Stolen Away

“You have to call Wilson in, Slim.”

“Pardon me?”

“Agent Wilson of the IRS. And his boss Irey. Especially his boss Irey.”

“Why?”

“You’ve got to record all the serial numbers of the ransom money, before you pay it out. Irey can help you with that, and he’s the guy who can track the money, once it’s started getting into circulation.”

Lindbergh shook his head, no. “I made a statement to the press that I wouldn’t pay the kidnappers in marked bills. I won’t break my word.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I said. I shook my head, said, “That tears it,” turned and headed for the house. The wind pushed at my back, encouraging me.

“Heller!” Lindbergh called. “Where are you going?”

“Chicago,” I said, over my shoulder. “We got a more normal brand of insanity back there.”

“Wait. Wait!”

I stopped and he walked up beside me, the dog frisking at his heels.

“I’ll talk to Irey,” he said. “But no promises.”

“Okay.”

“I’d like you to stick around a while longer.”

“Why?”

“There are gangsters in this, obviously. They may be Capone people.”

“You’ve got Irey and Wilson on the case; they know Capone better than I do.”

“They’re not from Chicago. And they’re not street cops. They don’t know the breed of crook Capone uses, like you do. Nate, we need your expertise.”

I was flattered. I couldn’t help it. Lindy was behaving stupidly in many respects, but he was still Lindy. Saying no to him was like saying no to Uncle Sam.

“No,” I said.

His cheek twitched; his eyes were desperate. “Will you at least stay till we play out the Condon hand? Just that long?”

I sighed. “Sure. Why not. It beats chasing pickpockets around LaSalle Street Station.”

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!”