“Something like that. I think he’s sincere.”
“He’s also a pain in the ass.”
“Most people are. Would you share quarters with him, just for tonight?”
“Sure.”
When I entered the dark nursery, some light from the hall fell in and revealed Condon on the floor on his knees in his long johns with his hands wrapped around the rungs of the crib. His voice boomed through the room.
“Oh great Jehovah, by Thy grace and that it may redound to Thy credit and that of Thy immortal Son, I swear that I shall dedicate my best efforts and, if necessary, the remaining days of my life, to helping these unfortunate parents.”
He knew I was standing there, as he continued.
“Let me do this one great thing as the crowning act of my life. Let me successfully accomplish my mission to the credit of Thy Holy Name and that of Thy Divine Son. Amen!”
He stood. He turned to me. “Detective Heller. I did not see you there.”
“Right.” I had an armful of blankets and a pillow. I tossed them in the middle of the room. “Make yourself a pallet, gramps. The cot is mine.”
He did that, and was asleep before me; even his snoring seemed pompous.
When I woke up in the morning, he was dressed and at the toy chest by the window, going through it.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I snapped.
It frightened the old coot; he jumped, turned around and said, pointedly, “I find your language most offensive and if you don’t refrain from such talk, we might have to resort to fisticuffs.”
I went over and looked him right in his watery blue eyes. “I said, what the fuck are you doing?”
He had a wood-carved elephant in one hand. “I’m looking for a toy or some other item that the child might be able to identify as his.”
There was a knock at the door behind us and we both turned; Lindbergh peeked in.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “It’s eight o’clock. We’d like you to join us for breakfast.”
“I’d be honored,” Condon said, clutching the toy elephant.
Lindbergh, as before, stayed in the doorway of the nursery; he looked casual and neat at once, wearing a pair of old gray trousers and the leather flying jacket over a darker gray shirt with a tie.
I was standing there in my underwear. “He wants to borrow that toy elephant. For identification purposes.”
Lindbergh seemed confused by that.
Condon held up the wooden elephant. “When I’ve succeeded in establishing personal contact with the kidnappers, I shall ask to be taken where the baby is being kept. I shall show the baby this toy, and watch for his reaction.”
“He can’t say ‘elephant,’” Lindbergh said, quietly. “He says ‘el-e-pent.’”
“Splendid! I’ll ask the child to name this toy, and will know what response to expect! In that way, it will be impossible for them to confront me with the wrong child and deceive me.”
I was getting my clothes on while this brilliant dissertation was delivered. As far as I was concerned, you could deceive this clown with a dime-store doll.
“Take it with you, by all means,” Lindbergh said.
“I’ve already taken the liberty of removing two other items,” Condon said. “I’d like your permission to keep them-two safety pins that secured the blankets under which your son slept, to the mattress.”
“I don’t see why you’d want…”
“It’s simple,” Condon said, with a self-satisfied smile. “And, I believe, entirely logical. I am taking the pins so that when I meet the man who wrote to me, I can show them to him and ask him where he saw them. If he can tell me exactly where they were fastened on the night of the kidnapping, then we’ll know we are dealing with the person who actually entered this nursery and took your son.”
“I could use some coffee,” I said.
“Let’s go down, then,” Lindbergh said, and led the way.
Darkly attractive Betty Gow helped horsey Elsie Whately serve us breakfast-orange juice, bacon, eggs, toast and coffee-which we took informally, at the kitchen table. Condon babbled about the Bronx and spouted homilies, showing off for Anne Lindbergh and her mother, who were breakfasting with us, as well.
After breakfast, Lindbergh hustled Condon into the study; Breckinridge and I followed.
“I am convinced,” Lindbergh said, taking a seat behind his desk, “that you are in contact with the people who took my son.”
Condon sat across from Lindbergh, on the edge of his chair; Breckinridge and I stood.
“Professor, I’ll arrange to place fifty thousand dollars in your bank account,” Lindbergh said, as he wrote something on a slip of paper. “Since the original amount asked for has been raised to seventy thousand, I’ll make every effort to have the additional twenty to you within a day or two.”
He handed Condon a note. I moved in and read it over his shoulder: “I hereby authorize Dr. John F. Condon to act as go-between for my wife and myself.” It was signed Charles A. Lindbergh.
“This afternoon,” Lindbergh was saying, “Colonel Breckinridge will insert the notice ‘Money is ready’ in the New York
“It would be disastrous if the newspapers got wind you’re in touch with the kidnappers,” Breckinridge told Condon. “We need to find some pseudonym for you to sign the ad with.”
Condon rubbed his chin; he hadn’t shaved this morning, and it was stubbled with white. “By putting my initials together,” he said thoughtfully, “J.F.C.-I come up with Jafsie.”
I looked sharply at Breckinridge and he looked at me the same way.
Sister Sarah Sivella, two days ago, while in the sway of Chief Yellow Feather, had spoken-and even spelled out-that name:
“Fine,” Lindbergh told Condon. “That’s fine-use that. It’ll hide your identity from everyone except whoever it was who wrote to you…and to me.”
“Before I return to the Bronx,” Condon said, “do you have pictures of your son I might study, that I might indelibly impress upon my mind his features?”
“Certainly.”
I gestured to Breckinridge and he stepped out into the hall.
“One of us has to stick with the old boy,” I said. “You heard him-that pen name he supposedly just made up…”
“Jafsie,” Breckinridge said, nodding. “We heard that before, didn’t we?”
“We sure did. But Lindy’s liable to dismiss it as Sarah Sivella tapping into the spirit world or ESP or some ridiculous damn thing.”
“True.” Breckinridge was troubled. Then his expression sharpened. “Let me handle this.”
We went back into the study, where Condon was studying baby photos like a student cramming for an exam.
Breckinridge touched him on the shoulder and said, warmly, “Professor, I wonder if I might stay as your houseguest, until any negotiations with the kidnappers are concluded? I’d consider it a great favor.”
“My entire home and everything that is in it,” Condon said grandly, “is at your disposal as long as you wish.”
“You’re most gracious, Professor,” Breckinridge said, and the men shook hands. “We’ll start today.”
12
Mickey Rosner, snazzy in a three-piece black suit with white pinstripes and a flourish of white silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, was holding court. His dark face, average in every way but for his large, flattened nose, was cracked in a smile; the little bastard was beaming like a new father handing out cigars. He was seated at a table for four in a speakeasy in the back of the Cadillac Restaurant on East Forty-First Street in Manhattan. With
