stiff upper lip and cold shoulder, so I buttoned my lip, settled my shoulder against the door of the tan Franklin sedan, and began sawing logs.
I needed the sleep. I’d been up much of the night, moving from the smoking car to the dining car, drinking too heavily for my own good. The Chicago P.D. had predictably seen fit to buy me the cheapest accommodations possible-frankly, I counted myself lucky I wasn’t in the baggage compartment-and I had slept only fitfully, in my Pullman upper.
But it wasn’t the accommodations, really. It was me. I was nervous. I’d never been east before, and certainly never met anybody as famous as Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh-except maybe Al Capone, and we hadn’t really met, had we? Besides which, Lindbergh was one of the few men on this disreputable planet that a Chicago cynic like yours truly couldn’t help but admire.
Only a few years older than me, Lindbergh was, of course, one of the most famous and admired men in the world. Five short years ago he’d piloted his tiny, single-engine plane-the
I didn’t believe in heroes, yet Lindbergh was a hero to me, too. I felt strangely embarrassed about this, and oddly uncomfortable about going to meet him; and uneasy about encountering him at such a sad, desperate point in his life.
“Sour land,” Whately said, suddenly, in a bass voice that rattled the windows of the sedan, and shook me from half-awake to fully.
“What?”
Whately repeated himself, and it turned out to be one word, not two: “Sourland-sometimes known as the ‘lost land.’” The butler, dressed in funereal black, sitting back regally from the wheel, nodded his big head toward his window at the tangled thickness of woods through which the long black-mud private lane had been cut.
“They say,” he said, “that Hessian soldiers fell prey to the maze of these woods, and, giving up, settled here.” He looked at me ominously. “They mixed their blood with Indians’.”
He said this as if he were referring to a laboratory experiment, not some good-natured redskin nookie.
“Later, runaway slaves hid in the Sourland Mountains,” he added, darkly.
I made a clicking sound in my cheek. “I bet some more blood got mixed, too.”
Whately nodded, his expression grave. “The descendants of the Hessians and their interbred rabble live in tar-paper shacks and caves in these hills and mountains.”
“Funny neighborhood to stick a fancy house in,” I offered.
“The Colonel chose the location from the air,” Whately said, shifting gears on the sedan and the conversation. He sounded matter-of-fact, dismissing from consideration the wild bands of mixed-blood hillbillies he’d summoned up. He lifted one large hand off the wheel and painted in the air. “Colonel and Mrs. Lindbergh chose the crest of a knoll, higher than fog could disrupt.”
“He has a landing strip, then?”
Whately nodded. “Even this dirt road itself discourages travelers and sightseers. The Colonel likes his privacy. A remote estate is a necessity for the Lindberghs.”
“And a liability.”
He turned his head slowly and looked at me down his long nose, which was quite a trip. “Pardon?”
“Stuck out in the middle of nowhere, they’re an easy target. For cutthroat mix-breed hillbillies, say-or a kidnapper.”
Whately snorted and turned his attention back to driving.
Autos and ambulances swarmed the roadsides by the whitewashed stone wall with wrought-iron gate. Some of the cars bore the cachet of a particular news service, while the ambulances were an old press trick: they’d been converted to mobile photo labs-retaining their sirens, of course, to ensure getting where they needed to as fast as possible. Standing out in the bitter March air, mixing cigar and cigarette smoke with that of their breaths, were hundreds of reporters and photographers and newsreel cameramen, gathered like flies at a dead animal. An abandoned ramshackle farmhouse, well outside the gate but in sight of it, was providing shelter for dozens of newshounds.
Several New Jersey troopers stood on guard at the gate. They looked as crisp as the Sourland weather, light-blue uniform jackets, leather-visored caps, yellow-striped riding britches.
“They look like chorus boys in
Whately arched an eyebrow in what seemed to be agreement, as they passed us through.
More than a house, less than a mansion, the Lindbergh home, standing alone on a patch of ground cleared out of the dense woods, was a rambling, twin-gabled, two-and-a-half-story structure facing the forests and hills of the Sourland. Featherbed Lane came up behind the whitewashed fieldstone house, like an intruder; then the lane opened into a wide court and swung around its west side, into a smaller paved court cluttered with automobiles. A picket fence halfheartedly surrounded the sprawling, French-manor-style house and gave it a homey, civilized touch, as did the windmill that spun sporadically in the bitter breeze; but none of it quite compensated for the loneliness of the wilderness-surrounded site.
The place looked unfinished. Other than the landing strip beyond what would be the front yard, no landscaping had yet been done-the grounds were a barren patchwork of snow and weeds and dirt. And the windows, most of them, lacked curtains.
“When did the Lindberghs move in?” I asked Whately, as he pulled the sedan to a stop.
“They’ve only been spending weekends here,” he said.
“For how long?” I didn’t figure this place had been habitable longer than a month or two.
Whately confirmed that: “Since January.”
“Where do they spend the rest of their time?”
Whately frowned, as one might when a child asks repetitious and pointless questions. “Next Day Hill.”
“What’s that?”
“The Morrow estate. At Englewood. If you’ll just come with me.”
He got out of the sedan and so did I. The day was gray and cold and I was glad I’d brought my gloves. Whately got my traveling bag out of the back of the sedan and handed it to me. I thought maybe he’d carry it, but then he wasn’t my butler, was he?
I followed the tall, fleshy Britisher to the three-car garage, one door of which he swung open to reveal a herd of cops at work in a makeshift command post. It was Sunday afternoon, but nobody had the day off. A trooper at a switchboard was frantically transferring calls to a nearby picnic table of plain-clothesmen working a bank of phones, while at two other picnic tables, uniformed troopers sorted mail into various piles, with the discards going into already well-filled barrels. A pair of teletype machines chattered, spewing paper onto a cement floor crawling with snakes of telephone wires and electrical cords; the smell of cigarette and cigar smoke mingled with that of steaming hot coffee.
“This, sir,” Whately said to me, infusing “sir” with more disrespect than one syllable ought to be able to convey, “is where police personnel congregate.”
“Hey,” I said, “I’m supposed to talk to…”
But Whately was outside, pulling the garage door down, shutting me and my question-the final unspoken word of which was “Lindbergh”-inside.
A potbellied, bullet-headed flatfoot pushing fifty, with hard tiny eyes behind wire-frame glasses and a face as rumpled as his brown suit, approached me with something less than enthusiasm.
“Who are you?” he said, in a half-yelled monotone. “What do you want?”
I thought I better show him my badge. I set down my bag and did.
“Heller,” I said. “Chicago P.D.”
He just looked at me. Didn’t glance at the badge. Then, slowly, the gash where his mouth should be turned up at one corner-in amusement, or disgust, or both.
“I’m here to see the Colonel,” I said.
“We have several colonels here, sonny boy.”
