. “Or, if the boy did wake, he wasn’t startled. A familiar face, a familiar touch?”
“Or,” Lindbergh said, almost defensively, “a woman’s touch. Perhaps a woman did go up the ladder first…”
“I’d buy that sooner,” I said, “if the rungs weren’t so damn far apart.”
I walked to the southeast window, the kidnappers’ window. It was recessed, window-seat deep. Below it, against the wall, was a low cedar chest. It was almost as wide as the wide sill itself. On top of the cedar chest was a black suitcase, on which sat a jointed wooden bunny on a small string.
“That chest houses Charlie’s personal fortune,” Lindbergh said, trying to sound cheerful. “His toys. He has plenty, I’m afraid.”
I smiled over my shoulder at him. “And when you get him back, you’re going to buy him another damn chestful, aren’t you?”
Lindbergh smiled shyly. “I intend to spoil Charlie rotten.”
“Good for you,” I said, kneeling at the chest. “Was this chest moved away from the window at all? Disturbed in any way?”
“No.”
“How about this suitcase?”
“No.”
“Any mud, any scuffs, on the suitcase, or the chest?”
“No.”
“Where was this toy rabbit found?”
“Right where you see it. Right where it usually was.”
I stood. “The house wall is a foot and a half thick, and the sill is almost as wide. Anybody entering through that window would have to span a distance of almost three feet to actually get in this room proper. Doing that without leaving mud, without moving the chest, without disturbing the suitcase or toy rabbit, and all without making a ruckus…very improbable.”
Lindbergh said nothing.
I opened the window and felt the rush of cold air. The shutters wouldn’t close. “Are the shutters on any of the other windows warped like this?”
“No.”
“They must have known about this,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to shut them.
“A chisel was found outside,” Lindbergh said, “which would indicate they thought they’d have to break in. They just got lucky, picking this window.”
“I don’t know what the chisel was for, other than maybe to make somebody assume what you just assumed. This window wasn’t pried open, was it?”
“No. It wasn’t locked; we lock the shutters, not the windows.”
“But this window is directly over the curtainless window of your study below. The French windows, on the other side of the room, over a side door, are what a kidnapper who didn’t know about the broken shutter would’ve come in through.”
Lindbergh said, “Now you’re sounding like Schwarzkopf.”
“Good,” I said. “Then he’s thinking like a cop.”
“You’ve changed your mind, then. You’re convinced this
“I haven’t changed my mind,” I said. “I’m just keeping it open. The worst and most common investigator’s error is making a snap decision at the outset about who or what is behind a crime. I noticed some scientific studies and books and such in your library.”
“Yes.”
“Well, in science, if you start out with an answer you want to prove is correct, it screws your research up, right? Because you’re only looking for the evidence that proves your point.”
Lindbergh nodded.
I walked over to him. He was still in the doorway.
“You don’t want to think your servants could be involved, do you? You trust them. You like them.”
“I hired them,” he said.
And that, of course, was the nub: if a servant did it, then Lindy was, ultimately, responsible. And he couldn’t face that.
“In science,” I said, “the truth hurts sometimes. You wouldn’t want a doctor to lie to you, would you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then I’m not going to lie to you. Nor am I going to kiss your ass. I’m going to level with you, and tell you how I see things.”
His face was deadpan for what seemed an eternity. I realized I may have crossed the line with Lindy; tomorrow at this time, I could be getting off the train back in Chicago. Which was fine, if the alternative was standing around making like a horse’s-ass yes-man.
But I wouldn’t have to, because Lindbergh smiled, big and natural.
“Do you mind if I call you ‘Nate’?”
“I’d be honored,” I said, and meant it. “Could I call you something besides ‘Colonel’? Every time I say that, eight heads turn.”
He laughed softly. He extended his hand to me, as if we hadn’t shaken before.
“My friends call me ‘Slim.’ I’d appreciate it if you called me that, at least when we’re more or less in private.”
We shook hands, loose and casual.
“Okay…Slim,” I said, trying it out. “I’ll be more formal when it seems appropriate.”
“Thanks.”
We headed back downstairs, where Schwarzkopf-looking like a hotel doorman in that fancy-ass uniform-met us halfway.
“Colonel,” he said, “agents Irey and Wilson are waiting to see you.”
5
Elmer Irey and Frank J. Wilson were waiting in Lindbergh’s study; neither had taken a seat. They stood there, hats in hand, both in black, like twin undertakers.
Irey and Wilson were the Ike and Mike of law enforcement-wearing different-color ties wasn’t enough to lessen the sameness. Both men were in their mid-forties and wore round-lensed black eyeglasses like Robert Woolsey of the Wheeler and Woolsey comedy team-a couple of solemn, long-faced, round-jawed, dark-haired, jug- eared feds as interchangeable as a pair of socks.
