Vanished

They had asked for him in an accent that screamed of South Bronx or East Jersey. “Yes, this is Mr. Patterson.” Four policemen, and Marielle, were holding on at various extensions. “Who is this?”

“I've got a friend here … a little guy in red pajamas.” Marielle felt dizzy as she held her hand over the phone and listened. They had taken him exactly forty-six hours before, and as she held the phone in her trembling hand, she was crying.

“How is he?” Malcolm closed his eyes as he listened.

“He's fine. Kinda cold, I think. We need some money to buy the little guy a blanket.”

“May I speak to him?” Malcolm said calmly, but the policeman watching him saw that his hand was trembling.

“Nah …he's sleeping. Let's talk about the money first.”

“How much do you need?”

“Oh … I'd say about two hundred thousand dollars would buy a nice blanket.” It was four times what the Lindberghs had paid and well worth it. “In unmarked bills, Mr. Smart Guy. In a locker at Grand Central Station. You leave it there. No cops. No marked bills. No funny stuff. You leave it there as long as it takes for us to pick it up. And when we're ready, you get your kid back.”

“How do I know he's all right now?”

“You don't.” The voice was hard and ugly. “But you screw me around, you tell the cops, you do anything … we kill him.” Marielle felt the room reel as she listened, and perspiration was pouring down Malcolm's face when he hung up. He had written down all the instructions, and in any case, the call had been recorded.

John Taylor arrived at the house less than half an hour later, Malcolm was still looking gray, and Marielle was shaking. They hadn't let them speak to the child, and he reminded them that there was no way of knowing if the call was for real, or from some crank, or someone who wanted to make some easy money. People were cruel, and sometimes they wanted to get in on the excitement. But at least it was a hope, something to cling to, and when Taylor left the room, Malcolm dropped his face in his hands and sobbed. It was their only hope of seeing Teddy.

The money was organized by midnight that night. The Intelligence Unit of the Treasury Department had placed half a million dollars in marked bills in Malcolm's account the day before, and Taylor called the president of the bank and asked him to release two hundred thousand of it. A small black alligator bag was filled and by two a.m., everything was in place in a locker in Grand Central Station. They'd been told to place an ad in the Daily Mirror when the bag was in place, and by the next morning, the ad was where it should be, and hundreds of plainclothes cops were swarming all over Grand Central Station, walking back and forth, sleeping on benches, eating hot dogs, reading magazines, looking like anyone else, and waiting for someone to pick up the ransom. But after three days, it was clear that no one was going to take it. The call was a cruel prank, and as hope waned, Marielle couldn't even make herself get out of bed. By Saturday, she looked gray, and Malcolm looked even worse than she did. The strain was telling on both of them, and somehow it all seemed worse because it was only six days till Christmas. The prospect of spending Christmas without him made it an added agony, as Malcolm stared at Marielle across their uneaten dinner.

“Why? Why didn't they come for it?” She was haunted by the call, and the threat to kill him if anything went wrong. What if they had? What if they'd panicked and killed him?

“Taylor says it was a prank, you know that.” He was being sharp with her again. But he couldn't stand the strain anymore either. “I still think it was Delauney.”

“Then why don't they find something, dammit? Why in God's name can't they find who did it!” She went back upstairs again then, unable to sit there any longer. Even the now familiar sight of John Taylor was no longer reassuring, and the next day Malcolm begged him to search Delauney's house again, and Taylor promised to do it.

It was Sunday afternoon, almost exactly one week after the kidnapping when they found it. It was in the basement of the Delauney mansion, in the wine cellar, hidden behind some old cases. One of the police found what he thought was a rag at first, it didn't look like much more than that, but when he moved the case aside he saw it, and he held it up with a look of astonishment, and then he knew he'd found what they had come for. It was a pair of red child's pajamas, with little blue embroideries on the collar. He walked upstairs as fast as he could, and asked to speak to Inspector Taylor, and then he showed him what he'd found. Taylor stood and looked at it for a long moment, and then wondered where the child had gone, what Delauney had done with him. There was a lot they had to find out now. He went back to where Delauney sat and told him what they'd found as Charles dropped his face into his hands and swore he hadn't done it.