Vanished

6

The next day Taylor returned, and there was still no news of Teddy. The kidnappers had said not a word, made no calls, sent no letters, and there was still no request for a ransom. And the press was haying a field day. Old photographs of Malcolm and Marielle were splashed all over the papers. Patrick, the driver, had given an interview, and intimated that there was a man involved with Marielle, and there was a photograph of him with Edith, wearing Marielle's white Madame Grès dress from Paris. It had been taken the night of the kidnapping when they were at the Irish Christmas dance in the Bronx, and they looked very grand as they posed for it. And in the afternoon paper the day before, there was a photograph of Marielle looking frightened and disoriented when the press had forced their way into the house, and another of her in her nightgown, which they'd taken through the library windows. But although Patrick had hinted there might be a man in her life, there was no actual mention of Charles Delauney.

“It's a pleasant piece to read,” Malcolm said acidly over breakfast the day after his return. “I don't enjoy reading about my wife consorting with other men.” He hadn't seen her since he had left her with her headache the day before, and she still looked wan, but she said she was better.

“I told you what happened.” She looked crushed by what he was saying.

“Maybe you should have explained it to Patrick.”

She looked up at him with a snap then, and for a moment she almost lost control of herself. But even that effort almost resparked her headache. “Maybe you should have your spies report a little more accurately to you, Malcolm.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” He looked at her coolly.

“Exactly what it sounds like. None of your servants have been civil to me since the day I arrived in this house, and you know it.”

“Perhaps you don't know how to take command, Marielle. Or perhaps they know something I don't.”

“How dare you!” She had been so faithful to him, so loyal, so decent. And now, because of Charles, he blamed her for everything. He had changed overnight. It was so unfair, she left the dining room with tears in her eyes, and collided with John Taylor.

“Good morning, Mrs. Patterson.” He looked at her face and knew that the strain was taking a toll on her. He had been to see Delauney again, and warned him not to leave town, but they still had no evidence, and his alibi was solid. So far there were no leads to people he may have employed to kidnap Teddy. But the FBI was frantically trying to build a case, assuming too that Teddy might well have been taken out of state to New Jersey. And so far, Charles Delauney was their best suspect. The people who had paid Patrick a hundred dollars to spend the night out had vanished without a trace, and so far that was all they had. And Betty and Miss Griffin had seen and heard nothing and couldn't help them. “Feeling better today?” Taylor asked calmly.

She nodded. How much better could she feel with Teddy still gone? “Is there any news at all?”

“Not yet. But we're working on it, and we're waiting. Sooner or later, we're going to get a call for ransom, and then we can move ahead. I want to speak to some of your staff members again today to see if anyone remembers anything they might have forgotten initially in the excitement.” She nodded, it sounded sensible. And he also wanted to speak to Malcolm.

She went back up to the nursery then, and she was surprised when she ran into her husband. He was standing in Teddy's room, looking stricken as he touched the child's toys, and let a hand drift across his pillow. It brought tears to Marielle's eyes again when she saw him. She felt guilty for their sharp exchange downstairs. They were both under a terrible strain. As she looked around the room, it tore at her heart again. She remembered stroking his little cheek as he lay there in the red pajamas Miss Griffin had made, with the embroidery on the collar. There were tiny little trains sewn all around in Miss Griffin's careful blue stitching.

“It's impossible to believe that a child can just vanish into thin air, isn't it?” Malcolm said mournfully, and she nodded. He looked at her so sorrowfully, and he sounded gentler than he had an hour before. Here, in this room, you could be sad, but not angry. He sank slowly into the rocking chair near the bed, and stared at where his son had lain for the last time before they took him. “I keep thinking of the train downstairs, waiting for him.” There were tears in his eyes when he spoke, and Marielle turned away so he wouldn't see her own, and then he reached out and touched her hand. “I'm sorry about this morning. I'm afraid I was overwrought. And yesterday too…it's just such a nightmare all this, Marielle. What are we going to do?” It was the first time she had ever seen him at a loss, and suddenly she felt sorry for him. He seemed suddenly so broken.

We're going to pray that he comes home soon.” She tried to say it calmly as she squeezed his hand. And a few minutes later, Haverford came to find him to tell him that Brigitte was waiting for him in his office at the house. He was still struggling to maintain his work load, and Brigitte had been enormously helpful and deeply sympathetic. She had cried for hours when she heard the news, and she still couldn't believe it.

Marielle followed him downstairs when he left for his office and then went back to her bedroom. At least they had made peace, after a fashion. She exchanged a few words with Brigitte, when she saw her. Both women cried, and Brigitte hugged her warmly, unable to speak for a moment, before she went off to work with Malcolm. Marielle had always known how Brigitte adored Teddy.

