kidnapped.' They followed her rapidly upstairs to the nursery, with Haverford just behind them. He stopped in her room to find her slippers and dressing gown, and he was shocked when he reached the nursery and heard the two women's tale. There was no mistake. The child had vanished. One of the two policemen took notes, while the other two conferred, and one of them reached for the phone. Kidnapping was no longer just a state offense, ever since the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby. It was federal now, and the FBI would want to be in charge of the investigation.
The man who appeared to be in charge spoke to Marielle first, and urged everyone else not to touch anything in the room, if possible, for fear of disturbing fingerprints the kidnappers may have left there. Everyone nodded, Betty continued to cry, and the governess still looked desperately unwell as Haverford went to call the doctor.
“Was there any ransom note? Any message left anywhere in the room?” The senior officer asked, he was an Irish policeman in his early fifties. He had five children of his own, and the prospect of losing any of them at any time filled him with terror. He could just imagine how she felt, and as he looked at Marielle he wondered. She seemed so calm, so cool, so totally in control she was almost frozen, and yet her hands shook terribly, and her whole frame trembled even in the warm dressing gown Haverford had brought. Her feet were still bare, her hair loose, and her eyes had the wild look of someone who does not quite understand what has happened. He had seen it before, many times, at fires, in an earthquake once, during the war … at murders … it was a kind of shock that set in to numb the mind and the soul, but sooner or later, no matter what she did; it would hit her. Her baby had been taken.
She explained that there had been no note, no message at all, no sign of anything except the empty bed and the two women bound and gagged by their attackers. He nodded, made notes, and the others called for more police. In half an hour, the house was ablaze with lights, and two-dozen policemen were searching the house inside and out, for clues of any kind. But so far, there was nothing.
The servants were all awake and lined up now, as Sergeant O'Connor questioned each of them, but no one had seen anything, or knew anything at all. And then suddenly Marielle realized that both Patrick and Edith were missing. She had never trusted them, and suspected they hated her, whatever their reasons. And now she wondered if their hatred would lead them to take Teddy. It was difficult to believe but anything was possible, and everything was worth looking into. She signaled their absence to the police, and a description of them, and of Teddy, was put out on the police radios.
“The quicker we find him, the better it is,” Sergeant O'Connor explained. He didn't tell her that it gave them less time to do damage to him, to spirit him too far away, or worse, to kill him. Even then she remembered only too well that the Lindbergh child had most likely been killed the night they took him.
The sergeant warned her too that putting a bulletin on the police radio meant that the press would arrive soon, but if putting a police bulletin out for the child could mean finding him at once, she knew it was a risk well worth taking. She also knew she had to call Malcolm before he heard it on the radio or read it with his morning coffee, but the house was already swarming with police, and the FBI arrived before she had time to call him. It was all like a nightmare, or a very bad film, police running up and down stairs, throwing open windows, pulling back drapes, moving furniture, tearing up the garden, putting searchlights into bushes, stopping pedestrians, and questioning the servants. It was totally frantic and unreal, and through it all she had a continuing sense that it really hadn't happened. It was all a bad dream, and she would awake in the morning. It would turn out
The man who appeared to be in charge spoke to Marielle first, and urged everyone else not to touch anything in the room, if possible, for fear of disturbing fingerprints the kidnappers may have left there. Everyone nodded, Betty continued to cry, and the governess still looked desperately unwell as Haverford went to call the doctor.
“Was there any ransom note? Any message left anywhere in the room?” The senior officer asked, he was an Irish policeman in his early fifties. He had five children of his own, and the prospect of losing any of them at any time filled him with terror. He could just imagine how she felt, and as he looked at Marielle he wondered. She seemed so calm, so cool, so totally in control she was almost frozen, and yet her hands shook terribly, and her whole frame trembled even in the warm dressing gown Haverford had brought. Her feet were still bare, her hair loose, and her eyes had the wild look of someone who does not quite understand what has happened. He had seen it before, many times, at fires, in an earthquake once, during the war … at murders … it was a kind of shock that set in to numb the mind and the soul, but sooner or later, no matter what she did; it would hit her. Her baby had been taken.
She explained that there had been no note, no message at all, no sign of anything except the empty bed and the two women bound and gagged by their attackers. He nodded, made notes, and the others called for more police. In half an hour, the house was ablaze with lights, and two-dozen policemen were searching the house inside and out, for clues of any kind. But so far, there was nothing.
The servants were all awake and lined up now, as Sergeant O'Connor questioned each of them, but no one had seen anything, or knew anything at all. And then suddenly Marielle realized that both Patrick and Edith were missing. She had never trusted them, and suspected they hated her, whatever their reasons. And now she wondered if their hatred would lead them to take Teddy. It was difficult to believe but anything was possible, and everything was worth looking into. She signaled their absence to the police, and a description of them, and of Teddy, was put out on the police radios.
“The quicker we find him, the better it is,” Sergeant O'Connor explained. He didn't tell her that it gave them less time to do damage to him, to spirit him too far away, or worse, to kill him. Even then she remembered only too well that the Lindbergh child had most likely been killed the night they took him.
The sergeant warned her too that putting a bulletin on the police radio meant that the press would arrive soon, but if putting a police bulletin out for the child could mean finding him at once, she knew it was a risk well worth taking. She also knew she had to call Malcolm before he heard it on the radio or read it with his morning coffee, but the house was already swarming with police, and the FBI arrived before she had time to call him. It was all like a nightmare, or a very bad film, police running up and down stairs, throwing open windows, pulling back drapes, moving furniture, tearing up the garden, putting searchlights into bushes, stopping pedestrians, and questioning the servants. It was totally frantic and unreal, and through it all she had a continuing sense that it really hadn't happened. It was all a bad dream, and she would awake in the morning. It would turn out
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