The Other Side of Here

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If he'd been a detective, Steve Waldron reflected grimly, he'd have been required to turn in his trench coat. However, official detectives hadn't been able to do any better than Steve. But the official detectives didn't have to face Lucy and acknowledge that there was absolutely nothing to indicate what had happened to her father. There was only the rather unlikely hypothesis that he'd vanished into thin air.

He'd been gone for four days now. According to Fran Dutt, who'd been in his private laboratory at the time, he'd answered a phone call. Then he put on his hat, told Fran that he'd be back presently, and walked out of this world altogether. He had no motive for disappearance. He didn't have secret acquaintances. There was no explanation whatever of the phone call. On the surface of things, nobody could have any motive for wanting to get him out of the way.

Waldron turned in at Lucy's entrance and went across the concrete path to the front door. All about him was the tranquility of a residential section of a medium-sized town. This Forest Hills area of Newark, New Jersey, was beginning to run down a bit, but it still retained some of the quietude and serenity of earlier years. The sun was setting beyond Branchbrook Park. Already a few early lights burned in the houses along the street. There were a few noises: children playing, cars moving somewhere out of sight, the faint, distant sounds from the downtown part of the city.

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