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gave him a sense of impotence and danger. The kidnapper knew him, but he didn’t know the kidnapper. One of the two or three men now walking towards him, apparently paying no attention to him, might be the kidnapper chuckling inwardly at the sight of him alone and without his dog.
    This was Saturday morning. Sunny again. Not even nine o’clock. What could he buy to pick Greta up? Maybe a coffee ring from the good bakery on Broadway, a Jewish bakery, more or less. He turned towards Broadway. He still glanced at people he passed, wondering if they might be Anon, but now his face was confident and almost cheerful. After all, he’d laid his case before the police.
    The young blond girl in the bakery knew him and Greta, and gave Ed a big smile. “Hello, Mr. Reynolds. How’re you? And how’s your wife?”
    “She’s all right, thank you,” Ed said, smiling too. “Can I have one of your—a coffee ring, please.” The shop smelled of fresh, buttery baking, of cinnamon and baba au rhum .
    The girl reached for a coffee ring with wax paper in each hand, then paused. “Oh, someone told me about Lisa ! Have you had any news?”
    “No. But just now I spoke with the police,” Ed said, smiling. “We’re hopeful. I’ll take a couple of croissants, too, please.”
    Then he bought three packs of cigarettes from the store in the middle of the block, in case something happened today and Greta or he couldn’t get to the supermarket for the usual Saturday morning shopping.
    “Ah, Mark was telling me you’re missing your dog, Mr. Reynolds,” said the cigar-shop man, a thin Irishman of about sixty.
    “Yes, since Wednesday night. I’ve told the police. But keep your eye out for her, would you? I’d appreciate it.”
    “Sure I will!”
    Ed left the shop feeling that he lived among friends in this neighborhood—even if Anon lived in it, too.
    “Let’s have a nice lazy breakfast,” Ed said as he came in.
    Greta had put on black slacks, red flat sandals, a gay blouse with a floral pattern. “Did you hear news ?”
    “No. That I’m afraid I didn’t. But I spoke with them. The police.” He held up the paper box from the bakery by its string. “Goodies.” He made his way to the kitchen. “I could use another good coffee.”
    “What did they say?”
    Ed lit the gas under the big glass pot. “Well—I spoke with two men. I told them where I could be found and all that. Told them you were here most of the time. I left the letters.”
    “But do they know this creep?”
    “No, they don’t seem to. But they’re sending the letters to the main office on Centre Street. I’m going to phone them back today.” He put an arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek. “I know it isn’t much, my pet, but what else can I do just now?” Walk around the neighborhood, Ed thought, put on different clothes, a false mustache, and try to spot someone who was maybe slyly watching his building? “Open the cake box. Let’s put the coffee ring in the oven for a minute.”
    With a movement of her shoulder, Greta pushed herself from the door jamb that she had been leaning against. “Peter called you. A few minutes ago.”
    “Already? Um-m.” Peter Cole, a young and eager editor of C. & D., took home manuscripts on weekends and telephoned Ed nearly every Saturday or Sunday to ask some question not always of importance. Ed remembered he had also brought a manuscript to read, a biography. “I suppose he wants me to call him back?”
    “I forgot. I don’t know. Sorry, darling.” Absently, she adjusted the coffee-pot over the flame.
    Ed and Greta sat in the dining area off the L-shaped living-room. It had windows that overlooked their street, and from where Ed sat, facing the Hudson River, he could look down on part of the long strip of green that formed Riverside Park. Was Anon down there now, strolling about? Would he be loitering around the supermarket on Broadway, probably knowing they went there, he and Greta or one of them, every