Vanished

“And what will you say?” She smiled as he led her away. He had the policeman start the car, and all they had to do was make a wild dash for it, with the photographers blazing. Later, there was one picture of her swinging into the car with John Taylor just behind her. “What would you have said if I'd asked you to bring me down here?” she asked as they settled back in the car, and he frowned.

“I'd have said no.” In no uncertain terms.

“That's why I didn't call you.” She smiled. But she was feeling relieved. She believed Charles. Maybe it wasn't all her fault. And John Taylor sat watching her, thinking that she was a terrific woman and how much he liked her. Much more than he should have.

“I'll take you out for a drive and give you a nice stern lecture next time you get an idea like that,” he said as though scolding a child.

“That's what I was afraid of,” she said quietly, and then said nothing more on the drive home.

As he watched her as they drove uptown, he felt distinctly sorry for her. He knew how desperate she was to find the child, and he was beginning to think they weren't going to. He had begun to feel that way in the Lindbergh case too, and he had wanted so badly to be wrong, but in the end he wasn't.

They ran in through the kitchen once she was home, and she thanked him for bringing her back. But Malcolm was far less grateful to him the following morning. The papers were smeared with Marielle's visit to Charles in jail, with photographs of her everywhere, and one of John with his arm around her as she got into the car.

When Malcolm came home he was livid.

“What was that about, Marielle?”

“He was shielding me from the press,” she said quietly. And he'd been right. The photographers had had a field day.

“He seems to be enjoying it. Was it his idea to take you to see Delauney?”

“No, mine. I ran into him there. And Malcolm …I'm sorry. I just had to see him … I wanted to hear what he'd say.”

“And did he tell you how he killed your son? Did he tell you that? Or did he cry about his own son?” Malcolm was raging.

“Malcolm, please …”

“Please what …your lover …your ex-husband, your whatever you want to call him takes my son and you want me to feel sorry for him? Is that what you did? Go to tell him how sorry you are for him? You know who I'm sorry for? I'm sorry for Teddy …our little boy who is probably dead somewhere, who may have been kicked or stabbed or broken or hurt …” She was screaming as she listened, her hands over her ears, unable to bear it a moment longer.

“Stop! Stop! Stop! She ran shrieking from the dining room and went to her own bedroom. It was too much to bear. Too much was happening. And everyone seemed to blame her. It was her fault for knowing Charles, for having been married to him, for not having been able to save her own child, Charles blamed her for that too, and now Malcolm blamed her for Teddy's kidnapping.

John Taylor came back to see her that afternoon, and was kind enough not to mention the furor in the press, but he didn't have any other news either. They were going to search Charles's house again, just in case. And this time when they did, they found one of Teddy's toys, it was a little teddy bear, concealed right in Charles's own bedroom. There was no longer any doubt at all. And this time, even Marielle believed them.

In mid-January, preparations for the trial were under way, and there was still no news of Teddy. It had been three and a half weeks since he'd been gone, and Malcolm had gone back to Washington for a few days to attend a joint secret session of the House and Senate Committees on Military Affairs, and to see America's ambassador to Germany, Hugh Wilson, who was home for a brief visit.

Marielle was alone in New York, in the house surrounded by guards, and it had been almost a week since she'd seen John Taylor.

She was going through some papers one afternoon, trying to keep her mind off Teddy, and stay out of his room. She couldn't bear listening to the radio anymore. Either it was news of the trial, which rattled her, or she heard Teddy's favorite broadcasts, like The Lone Ranger, which made her cry and depressed her. And Marielle had come to hate the sight of Shirley Temple because she reminded her of Teddy. They had finally sent Miss Griffin off for a brief vacation to see her sister in New Jersey. She too was almost hysterical by then. And it was a relief not to have to look at her when Marielle went upstairs. Now she could be alone in his room, with his clothes, his toys, the little things he'd used, like his hairbrush. Sometimes, she just stood there for hours, and touched them, or sat in his favorite chair, or lay on his bed, trying not to think of his last night there.

Haverford appeared in the library that day, as she put away the last of her papers. His eyes were gentle and kind. He felt desperately sorry for her, although he would never have said it.