Stolen Away

story white clapboard on quiet, tree-fined Decatur Avenue. Shrubbery hugged the house and the well-tended lawn was brushed with snow.

It was a little before six o’clock when I found myself on Condon’s front porch, knocking on a door inset with stained glass. Darkness had already settled upon the Bronx-the most beautiful borough in the world! — and the night air was nippy. I was just about to knock again when the door was answered by a dark-haired, dark-eyed attractive woman in her mid-twenties; her eyes were tense as she asked me who I was.

“Detective Heller,” I said, not bothering to mention what police department I was attached to. “I’m expected.”

She nodded tiredly and opened the door.

As inconspicuously as possible, I traced the trim lines of her figure in the brown dress with white collar. “And you are?” I asked.

She smiled with quiet irony. “Married, for one thing. Dr. Condon’s daughter, Myra, for another. And disgusted with this whole affair, for one more.”

“Well, we have the latter in common anyway,” I said, handing her my hat and coat, which she didn’t seem particularly inclined to receive. We were in an entryway that faced the second-floor staircase. She listlessly led me through a nicely but not lavishly furnished parlor so old-fashioned the doilies had doilies. Then she summoned me into an adjoining living room where a grand piano was covered by a paisley shawl like somebody’s grandmother; sitting on the brocade davenport were the professor and a pleasant-looking, plump woman in her late sixties wearing a floral print dress and a concerned expression.

Condon was patting her hand and saying, “There, there, Myra…nothing to worry about.”

“I thought you were Myra,” I whispered to my reluctant hostess.

“That’s my mother,” she said, blandly. “I was named after her.”

“Oh,” I said.

She sat on the couch next to her parents and crossed her nice legs but made sure I didn’t see much.

“Good afternoon, Detective,” Condon said, hollowly.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” I said. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

Condon uncharacteristically skipped the formalities. “Mrs. Condon had a phone call earlier today.”

I pulled up a chair; it looked like something Marie Antoinette might have sat on, eating cake. “Tell me about it, please,” I said to Mrs. Condon.

“Someone called on the telephone for my husband,” she said, in a warm alto, the faintest vibrato of nervousness coloring it, “around noon.”

“Man or woman?” I asked.

“It was a man. I told him that my husband was giving a lecture and would be home between six and seven. He said he would call again about seven this evening.” She looked at the professor, who had a sick-cow expression. “He said you were to stay in and wait for his call, dear.”

Condon’s expression turned shrewd and he said, “And what was his name?”

“Why, dear,” she said, “he didn’t give it.”

No shit.

“That ‘money is ready’ ad of yours appeared in the morning edition,” I said. “That’s pretty quick action.”

Condon’s eyes tightened in attempted thought. “You think this phone call, then, was a message from the kidnapper in response to the ad?”

I sighed. “Gee, Professor. It just might be.”

Any irony I allowed to show in my voice was lost on Dr. and Mrs. Condon, but Myra the Younger smirked at me mirthlessly.

“Dad,” the daughter said, sitting forward, “I’d like to see that baby returned as much as anybody. But don’t you think you should withdraw, graciously, and just let somebody else take your place as intermediary?”

He raised his chin. Where was Dempsey when you needed him. “I’ve sworn to see this thing through to the bitter end.”

“But, Dad-you’re not a young man. This is dangerous for you…”

“We can’t think of that,” he said. “When the time comes that a respectable man cannot walk out of the door of his own home merely because he is attempting to assist one of the greatest heroes of all time, well, then…then I do not care to live a day longer.”

Was he trying to cheer me up?

“Are you all right, Mrs. Condon?” I asked.

“Yes. Thank you. I didn’t get your name, young man…?”

“My name’s Nathan Heller. I’m a police officer from Chicago. I appreciate your hospitality.”

“Actually,” she said, a hand to her generous chest, “I’ve been a bit shaken up. Luckily Myra stayed over, and fixed a nice supper. Plenty for everyone.”

I turned to Myra. “You don’t live here?”

“No,” she said, and smiled at me tightly, the sort of smile that contradicts itself.

“It is typical of little Myra,” Condon said, “that though she thoroughly opposes my determination to enter this case, she made arrangements to be here with me, in the Bronx, to absorb some of my routine duties.”

“Such as?” I asked her.

“Father received several hundred letters today,” she said, “in response to that letter to the editor he wrote to the News. It’s been like that every day since it appeared.”

“You should save those letters,” I said, “and give them to the cops.”

“Colonel Schwarzkopf, you mean?” Condon asked.

“That would be better than nothing,” I said. “But this is New York. You got cops in this state, too, you know.”

There was a knock at the door; Condon’s daughter rose languidly to answer it, and moments later she was ushering Colonel Breckinridge into the living room.

I filled him in, quickly, about the telephone call Mrs. Condon had received earlier.

“It’s almost six-thirty now,” Breckinridge said. “No call yet?”

“Not yet,” I said. “Why don’t we eat?”

“Sir!” Condon said, sitting up straight. “How can you think of food, when a child’s life hangs in the balance?”

“Well, if we eat,” I said, “it won’t tip the scale, one way or the other. Or, we can all sit around jumpy as cats in a rainstorm.”

We ate. The dining room was behind the living room, and Myra-a sour hostess but a sweet cook-served up a pot roast with oven-browned potatoes, carrots and onions.

“Colonel,” Condon said, working on his second helping of everything, baby in the balance or not, “as you may recall, I mentioned that the distinctive red-and-blue-circle signature of the kidnappers reminded me of a Sicilian Mafia sign.”

“Yes,” Breckinridge said tentatively. He was picking at his food.

“Well, I replicated the symbol and began showing it around Fordham today.”

“You what?” I said.

He sipped his drink-a big wholesome glass of milk-and repeated his sentence word for word.

I just shook my head. His daughter Myra glared at me.

Proud of himself, a forkful of food poised in midair, Condon said, “Mind you, I’ve said nothing to anyone of my trip to Hopewell the other night. But I’ve been determined to learn, if possible, the meaning of that mysterious symbol.”

“Professor,” Breckinridge said, his face whiter than Condon’s cow juice, “that really may not have been wise.”

Condon didn’t seem to hear; his eyes and smile were glazed and inwardly directed. “I sketched it on a piece of paper, that symbol, and carried it with me these last two days. I’ve been showing it to everyone I meet, asking them about it.”

“Swell idea,” I said.

“Finally,” he said, raising a significant forefinger, “this afternoon I found someone who recognized it-a Sicilian friend of mine.”