He offered me a hand to shake and I shook it. Wahgoosh growled at me.
The bronze Tiffany clock chimed seven-thirty just thirty seconds before the doorbell rang.
“This is it,” Breckinridge said, standing. His eyes were hard and tight.
“Perhaps I should answer it,” Condon said, standing. His eyes were soft and loose,
“There’s an idea,” I said.
Condon moved quickly for his size and age, and I was on his heels, Breckinridge on mine. The nine millimeter under my arm kept us all company.
The old professor threw open the door, like a ham actor in a bad play, and on his front porch were two spear-carriers in our little melodrama.
“Hiya, doc,” the older of the two men said. “We thought we’d drop around and find out what’s new on the case.”
“Yeah,” the younger, shorter, one asked. “Any word?”
It was Max Rosenhain the restaurateur, and Milton Gaglio the clothier, respectively, the professor’s two pals.
“Ah, my friends!” Condon said, spreading his arms. “How wonderful to see you. Please do step in.”
And step in they did, hats in hand, nervous smiles taking their faces upon seeing me. I shut the door, damn near slamming it.
“Gentlemen,” Colonel Breckinridge said, “we’re grateful to you for your concern, and interest, but…”
“But get the hell out of here,” I said.
“Mr. Heller!” Condon said. “I will not countenance your foul language and rude behavior in my house!”
“Shut up,” I said to him. To the other two, I said, “We’re waiting to hear from the kidnappers, you jack-offs. What do you think this is, a radio show?”
The two men swallowed and exchanged embarrassed glances.
Condon was glaring at me. “Really, Detective Heller. Your conduct is unconscionable.”
We were in the Bronx, so I gave him his city’s namesake cheer. Then I said to his dumb-ass pals, “If the kidnappers are watching this house, as I suspect they are, waiting for the right moment to make their move, then you two clowns may have just scared ’em off.”
“We didn’t mean any harm…” Gaglio began.
“We didn’t think…” Rosenhain said.
“Right,” I said, and the doorbell rang.
We stood there looking wild-eyed at each other, clustered as if in a football huddle, only there was no quarterback.
So I called the play. In a harsh whisper, I said, “Everybody but the professor, get into the living room. Go. Now. But quietly.”
To their credit, they did just that.
Condon looked at me, his eyes sharper than usual. I put my back to the wall, to the left of the door, and got the nine millimeter in hand; I nodded to him. He nodded back, swallowed, and opened the door.
“You Dr. Condon?”
Peering around the edge, I could see a man standing in the doorway: a little guy with round wire-rim glasses and a ferret face; he wore the cap and coat of a cabbie.
“I am Dr. Condon.”
“Here you go, pal.”
And the cabbie, if that’s what he was, handed an envelope to the professor; the envelope bore the bold, childlike block printing and numerals we’d seen before.
The apparent cabbie was still standing there, waiting for a tip, I guess.
With my left hand, I reached out and grabbed him by the lapel of his uniform and pulled him into the entryway and kicked the door shut. I shoved him up against the nearest wall, his back to me, and patted him down with one hand, keeping the nine millimeter in the other.
“Hey!” he said. “Hey! What’s the big idea?”
“You ain’t heeled,” I said. “That’s a start. Turn around and put your hands up. Colonel!”
Breckinridge came in, his eyes bugging a bit as he saw me holding the gun on the little cabbie.
“Usher our caller into the living room,” I said. “He seems clean.” To the cabbie, I said, “What’s your name?”
“Perrone,” he said, loudly, almost proudly. His voice was indignant, but his eyes were scared shitless.
“Put your hands down, Mr. Perrone, and behave yourself.”
Wordlessly, Breckinridge led the cabbie into the dining room.
Condon was standing there stupidly with the letter in his hands, looking at the thing as if afraid of it. I took the envelope from him, tore it open and read to myself.
Mr. Condon.
We trust you, but we will note come in your Haus it is to danger, even you cane not know if Police or secret servise is watching you follow this instunction. Take a car and drive to the last supway station from Jerome Ave line. 100 feet from the last station on the left seide is a empty frank-further-stand with a big open Porch around, you will find a notise in senter of the porch underneath a stone, this notise will tell you where to find us.
Here, in the right margin, the by-now familiar interlocking-circles signature appeared, and the note continued:
Act accordingly.
after? of a houer be
on the place, bring the mony with you.
“May I read that?” Condon asked, and I handed it to him. It was his mail, after all.
He read it over several times and looked at me with worry in his watery blue eyes. “Bring the money?”
“That’s what it says.”
We joined Breckinridge in the living room. Mrs. Condon had left the room and the cabbie was seated on the couch between Gaglio and Rosenhain. Breckinridge was pacing. He grabbed for the note like a starving man for a crust of bread.
“Bring the money!” he read. “Judas Priest! We haven’t
“What do we do?” Condon asked desperately. “I assumed we would work out the details for the ransom exchange, but now…”
“What’s important now is to make contact,” I said. “Explain that the money really will be ready soon. Make the best of it.”
Condon was shaking his head; he seemed confused, disoriented.
Hell with him. I turned to the cabbie, bookended on the couch by Condon’s two cronies.
“What was your name again?” I asked him.
“Joe Perrone. Joseph.”
“Where did you get that letter?”
“Guy hailed me and handed it to me over on Gun Hill Road at Knox Place.”
“How far is that from here?”
“Don’t you know?” the cabbie asked.
“No,” I said. “I’m not from here. I’m a tourist. With a gun.”
“It’s about a mile from here.”
“What did the guy say? What did he look like?”
The little cabbie shrugged. “He asked me if I knew where Decatur Avenue was, where twenty-nine seventy- four would be. I said sure, I know that neighborhood. Then he looked around, over this shoulder and that shoulder, and stuck his hand in his pocket and gave me this envelope and a buck.”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. He was wearing a brown topcoat and a brown felt hat.”
“Any physical characteristics about the guy that were noticeable?”
“No. I didn’t pay any attention.”
“Nothing about the man that fixes itself in your mind?”
