“At once,” he said, melodramatically, and hung up.
I stared at the phone a moment.
Then I looked at Breckinridge, whose eyes were wide.
“Better get Slim out of bed,” I said.
An hour and forty-five minutes later, I was standing with my hands in my topcoat pockets, leaning against the whitewashed stone wall, near the locked gate where Featherbed Lane turned into the Lindberghs’ private drive. I was hiding from the wind, waiting for Condon to show. A trooper stood in front of the nearby weathered contractor’s shack with a rifle cradled in his arms; he looked like a prison guard. There were no reporters this time of night.
I heard footsteps crunching the cold ground behind me and my hand drifted toward the nine millimeter, which I’d taken to wearing under one shoulder, lately; but when I turned, I saw Breckinridge approaching in a topcoat, but bareheaded.
He stood with his hands tucked in his pockets and said, “I woke up the chancellor of Fordham University and he confirmed Condon’s credentials. Seventy-two years old, retired grade-school teacher. Teaches part-time, physical fitness buff, coached football, still gives swimming lessons.”
“At seventy-two?”
Breckinridge raised an eyebrow. “He’s apparently quite a character. A real self-styled patriot-featured at public events singing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ bringing himself to tears each time.”
“I may cry, myself.”
The night was crying already, moaning like a sick trapped beast. I pressed against the wall, turned up my topcoat collar to shield my face; even a guy from Chicago could die in this icy wind.
“I also rang up the editor and publisher of the Bronx
“Colonel, you’re turning into a better cop than Schwarzkopf.”
He paused, wondering if that was much of a compliment. Then he said, “The editor, a Mr. O’Flaherty, said he was an ‘old dear friend’ of Condon’s, and that the good doctor had contributed poetry, essays and letters to the
I snorted a laugh. “He sounds like a crank and a busybody to me. Why the hell would the kidnappers pick a goof like this? All kinds of big-shot public figures have offered their services as go-between.”
“I can’t begin to answer that. Nor could editor O’Flaherty-who said the circulation of the
Headlights cut through the darkness and up Featherbed Lane. As the car drew to a stop, an elderly, walrus- mustached fellow climbed quickly out, nimble for a man his age and size, at six feet something and maybe two hundred-some pounds. No topcoat in sight, he wore a neat, dark, out-of-fashion three-piece suit with a golden watch fob and speckled tie, and a bowler hat, which he was even now removing politely; he looked like somebody who’d gone to a party in 1912 and arrived a few decades late.
“Would this be the Lindbergh home?” he said. It was the voice I’d heard on the phone two hours before.
Through the barred gate, Breckinridge said, “It would. Are you Dr. Condon?”
The old man bowed, making a sweep with the bowler. “I am Dr. John F. Condon.”
Two other men were in the car. I unbuttoned my topcoat; I had a clear path to the nine millimeter.
“You have a letter for the Colonel?” Breckinridge asked.
“I do, sir. I prefer to deliver it to him, personally.”
From just behind Breckinridge, I called out, “Who’s that with you?”
Condon squinted; he had apple cheeks and stupid eyes. “Colonel Lindbergh?”
“No,” I said. “I’m a cop, and I’m armed. Who’s in the goddamn car?”
Condon lifted his chin and his eyes and nostrils flared. “Language of that sort is unnecessary, sir.”
“Who’s in the goddamn car?”
“Heller,” Breckinridge whispered harshly. “Please!”
Condon stepped gingerly forward, hat in his hands. “I was accompanied by two friends, one of whom was generous enough to drive me here. When I called I was in Max Rosenhain’s restaurant, and Max came along with me; our mutual friend, Milton Gaglio, a clothier, was also present. He drove.”
“Tell ’em to get out of there and put their hands up,” I said.
“Really,” Condon said stiffly, head high, “this is most undignified.”
“It gets worse if your friends don’t get out of the car.”
They got out of the car; a small dark man, about thirty, and a stockier guy in his late fifties. Both wore topcoats and hats.
The smaller, younger one said, “I’m Milton Gaglio. Sorry it took us so long to get here. We got lost. Had to stop at the Baltimore Lunchroom to get directions.”
That was at the Hopewell crossroads.
“I’m Max Rosenhain,” the older man said, with a nervous smile. “We’re kind of a committee-a wop, a Jew and a harp.”
Nobody laughed.
“Put your hands up, gentlemen,” I said.
They looked at each other, more surprised than anything; only Condon seemed offended.
“I can understand your concern for security…” he began.
“Then shut up,” I said, “and do as you’re told.”
Breckinridge, who seemed slightly taken aback by my police tactics, unlocked and swung open the gate, and I went out and frisked the three men. Condon’s two pals took it stoically, but the professor made little huffing and puffing sounds.
“Let’s see the note, Professor,” I said.
“I prefer to show it to Colonel Lindbergh.”
“Just show me the signature.”
He breathed heavily through his nose, thought my request over, then dug a white envelope out of his suitcoat pocket, removed from it a second, smaller envelope and held the note up. The familiar blue and red circles and punched holes were there, all right.
“Stand away,” I told him, and then nodded to the other two, to communicate the same thing. I looked inside the car, a black Chevy; poked at and looked under the seats, checked the glove compartment. I asked Gaglio to open the trunk and he did; it was empty but for a spare tire and a jack.
“Okay, boys,” I said, gesturing grandly. “Get back in your buggy.”
Condon nodded stiffly and with silly precision returned the letters to their envelopes and walked with exaggerated dignity to the black Chevy. The other two moved quickly, like the soles of their feet were hot.
I called over the trooper from the contractor’s shack and had him and his rifle climb aboard the running board, to accompany them to the house.
Then I said to Gaglio, who was behind the wheel, “Drive around back. Park near the garage. And wait for us.”
The car pulled away and eased up the dirt lane as Breckinridge swung the gate shut and locked it again. The red eyes of their taillights moved slowly toward the mostly dark house, a few rectangles of yellow light glowing on the first floor; the trooper rode along the side of the car like a stunt pilot riding the wing of a plane.
“You were a little rough on them, weren’t you?” Breckinridge asked.
“That professor is either a con man or a jackass,” I said. “And I got no patience with either.”
Breckinridge had no reply to that; we walked up to the house, nodding as we passed to two troopers who stood forlornly near a dwindling bonfire.
The trooper who’d ridden the running board had the three men grouped at the door that led through the servants’ sitting room. Breckinridge sent the trooper back to his post, and opened the door for his guests. We gathered in the kitchen, where only one small light over the stove burned. The little terrier, Wahgoosh, came scrambling in from the living room.
“Breckinridge is my name,” the Colonel said, talking over the dog’s incessant barking. “This is Detective Heller of the Chicago Police.”
