This, at least, Greenlease had allowed to be the handiwork of the FBI—the duffel bag had been marked in some undisclosed manner for easy identification. $400,000 was in twenties, $200,000 was in tens, as requested by M days before my arrival (this duffel had gone on several wild goose chases already, due to the incompetent directions of the kidnappers). Seventy employees of President Eisenhower’s brother Arthur at Commerce Trust had recorded the serial numbers, all forty-thousand bills were photographed, and FBI agent West Grapp had pressed his thumb print to the wrapper of each packet of bills.

The bag of money weighed eighty-five pounds.

This represented the biggest kidnap ransom to date in the United States. Maybe the world, but nobody had seemed to have checked on that. And my presence here was in part connected to that money.

While we’d waited the couple of hours between the last call and the next one, Bob Greenlease in his study had said, “Nate, with no police or FBI tailing us, the possibility some interloper might be watching can’t be discounted.”

The press hadn’t been told the exact amount of the ransom, but it was generally known to be a substantial sum—rumor had it a little low ($500,000) but that was high enough.

“We’ll park the car right in front of the hotel,” I said, “where it’s well-lighted. I’ll stay with the money and Will can take M’s next call. A Kansas City boy like Will can do better with the instructions than I would.”

“I haven’t done great so far,” Letterman said glumly.

“You’ll do fine. But I’m the one who needs to guard that money.” I opened my suitcoat and shared the holstered Browning with them. “There’s the possibility that M or others he’s working with are waiting to snatch this from us right then and there.”

Particularly if the boy is already dead—a thought I did not share with Greenlease, though I could sense Letterman was thinking along similar lines.

No doorman was on duty at the Berkshire but the entry with canopy was, as expected, well-lighted. Letterman went in at 11:20. With the motor running, I stayed behind in the loaner Caddy, sliding over behind the wheel, sitting there with my nine mil in my lap like a getaway man waiting for the bank robbery to wrap up. Twenty minutes or so later, Letterman came quickly out. I unlocked the driver’s-side door and slid back into the passenger seat.

Greenlease’s man got behind the wheel and into gear and swung out. He filled me in as we went.

“Our 11:30 call came in at 11:31,” Letterman said. “The longest minute of my life.”

“Tell me about it.” I holstered the nine mil. “Get anywhere?”

“I think so. We’re to head east on Highway 40 until it intersects with County Highway Road 10E—which used to be called Lee’s Summit Road. Turn right at something called Stephenson’s Restaurant and go for about a mile to a covered wooden bridge. There we throw the bag out on the left side of the road at the north end of the bridge. M told me they wouldn’t be far behind us.”