“We think it’s a bluff,” Wilson said confidently, sitting back. “We think you should disregard it.”
Irey, measuring his words, said, “I hate to say this, Colonel…but Capone doesn’t know who has the child. He is a desperate man trying to deal his way out of jail.”
“We know he thinks,” Wilson said, “or says he thinks, a former gang member of his did it.”
“Bob Conroy,” I said.
All heads turned my way.
“Is Detective Heller right?” Lindbergh asked, eyes tight. “Is this Conroy the one Capone claims took my son?”
Irey nodded, slowly; Wilson nodded, too, but two nods for every one of Irey’s.
Irey said, “Our preliminary investigation puts Conroy nearly one hundred and fifty miles from here, the night of the kidnapping.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Have you talked to Conroy yet?”
“No,” Irey said, not looking at me. “We have agents in New York who are investigating. Two alibi witnesses place Conroy in New Haven, Connecticut.”
“Well,” I said, “New Haven isn’t the moon. In a fast car, a hundred fifty miles is nothing, these days.”
“We intend,” Irey said, an edge of impatience in his voice, “to find Conroy, of course, and talk to him…but he didn’t do it.”
Lindbergh’s expression darkened. Then he said, “Should you make that assumption, going in? I’ve been told that the biggest mistake a detective can make is to form a snap decision early on about who or what is behind a crime.”
Both Irey and Wilson shifted in their seats; it was perfectly coordinated, like a couple of really good chorus girls. It made me smile.
“You’re right, Colonel,” Irey said to Lindbergh. “We’ll keep an open mind about Conroy-we’ll find him, and we’ll talk to him. We don’t see it as a major lead, however…because we don’t think Capone is sincere.”
“Colonel,” Wilson said, “Big Al just wants out of jail.”
Where you boys helped put him, and you’ll be goddamned if you’ll let the bastard out even if it is to help save a kid’s life.
Lindbergh cast his hollow gaze my way. “What do you think, Nate?”
“About Capone? It could be a hoax. But I don’t think we can rule out, at this early stage, the possibility that Capone may have engineered the kidnapping.”
“That’s absurd,” Wilson said.
But Irey said nothing.
I said, “You said it yourself: he’s a desperate man. He’s also a public figure-like Colonel Lindbergh. What better target could he choose than a man who, in a bizarre way, is one of the few people in this country on his own level? Besides, can you put anything past a man who can turn a tender holiday like St. Valentine’s Day into something forever grisly in the minds of the masses?”
“You think,” Lindbergh said to me, with a gaze so flatly penetrating it was unnerving, “that Capone may truly know where my boy is? Because he wants to ‘solve’ a crime he committed-or, that is, had committed for him?”
“It’s possible,” I said. “All to buy his cynical way into the public’s affections-and out of a jail cell. And it’s an opinion held by the federal agent instrumental in putting him away-Eliot Ness.”
In other words, screw you, Agents Irey and Wilson.
“Mr. Heller may be right,” Irey said, more gracious about it than I figured he’d be. “I think it’s a long shot, frankly…but I can’t in all honesty rule the possibility out.”
Even Wilson seemed willing to begrudge me my opinion. “I think we should find Bob Conroy and make him talk.” He paused ominously, then added, “But we don’t need to let Al Capone out of stir to accomplish that.”
“I hope,” Lindbergh said quietly, “that you will proceed with caution. It’s been my position from the very beginning that there must be no police interference…” He raised his hand and cut the air with it. “…no police activity of any kind that might interfere with my paying the ransom and reclaiming my boy.”
That ultimately wasn’t-or anyway shouldn’t have been-Lindbergh’s decision, of course, but Irey and Wilson let it go. I knew when it got down to brass tacks, Irey would act like a cop. Wilson, too.
“I wonder if we might see the kidnap note,” Irey said.
“Certainly,” Lindbergh said. He pulled open a desk drawer. The note, which ought to have been in an evidence envelope in Trenton, was handed to Irey. I moved in and looked over his shoulder as he read.
In pencil, in an uneven, shaky, possibly disguised hand, on cheap dimestore bond paper, the letter said the following:
Dear Sir!
Have 50.000 $ redy 25 000 $ in
20 $ bills 1.5000 $ in 10 $ bills and
10000 $ in 5 $ bills. After 2–4 days
we will inform you were to deliver
the Mony.
We warn you for making
anyding public or for notify the Police
the chld is in gut care.
Indication for all letters are
singnature
and 3 holds.
The “singnature” was the faint impression of two blue quarter-size circles, their left edges the most distinct, creating the impression of two c’s, with a red nickel-size spot to the right of the second c; also three holes (“holds”) had been punched, one through the red spot, two others at left and right.
Schwarzkopf said, “Obviously, we haven’t released the content of the note to the press. Only by that signature can we know for sure that subsequent notes really are from the kidnappers.”
Then why was the fucking thing stuck in Lindbergh’s desk? Every servant in the house had access to it!
“I would suggest that you put this document under lock and key, immediately,” Irey said. He was speaking to Schwarzkopf, not Lindbergh, although he was in the process of returning the note to the latter. “Who have you shared this with?”
“No one,” Schwarzkopf said. “The New York Police have requested copies, but we’ve declined. So has J. Edgar Hoover. I feel this is a matter for the New Jersey State Police, and distributing this document frivolously, even to other law enforcement agencies, might have unfortunate results.”
That sounded halfway reasonable, but it boiled down to Schwarzkopf not wanting to share the spotlight, didn’t it?
“Of course, we have given a copy of it to Mr. Rosner,” Lindbergh said.
Irey and Wilson looked at each other. I rubbed my eyes.
“What?” Irey said.
Lindbergh shrugged. “Mr. Rosner wanted to show it to certain individuals in the underworld-Owney Madden, among others-who might be able to identify the handwriting or that strange ‘singnature.’”
Madden was an underworld figure who was to New York, roughly, what Capone was to Chicago.
“Let me get this straight,” Wilson said tightly. “The New York Police can’t have a copy, J. Edgar Hoover can’t have a copy, and we can’t have a copy. But Mickey Rosner can.”
Irey, obviously disturbed by this news, and rightly so, said, “I’m afraid the legitimacy of any future notes is endangered. You’ve opened yourselves up to interlopers.”
“Gentlemen,” Breckinridge said, “a mutual friend of ours, Bob Thayer, a partner in Colonel William Donovan’s office, accompanied Mr. Rosner to see Madden and several others of that ilk. Rosner never left Thayer’s sight, nor did his copy of the note.”
“I believe we’ll have no difficulty,” Lindbergh said, defensiveness creeping into his tone, “telling communiques from the real kidnappers apart from those of any pretenders seeking extortion money.” He reached into the still-open desk drawer. “In fact, though it’s not publicly known…we have received a second letter.”
The usually unflappable Irey sat up; Wilson was already sitting forward.
Lindbergh handed Irey another white bond sheet, written on both sides in ink. Again, I read over Irey’s shoulder:
Dear Sir. We have warned you note to make
anyding Public also notify the Polise
now you have to take consequences, ths
means we will have to hold the baby untill everyding