He said, “This psychic who predicted that Colonel Breckinridge would receive a letter today…her name is Sivella?”
“Sister Sarah Sivella,” I said. “Her husband’s name is Martin Marinelli.”
He wrote that down; from my notebook, I gave him the address of the church in Harlem, and he wrote that down, too.
“They knew about the note on the windowsill, as well,” Wilson said.
“Yes,” I said.
“On the other hand,” Wilson continued, “they’ve been hanging out with reporters for days. They may have gathered some information that way.”
“None of the reporters, to our knowledge,” Lindbergh said, “knew that windowsill detail.”
“There’s one other thing,” I said. “One damning little item.”
All eyes were on me.
“Sarah Sivella consistently referred to Colonel Breckinridge as ‘Mr. Breckin
It was like I’d struck everybody in the room with a board.
Wilson broke the stunned silence: “What else did she say?”
“Some of it was gibberish,” I said, shrugging. We hadn’t mentioned to Lindbergh the prediction that the baby’s body would be found.
Then suddenly, Lindbergh stood. “Thank you for coming by, Agent Wilson.”
Wilson, disconcerted by this quick dismissal, stood and said, “Thank you for sharing this new information with me, Colonel.”
“I want you to stay away from those spiritualists,” Lindbergh told him. It sounded like an order.
“Pardon me?” Wilson asked, hollowly.
“Those spiritualists. If they’re legitimate, and they may well be—extrasensory perception is very real, you know, Agent Wilson—I don’t want them harassed. If they in fact are a part of the kidnap gang, I don’t want my son’s welfare put at risk by police action. These notes make it clear that I’m to keep the police out of this, if I hope to get my boy back alive and well. And Agent Wilson—I intend to do just that.”
Lindbergh nodded curtly, and Wilson knew the meeting was over.
I walked him out to his car. Breckinridge and Schwarzkopf stayed behind with Lindy—which was fine with me. I wanted Wilson’s ear privately.
We stood in the cold and chatted sotto voce, just briefly. I told him about the gangland roadhouse Dixon had shown me and he found that of great interest.
“You know Pat O’Rourke, from Chicago, don’t you, Heller?” Wilson asked.
“Of course,” I said. “Damn good man.”
“He’s working with me in New York, now,” Wilson said. “I’m going to assign him to infiltrate that spiritualist church in Harlem. We’ll find out why these ‘spirits’ know so much about this damn kidnapping.”
“O’Rourke’s an excellent choice,” I said.
O’Rourke had gone undercover for three months in the Capone organization when Eliot, Irey and Wilson were putting their case together. He was a good bet to pick up on any Capone connection between Marinelli and his congregation.
“How’s the search for Bob Conroy coming?” I asked.
“That son of a bitch has dropped off the face of the earth,” Wilson said glumly.
“Start dragging the lakes,” I said.
He nodded, sighed, said, “Heller—whatever differences we may have had, let me say this: I appreciate what you’re doing. That is, keeping me informed, when otherwise I’d be frozen out.”
“Swell. How about angling me a break on my taxes this year?”
“Screw you,” Wilson said, good-naturedly, and got in his black Ford and headed back to New York.
Schwarzkopf approached me, as I stood watching Wilson’s dust.
He said, “There’s an interrogation you should sit in on.”
“Really,” I said. “I’m beginning to enjoy this new spirit of cooperation.”
Several snazzy troopers and rumpled, potbellied Inspector Welch were standing in the servants’ sitting room. Seated in a chair that had been dragged out into the middle of the braided-rug-covered floor was a pretty, pleasantly plump girl in her twenties, wearing her maid’s black uniform with white lace apron. Her hair was short and brownish blonde, her eyes brown and flitting, her face round, her front teeth protruding slightly, chipmunk-cute. She had her hands in her lap, playing with a white hanky.
Seated just behind her was a male police stenographer, plainclothes, fingers poised over keys.
“Miss Sharpe,” Schwarzkopf said, “we need to take a statement from you.”
“I’ve given you a statement,” she said, imperiously. Or maybe it was just her English accent.
“We’d just like to clear up a few details.”
She pursed her lips, raised her chin and replied in a snippy schoolgirl fashion. “Why are you so interested in my personal life? Why don’t you mind your own business and get on with the job of finding these kidnappers?”
Her manner was cold and defiant, but it seemed at least partly a mask: her eyes and her hands moved ceaselessly. She was as nervous as a wife with one lover in the closet, another under the bed and hubby in the hall.
Inspector Welch took over. “Look, sister. We’re just doing our job. Don’t make it tough on yourself. Surely a cute kid like you don’t have anything to hide?”
Welch was trying to be nice, but it came off like a threat.
“Don’t you bully me,” she said.
