EVERY LIGHT WAS ON; the radio was blaring in the kitchen; the phone never stopped ringing; strange men trooped mud all over my new house. I sat on a chair in the upstairs hallway. No one paid any attention to me as they all followed my husband from room to room, the tail to his comet.
When they emerged from the nursery, one man had the envelope in his cotton-gloved hand; he pinched it between thumb and forefinger as if it were a foul-smelling rodent. They all trooped into the kitchen; I heard a murmur, then a shout, then a murmur again.
Meanwhile more police, carrying flashlights, stormed inside the house, their muddy footprints smearing the others on my new carpets.
No one asked me about the events leading up to this; no one inquired of me if I had any idea what might have happened. As soon as the doorbell rang and the first police officer showed up, Charles was the one to whom they turned. And I willed myself to stay still, out of the way; these men had a job to do, and it was to find my baby. If I interfered, they might not be able to do that job.
So I sat on the chair, my hands clenched in my lap, my jaw so tense my teeth ached.
“Mrs. Lindbergh.” I looked up; Elsie was there. “Drink this tea. It’ll make you feel better.”
I shook my head. Why should I feel better? Why should I have any comfort, when my son was—
“You need to keep up your strength. Not only for the baby missing, but for the one you’re expecting.”
And for the first time, I remembered. I was carrying a child. I must keep him or her safe, for Charlie.
I pushed Elsie away, bolted out of my chair, and ran downstairs, grabbing a mackintosh from the hall closet. Pausing in the kitchen doorway, I saw a contingent of official-looking men huddled around the table. Most wore muddy brown police uniforms covered in trench coats. Charles was at the head of the table.
“Charles, I’m—”
All faces turned my way; all registered surprise at my presence.
“I thought I’d go outside and help—”
“Anne, come here.” It was a command, and so I obeyed; I walked to my husband, who gave his seat to me.
“Anne, the expert has brushed the envelope—”
“Brushed?”
“Examined it, collected evidence, but there was no fingerprint. We’ve just opened it—it’s a ransom note.”
I nodded. By now it had thoroughly registered that my child had not simply wandered off, or been misplaced like a pair of spectacles. Something far more terrible had happened. It was confirmed, and now we needed to meet whatever demands they had and get him back. And it all seemed so logical; a kind of blanketing calm came over me for the first time since Betty had burst into my bedroom—how long ago? I glanced at the clock on the stove. It was ten past midnight. Only about two hours ago. A lifetime ago.
Someone—the expert?—pushed a small white piece of paper toward me. I was afraid to touch it, afraid somehow to contaminate it so it couldn’t be used. Leaning forward, I read—
.
Where there should have been a signature were two blue circles. They were joined together by a solid red mark, punched with three square holes.
“Charles! We told the police!” I jumped up, shaking with anger. “How could you? You see? What he says?” Why I assumed the kidnapper was male, I don’t know, except that I couldn’t imagine a woman stealing another woman’s child.
“Anne, of course we had to involve the police. The fingerprints, for example—they’re dusting the nursery now, so they can compare any strange fingerprints against ours.”
“But—the note says!”
“Anne.” And Charles gave me a look; a stern look I knew too well; the impatient look of the schoolteacher trying to teach me celestial navigation.
“Yes. Yes, of course. So, we’ll give him the money. Then we’ll get the baby back.” I sat down again.
There were glances over my head as if I couldn’t possibly understand. I intercepted one—from a man who was bigger, better dressed than the others. Not in a uniform but a tailored suit; still, he wore a shiny badge on his lapel and carried a gun in a holster across his barrel chest. His gaze, unlike the others’, was not furtive; it was steady, pitying, and therefore terrifying.
“It’s not usually so simple,” this man said, not bothering to elaborate. Then he tipped his head toward me. “Colonel H. Norman Schwarzkopf, ma’am. Superintendent of the New Jersey State Police.”
There was something solidly steady about this stranger; he reminded me of a huge tree with deep, unfathomable roots, and his face was as craggy as bark, although he had a rather dashing salt-and-pepper mustache. His eyes were deep-set but alert, and he had a bulbous nose just like W. C. Fields. I found myself looking to him as the others began to discuss the note and all its implications.
“The thing to do is to search the perimeter again as soon as the sun comes up,” my husband said excitedly. “I should answer all calls—can you set up a switchboard in the garage, Colonel? We need some kind of headquarters, base of operations, like an airfield.”
No one contradicted him; everyone nodded eagerly. I looked around the table; all these policemen, Colonel Schwarzkopf included, were looking to Charles for answers. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?
“Airfield?” I couldn’t help myself. Charles cleared his throat and continued—ignoring me without even a look.
“We must not release this note to anyone—I know newspapers. They will try to infiltrate the household, so we must be vigilant. But that sign—the two circles with the holes. That’s the key. It’s how we’ll authenticate any communication from the kidnappers.”
“Exactly,” Colonel Schwarzkopf said with a nod.
“Colonel, you will be in charge of your men. I’ll monitor everything from the house, including all communication, incoming and outgoing. Anne”—Charles finally favored me with a look—“you write up some kind of list of things the baby would need—his diet, his schedule—in case the kidnappers ask how to care for him.”
They all agreed with everything he said; every plan, every list—my husband was a great one with lists—every rule he laid down: If anyone called or showed up with information, Charles himself was to see that person, no matter what. All interviews with persons of interest were to be conducted in his presence. No lead was to be considered too small or too inconsequential. Every tip would be followed up on.
I was to stay upstairs, out of the way, and rest, and think positive thoughts—he actually said this, in front of everyone. “Anne, I know you. I know you worry, I know you fear. But you can’t, do you hear me? For the baby’s sake, you can’t give in to such emotions.”
“But, Charles—” I tried to push through the icy waters that were slowly swirling over me. “What do you know about—”
I stopped. I couldn’t. I couldn’t contradict him, I couldn’t question him—I saw it in the adoring eyes of every man in that room. Charles was a legend; I was the child’s hysterical mother. It was written on every face.
Charles, however, was not only the child’s father but the greatest hero of our age. He was also eager, energized, in a way he hadn’t been in such a long time—not since our flight to the Orient. He was champing at the bit to get on with it—to command this mission, the most significant mission in a life full of significant missions. If anyone was going to bring our son home, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that it would be him. He was Colonel Lindbergh. The Lone Eagle. Lucky Lindy.
My heart plummeted; already I felt that my child was being forgotten in the eagerness to find, once more, in Charles Lindbergh the hero everyone needed in these dark, desperate times. No longer the boy who had crossed an ocean, now he was the man who would single-handedly rescue his son from evil kidnappers in the midst of a Depression.
