Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

“Yes!” It was said with the intensity Malcolm reserved for everything he felt most deeply or enthusiastically about. The man took him under the armpits and swung him up. They crossed Boar Lane towards the Yates Wine Bar, then took the side road to the station.

“Now then, Malcolm,” the man said, “I think the telephones are through there near the ticket office.”

The boy was taking in the large square concourse and the train departure board, his eyes wide. After a second he nodded. They went through to the booking hall, the man bending his knees to get through the door, the child on his shoulders crowing triumphantly. They found a telephone, and the man brought Malcolm down from his point of vantage to sit in the crook of his arm beside the telephone.

“Now, we put some money in... That’s it. Let’s see: 01325. Then 274658... Here we are. It’s ringing. Now then, Captain: your call to Mummy.”

The phone had been picked up at the other end.

“274658.” The voice sounded strained.

“Mummy!”

“Malcolm! Where are you? What—?”

But already the man’s strong forefinger had come down on the telephone’s cradle.

“There we are, Captain. Mustn’t take up too much of Mummy’s time.”

“I’m getting desperate,” said Selena Randall.

Her solicitor, Derek Mitcham, looked at her hands, tugging and tearing at a tiny handkerchief, and could only agree. He had found, though, with desperate clients, that the best thing to do was to keep the tone low and level.

“Everyone’s doing everything they can,” he said.

The woman’s voice rose dangerously.

“Are they? Are they? It doesn’t look like that to me, I can tell you. The police, for example. What are they doing, actually doing? I can’t see that they’re doing anything.”

“You can be quite sure that police forces all over the country have a description of your husband, and of Malcolm. They’ll all be on the lookout for them.”

In this case the measured tone did not seem to be working.

“But what about publicity? If there was a hue and cry, a proper campaign with publicity in the media, everyone in the country would be looking for them. Carol Parker is everywhere, appealing to people who see her little boy and his father — in all the tabloids, and on daytime television, too.”

Mr. Mitcham sighed. He knew Mrs. Randall was not avid for publicity, only anxious to do everything needed to get her son back. But she must give people who knew her less well a very poor impression, and though he had tried to get the message across to her, this still came up at every meeting they had. He tried again.

“Mrs. Parker’s husband is German, and he has a history of mental instability. The police are afraid he may take the little boy out of the country, or even harm him wittingly or unwittingly. You must see that your husband is a quite different matter. Children are taken quite frequently by the parent who does not have custody. Usually there is no question of their being in any danger.”

He spoke quietly and distinctly, and now it seemed to work. Selena nodded, taking in, at least for the moment, his argument.

“Oh, I know Dick wouldn’t harm Malcolm. He loves him to bits... But the fact that he’s English doesn’t mean he won’t take him out of the country.”

“You can be sure the police at ports and airports will be especially on the alert.”

“These days you can drive through the channel tunnel and no one gives you a second glance.”

“That’s not true, Mrs. Randall.”

She looked down at the ruin of her handkerchief.

“I don’t think anybody cares. They just think ‘the little boy is bound to be all right,’ and don’t give it another thought.”

“Well, that is something that must be a comfort for you.”

“But what about me? I had custody of him, and I haven’t seen him for nearly ten weeks.” Her eyes filled with tears and she began dabbing them with the ragged bits of hankie. “Do you know what I fear? I am afraid he’ll forget me, as a young child like Malcolm is bound to do quite soon. But most of all, I’m afraid I’ll forget him. What he sounds like, how he laughs, what it feels like to touch him, have him in my arms.” She looked up at Mr. Mitcham, wild-eyed. “I’m afraid if I get him back he’ll be a stranger.”

“I’m sure you won’t forget a thing about him. No mother would.”

“Don’t be so bloody sentimental! How would you know?... sorry.” She resumed tugging at the handkerchief. “You said everyone would be on the lookout for Dick and Malcolm, but what is there to be on the lookout for? Dick is nice-enough-looking, but there’s nothing to distinguish him from thousands of other quite nice-looking young men. Hair colour — that’s about the only thing to mark him off: light brown, so that rules out people with black or blond hair. Not much, is it? There’s still less with Malcolm.”

“They have a photograph.”