The Aviator's Wife

flushed. “This is it, the break we’ve been looking for. The kidnappers did not want to speak with the mob, but for some reason they do want to communicate with this man.”

“How do we know it’s them? After—after your contact sold the ransom note?” Just as Schwarzkopf had feared, Charles’s underworld contact had sold the ransom note with the authentic signature to the newspapers. Now we received notes by the bushel with that odd three-hole signature. It was impossible to know which were real and which were not.

“Because there’s something else,” Charles said quietly. He placed the brown package in my lap, then reverently unwrapped it, revealing a piece of gray wool fabric. A gray Dr. Denton wool sleep suit. Size two.

I lifted the fabric to my face; eyes squeezed tight, I inhaled it, wanting desperately to smell the innocence of my child, the downy hair, the apple scent of his shampoo, the grease of the Vicks I rubbed on his chest that night. I so wanted to smell these things that for a moment I did—and then I knew it was only the desire of memory. This fabric did not smell like any of those things; it actually had very little scent at all. Only a faint whiff of damp, as if it had been freshly laundered.

But it had been so long; two weeks now. If Charlie had been disguised somehow, in different clothing, then they might have laundered his sleep suit—

I handed the fabric back to Charles and looked at Betty, hard.

“Is this his suit? What do you think? I need you to tell me the truth, Betty. Always.”

“I think it is! I really do, Mrs. Lindbergh! I think I recognize it!” Betty’s cheeks were scarlet as she reached out a tentative hand to stroke the fabric.

“Then it is it! We are on the right trail, at last!” Charles strode about, energized, nearly knocking over a lamp on the table. He crossed the room in one giant stride.

“Anne, this is it,” he said to me—only to me; it was as if there was no one present but us, now. He knelt, and smoothed the fabric in my lap, speaking softly, urgently. “Betty recognized this right away. And you did, too—I saw it in your face. I know you want to be absolutely sure, Anne. I know what a strain this has all been, and how confused you must be—and how hard it must be, now, to hope, after everything. But Condon here spoke with the man who gave us this. He said this had been planned for a year, that the baby was in good health, was being taken care of on a boat by two women. Two women! Think of that! He seemed very sure of himself, and he had this.” Charles grasped my hands tightly, as if he could transfer all his confidence to me.

I shook my head, still hesitant to believe. He was right. I was afraid to hope. Even though that’s all I had been told to do—the only job entrusted to me—deep in my heart, I hadn’t. But now—oh, Charles was so sure of himself! Finally, after weeks of dashing about, playing a desperate game of cloak and dagger, he looked like the old Charles. The clear-eyed boy. The best pilot he knew; the best there ever was.

“Will you—if Colonel Schwarzkopf can verify this—” I took the fabric once more, slowly claiming it, allowing its worn folds to soften my heart. Charles paled at my mention of Colonel Schwarzkopf, but I didn’t care. As much as I wanted to believe him, I needed to hear Colonel Schwarzkopf’s opinion even more. My heart beat fast, my face flushed, as if he’d discovered me in an indiscretion—but I did not flinch from his gaze.

“I understand. This has been such a strain. I understand.” And with those words, Charles allowed me to question his methods for the first time.

“It has been such a strain. For both of us. But if Colonel Schwarzkopf agrees, well, then—” I nodded, coaxing myself into giving in, finally, to the luxury of hope. “I do think this is the baby’s, it really does seem like it. I do! So—now what? We know they have him. Do we just give them the money, then? Is that how it’s done? And then we’ll get him back?” My heart began to beat faster and faster with every word until I jumped out of the chair and grasped Mr. Condon’s hand. “Oh, thank you—bless you!” And I could have kissed him, right then, but I didn’t. The odd little man did bow, once more, and wiped a tear from his eye.

My own eyes were dry, and I felt a sudden surge of energy, of optimism, race through my veins. For the first time in weeks, I was hungry. Ravenous! The child within me kicked, as if to remind me how starved he was, too, and I laughed out loud.

“We have so much to do,” I told my husband, who nodded indulgently as time sped up, calendar pages fell away, and I began to recognize the world again. “The house is a wreck! I don’t want him to come home and see it like this, do you?” Charles shook his head, but I hardly even paused to register it. I continued to pace about, my mind full of plans—blissful, ordinary plans, plans that other families were making, too, right at this very moment! “We’ll have to get him some spring clothes, you know. We haven’t had a chance to buy anything new. Do you think he’s grown very much? Babies do grow so fast at this age. Charles, Charles, do you think Charlie will remember us?”

“Of course, Anne,” my husband murmured, and suddenly I was aware that everyone in the room was staring at me as if they’d never seen me before. And I suppose they hadn’t; they hadn’t seen this happy, hopeful creature at all. Until now.

“I’m sorry, I rather lost my head,” I said sheepishly, but no one seemed to mind. “Please, go on and do what you have to do. Please—go!” I took Charles’s arm and propelled him out the door—to his great surprise, and to everyone else’s. “Go talk to Colonel Schwarzkopf—show him the fabric, and then arrange it all! This is what we’ve been waiting for, isn’t it? Go!”

Laughing, Charles allowed me to push him down the hall. Condon followed—again with an elaborate bow. Betty grabbed my hand, and the two of us embraced. Forgotten was the anger, the suspicion, the recrimination; now we were united in joy. Then she left, as well.

I went to my desk and began to make a list of everything we would need for the baby’s homecoming. Charles had taught me so well! I had not been such a great list maker before we met; now, I found, I could make them easily. All because of my husband—one more miracle he had wrought!

But before I began, I found myself writing one word. Just this one word, the word I had not allowed myself to write, to speak, until now—

Hope!

CHAPTER 11

IT WAS MID-MAY. More than two months since my child was taken.

The house was so quiet now. The switchboard was still operative, but we received only a hundred calls per day. Police and other strangers no longer camped out in the house; Elsie had had all the rugs cleaned, the floors polished, the camp beds removed.

I was terrified by the silence, the orderliness. All those people had been working to bring my baby home because they thought there was a chance. It was impossible not to recognize the more sedate atmosphere as resignation.

Colonel Schwarzkopf still maintained an office in the house, working independently of Charles, although Charles had listened to him in one matter; he had paid the ransom to Condon’s man in marked gold certificates, so they could be traced.

But the colonel no longer believed my baby was alive. He hadn’t told me, and he certainly hadn’t told Charles, but I knew it, even as I didn’t quite register it. It was like a particularly difficult math equation from school: I could recognize the symbols and letters. But what they represented simply would not penetrate my understanding.

Over the last month, the investigation had taken a grotesque turn. Without Colonel Schwarzkopf’s knowledge, the state police sent a man to inspect the incinerator in our basement. He had insisted that Charles and I accompany him. Eyes flickering suspiciously over us both as we stood beside the glowing furnace, he sifted through the ashes with a shovel. “Searching for fragments of bone,” he informed us icily. I recoiled, falling against my stony husband; neither of us spoke a word for hours after the man—reluctantly—left, empty-handed but still glaring our way, accusing us of the unthinkable.

Another time, I heard a repeated thumping outside; looking out the dining room window, I saw several broken ladders on the ground, and an intact one leaning against the house, beneath the nursery window. A policeman was halfway down it, about five feet off the ground, carrying a flour sack the size of an eighteen-month- old child. With an ominous groan, the ladder split exactly where the original broken ladder had split; in three pieces.