It was late that afternoon when John Taylor finished interviewing the help for the second time, and asked to see Malcolm. He wasn't surprised by what he'd heard till then, because she'd warned him, but he still didn't like it. They painted a portrait of a woman who was different from the one he'd seen the night of the kidnapping. A woman who was weak and indulged and frightened and always hiding. Miss Griffin had said that Mrs. Patterson was too nervous, too anxious, and that it wasn't healthy for the boy. In fact, she was so nervous sometimes, she didn't even want to see him, and it had taken her quite a long time to adjust to him in the beginning. At first, she had hardly shown any interest in him at all, as though she wasn't even sure if she wanted him. And it was only lately that she'd been spending time with him, “in between her headaches.”

And when he'd last spoken to Edith she had called her a spoiled brat, and intimated that she could have said worse, that she spent so much on clothes it was a wonder she didn't ruin her husband. She said she spent all her time napping or resting, and didn't spend any time running the house, which was just as well, because no one would have listened. They all worked for Mister Patterson, she made very clear, and had since before “shed” been there. And she even blamed the loss of her job now on Marielle and not Malcolm.

The housekeeper said almost nothing, and said she knew very little of Mrs. Patterson's habits. She made it equally clear that Mrs. Patterson herself was of no interest. Only Mister Patterson mattered.

Only Betty had a few kind things to say. And Haverford seemed to feel sorry for her, although he wouldn't say why, and he refused to open up to John Taylor. And of course, when they last interviewed him, Patrick the driver continued his tale about her “boyfriend,” which Taylor suggested he keep to himself, as there was more to it than he knew and he could very easily find himself a material witness, which, for a moment at least, seemed to frighten him into silence.

But the picture Taylor got was one of a woman who was universally disliked for reasons he couldn't fathom. She was the outcast she had described herself to be, in her own house, and very few of the people who supposedly worked for her seemed to know or like her. He got the feeling that she was withdrawn from all of them, and he suspected correctly that she was very lonely. It was still puzzling him when he walked into the library to see Malcolm, and he mentioned it while Haverford brought them each a cup of coffee.

“Why is it,” he put a spoonful of sugar in and left it black as he glanced up at Malcolm, “that so many of your servants seem to dislike her?” He saw Haverford watching him, but the old butler said nothing.

Malcolm let out a long sigh and stared out the window. “She's not a strong person, you know…she's weak, and frightened, and perhaps they sense it. She's had,” he seemed to hesitate, “ahh…mental problems, shall we say… in the past…and she still suffers from terrible headaches.”

“That's no reason to hate her.” They all seemed to have so little regard for Marielle as a person, as though she didn't count, as though she didn't exist, as though they worked for him and not for her and wanted everyone to know it. And John Taylor couldn't help wondering if Malcolm had set it up that way, to keep her powerless in her own house. She seemed to have absolutely no control over anyone, not her child, or her staff, and certainly not her husband. Even Miss Griffin had admitted that she'd never followed Mrs. Patterson's orders. She took her orders, as she put it, from the boy's father. But when he asked her why, she couldn't explain it, except to say that Marielle was weak and didn't know her own mind, but that didn't make sense to him. She didn't seem weak when he talked to her. She made sense, she was intelligent, and polite, and even if she had headaches, that didn't make her crazy. But that was the feeling he was getting now, that they all thought she was a little “off,” as though her mind and her judgment couldn't be trusted. And he couldn't help wondering what had made them think that.

“I don't think anyone hates her here. What a terrible thing to say.” Malcolm smiled benignly, but then he looked at him almost sadly. “She's not a strong girl, and she's had terrible problems. Who's to say that she will even be able to endure the shock of all this? This could be the last straw in an already very tenuous picture.”

“Is that what you think?” Taylor knew he was onto something, but he wasn't sure what. And there was something else he wanted to know. But he was saving that for later. “Is that what you're telling me?” Taylor pressed. “That she's crazy?”

“Of course not.” Malcolm looked outraged at the insult to his wife. “I'm telling you she's fragile.”

“Isn't that the same thing? Aren't you telling me she could crack because Teddy's been kidnapped? Has that been the implication in this house for all these years, that she's 'fragile,' as you put it, and not someone to take seriously? Have you told them that, or have they just guessed it?”

“I've told them that they should deal with me, and not trouble her.” He looked annoyed. “But I see absolutely no connection between that and my son's kidnapping,” he snapped.

“Sometimes the whole picture is very important.”

