Vanished (19 page)

She nodded. “Thank you.” How had they gotten into this? How had it happened?

The guard came back to them then, and he said she had to leave. She nodded and stood up, and Charles looked at her long and hard before he left her.

“Believe me” was all he said, and she nodded. It sounded like the truth. But if he hadn't taken the boy, who had? She was no closer to knowing anything than she'd been before she'd come. But at least she knew Charles Delauney hadn't done it. And as she left the tiny room, she was startled to see John Taylor coming toward her. He was FBI and not police and he had no business here, although she assumed he had come to see Charles, but he looked very stern as he led her to a private office.

“What are you doing here?” He seemed angry at her, almost the way Malcolm would have been, but she was glad she'd come anyway. It had been worth it.

“I had to see him.”

“You're a fool.”

She shook her head and knew she wasn't. “He says he didn't do it. And I believe him.” She had had to know, had to ask, had to see him.

“And what do you think he's going to say to you? That he killed him?” She flinched as he said the words, but he was angry at her for coming to see him. “He's not going to tell you the truth. His neck is in the noose and right now he's going to do anything he can to save it.”

“Why would he lie to me?”

'Why would he tell you the truth? There's too much at stake for him. Marielle, listen to me, stay away from here. Stay away from him. If we can, well find your son for you, but this man can do nothing for you. He's brought you nothing but pain …leave him alone….” It was not his place to say, but he knew she was being duped. He knew too much about Delauney now. The wildness in Spain, the crazed furies he indulged from time to time, the wild drunks, the rage …the fact that he had hit her when he had …the fact that he still loved her. He wasn't even sure he was sane. That was going to be looked into too. But he didn't want her any more hurt than she had been. And when the press got wind of this, they were going to have a field day. “Come on, I'll take you home.” She nodded, willing to go now. “And next time you want to do something like this, call me.”

“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.

“There's someone here to see you. A Miss Ritter. She says she has an appointment.”

“I don't know anyone by that name.”

“Yes, you do.” At the sound of the words, Marielle turned, and saw a young woman enter the room where she was working. She was small and had red hair and was about Marielle's age, and she looked familiar but Marielle couldn't place her. And for an instant, she found herself praying that this would be some kind of threat, or extortion request, someone who could lead her to him, but those hopes were almost dead now. The ransom had never been picked up, and was still sitting in the locker in Grand Central Station.

“Who are you?” Marielle looked puzzled, and Haverford stood ready to defend her. And then suddenly Marielle knew. She recognized her as the reporter who had forced her way into the house early on, and the girl looked suddenly frightened as she glanced at the butler.

“May I talk to you alone?”

“No …”I'm sorry …you can't.” Marielle sounded far braver than she felt. The girl seemed very bold and sure, and Marielle was being very careful.

“It's important, please …” the young woman begged. She was wearing another of her incongruous outfits.

“I don't think so. How did you get in here?”

“We made an appointment for this afternoon.” She tried to brazen it out but Marielle knew better. She hadn't had an appointment of any kind in over a month, except with investigators and policemen.

“I'm sorry, Miss …”

“Ritter. Beatrice Ritter. Bea.” She smiled, trying to find some hook into Marielle, something that would catch Marielle's interest enough to ask her to stay, but Marielle knew better.

“…you'll have to leave….” For an instant, the girl looked bitterly disappointed, and then she nodded.

“I understand. I just wanted to speak to you about Charles.” The sound of his name was like an electric current in the room and Marielle stared at her.

“Why?”

“Because he needs you.” It was all much too complicated to discuss with a stranger.

“Madam? …” Haverford looked at her inquiringly, and she didn't know why, but she decided to let the girl stay, if only for a moment. She nodded, and he left the room, but he alerted two policemen as he left and Marielle saw them near the doorway.

“I don't understand why you're here. Did Charles send you to see me?” She had heard nothing from him since her visit to the jail, not since they found the bear that had finally convinced her he was guilty.

But Bea Ritter wanted to be honest with her, and realized she had to make her point quickly, before she was asked to leave. Charles had told her himself that Marielle would never see her. “I'm with AP. And I don't think he did it. I want to see if I can help find out who did. I want to know if you'll help me.” It was as clear and concise as she could make it.

“I'm afraid I don't agree with you, Miss …Ritter.” She groped for her name. “I didn't think he did it either, but two things have been found now to link him to my son, the pajamas my son was wearing when he left, and his favorite teddy bear. And no one else has come forward.” Marielle had no doubts now.

“Maybe the real kidnappers are afraid to, or have good reason not to. There has to be some reason.” She was so convinced of Charles's innocence. She had spent hours with him, and she could not believe him capable of the crime. But Marielle no longer believed in his innocence. She stood up quietly, wanting the girl to leave her.

“I'm afraid I can't help you.” Her eyes were too full of pain, her heart too heavy. She didn't want to listen to this girl plead for Charles. All she wanted was her son back.

“Do you believe he's capable of it?” She had to know. She wanted to know if Marielle believed him. But Marielle was afraid of what this girl would put in the papers.

“I do believe he's capable of it. There's simply no other answer. And he threatened to do it.” She was finally convinced, even if this young woman wasn't. After all these years, her heart had finally hardened to Charles Delauney.

“He was drunk.” It was obvious that she'd talked to him, and Marielle was annoyed that she was so persistent. She was bright and strong and incredibly determined. She wore her hair in a short bob, and she was wearing a cheap navy blue coat and dress, and a ridiculous hat with a red flower, but in an odd, perky way, she was pretty.

“Being drunk is no excuse. I'm sorry …” She walked to the door and Bea Ritter didn't move.

“Mrs. Patterson, he loves you….” The words stopped her in her tracks, and Marielle turned to stare at her in anger.

“Did he say that to you?”

“It's obvious.”

“It hasn't been obvious to me in years, and I don't want to hear it.” She was finally very, very angry at him, and mortally wounded by what he'd done. But Bea Ritter refused to share Marieile's point of view.

“He's innocent.” She was so determined, so sure, that it almost haunted Marielle as she listened, but she didn't want to be haunted by Charles again. He had taken her baby.

“How dare you say he's innocent! If he is, where's my child?”

“He doesn't know. He swears.” Her eyes never left Marieile's face. “If Charles knew, he'd tell us.”

“You don't even know him.” But she knew him better than Marielle thought. She had spent hours with him, in the jail, after bribing two policemen. At first it was just a story, an interview, but for some odd reason, she believed him. She was sure he was telling the truth, and she had promised herself that she would do everything she could to help him. In fact, she had gone to Tom Armour, at his request, and begged him to represent Charles. The two were acquaintances from years past, but until that point, Armour had refused all of Charles's letters and phone calls. It was Bea who turned the tide, who begged on his behalf, who convinced the young criminal attorney that Charles was in fact innocent, in spite of how grim things looked against him. And she had reminded Tom that if he didn't take the case, and Charles lost, he would be put to death … an innocent man. She insisted that Tom could make all the difference. Thanks to Bea Ritter, Tom Armour had finally agreed to represent him.