“The whole picture here is that she's a delicate girl with a terrible history, as you know yourself, and I just found out. Two years in a mental hospital, and nine years of imaginary headaches.” He sounded hard as nails and Taylor didn't like what he was saying. It was as though he was trying to discard her as a person, and somehow he had conveyed it to everyone who worked near them. Taylor suspected that only Haverford felt differently about her.

“Are you saying her headaches are imaginary?”

“I'm saying that she's neurotic.” He had gone further than he wanted to and was suddenly very irritated at John Taylor.

“Neurotic enough to be involved with Charles Delauney in the kidnapping of her own child?”

Malcolm looked shocked but for a long moment he didn't answer. “I never thought of it. But I suppose it's possible. Maybe anything is. I don't know. Have you asked her?”

“I'm asking you. Do you think she would do a thing like that? Do you think she's still in love with him?” Taylor was wondering how far Malcolm would go in condemning his own wife, and he didn't like the answer.

“I have no idea, Inspector. You'll have to discover that for yourself.”

John Taylor nodded. “And you, Mr. Patterson, how involved are you with Miss Brigitte Sanders?” It was a question he'd been saving for him, and to which he wanted an answer. And he loved the expression on Malcolm's face when he asked him.

“I beg your pardon.” Malcolm looked outraged. “Miss Sanders has been my secretary for the past six years, as I'm sure you know, and I'm not in the habit of becoming involved with my secretarial assistants.”

John Taylor looked amused at that. “I believe you married your last one.”

Malcolm flushed a deep purple and did not look amused. “Miss Sanders has a character of the highest order.”

“That's impressive certainly.” Taylor looked unflustered, and was secretly amused. In fact, he loved it. “But the two of you travel together a great deal, even to Europe. And I notice that even on the ships you take, your cabins are always adjacent to each other.” He had researched it carefully, even with deck plans.

“That is perfectly normal, if I expect the woman to work with me. Since you've done your research so well, I'm sure that you're aware I frequently take my other secretary as well, Mrs. Higgins. She's in her late fifties, and I'm sure she'd be extremely flattered by your suggestions.” But it wasn't the older woman who interested John, it was Brigitte. And he also knew that Mrs. Higgins hadn't traveled with him in well over two years, but he didn't say that to Malcolm.

“I apologize if the question seems impertinent, sir. But just as we had to delve into your wife's history, it's important that we are aware of yours as well. Angry lovers can do some very nasty things.”

“Miss Sanders is neither angry, nor my lover, I can assure you.” His face was still red from Taylor's suggestions. They went on talking for a short time about Malcolm's involvements in Germany, his business dealings in the States, and any people he could have angered with deals he had made. But there seemed to be nothing worth mentioning. All Taylor could figure out by the end of it was that Teddy had been taken either for money or for revenge. If it was money, they'd hear something soon. If it was revenge, it had to be Charles, and John just prayed that Delauney wouldn't hurt the boy.

They talked about Delauney again, and Taylor reiterated that there was no evidence against the man, there was nothing to link him to the child or the crime, except the foolish things he had said to Marielle. And you couldn't put a man in jail for being stupid. He had an alibi, there was no evidence, and even if he had a motive, it was all still pretty shaky.

“I still think he's our man,” Malcolm said solemnly as he walked John to the front door, and the inspector nodded.

“Unfortunately, so do I. And if he is, let's just hope we get him.”

Malcolm left him at the front door, and Taylor pushed his way through the throng of press outside. Finally, two hours later, as Malcolm and Marielle sat down to dinner in the dining room, the call came.

Two policemen took the call, pretending to be servants, the recording machine was set in operation instantly, and by the time Malcolm came on the line seemingly innocently, everything was rolling.

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.

“My own son died years ago.” He looked up at John imploringly. “I know what it's like…why would I do that to someone else?” It didn't make sense, and in John's heart he hoped Charles hadn't done it.

John Taylor snapped handcuffs on him, and moments later he was downtown, the red pajamas carefully sealed in an envelope in Taylor's hand, and Charles Delauney was booked for kidnapping.

John called Malcolm and Marielle, and she cried when she heard they had found Teddy's pajamas.

“But where is he?” That was all that mattered.

“We don't know yet. We're going to question Delauney now. But I wanted to bring him downtown to do it. We can be rougher here.” They both knew John Taylor meant business. “I'll call you as soon as we know anything.” But this explained why there had been no real requests for ransom. Charles had done it for revenge, or out of anger, or to get Marielle and he certainly didn't need any money from them. He had the only thing he wanted: the boy. But the real question was, what had he done with him after he took him? And where was he now? And worst of all…was he still living?

Marielle looked heartbroken when John Taylor hung up, and she couldn't help wondering what Malcolm was thinking. He said not a single word to her. He simply walked upstairs, and silently closed the door to his bedroom.