William McGivern - The Seven File

It was the smile that gave them away. Hank knew that smile; as a boy he had learned to watch for it with dread. It was a special smile, mettlesome and reckless, and it meant that trouble was on the way. Trouble for someone else...

Grant cleared his throat, and the sound was hard and significant in the waiting silence. “How long out to the airport?”

“About a half an hour,” Hank said, as casually as he could manage it. He moved closer to Grant. They weren’t expecting trouble, he realized; they didn’t rate him that high. “Well, it was pleasant meeting you, Eddie,” he said. “I hope you and Duke make a mint.”

“We kind of expect to,” Grant said, without smiling. There was an edge of sarcasm to his voice. “Next time maybe you can stay longer, kid.”

“Sure thing,” Hank said, still smiling. Grant’s hand was moving slowly toward his coat pocket and Hank thought, now — Deliberately, almost casually, he flipped his bulky woolen jacket into Duke’s face and then he slugged Grant in the stomach with his right hand, putting every bit of strength and weight behind the blow. The move was so fast and unexpected that both men were caught completely off guard; Duke stumbled toward the mantel, and Grant went for his gun in a desperate reflex, just as Hank’s fist sank into his stomach and smashed the air from his body.

Grant shouted hoarsely as the pain doubled him up, and the sounds came out of his straining throat in convulsive gasps. The gun was almost clear of his pocket but his fingers were too weak to hold it; Hank tore it away from him, and swung the butt down heavily against the back of his head. As Grant went to the floor, his body sprawling in a slack, clumsy heap, Hank stepped back quickly and twisted the gun up to cover his brother.

Duke had recovered his balance, and was staring at him in what seemed to be complete bewilderment. “What’s got into you, kid?” he said, in a high, shocked voice.

“Don’t move,” Hank said.

“Have you gone crazy? Is that what they taught you in the army? To slug people for no reason at all?” Duke took a limping step toward his brother. “Eddie’s a friend of mine,” he said angrily. “He may be dying, you crazy fool.”

“I told you to stay put,” Hank said.

Duke stopped, his eyes flicking to the gun. “You’re acting damn strange,” he said slowly. “You’re in bad trouble, kid. There are laws about breaking people’s skulls open.” Shrugging, he moved toward Hank. “But maybe we can square this. I’m your brother, remember.”

“Don’t take any bets on brotherly love,” Hank said. The gun in his hand was steady on Duke’s stomach. “I want to know what’s going on here.”

“You sure grew up,” Duke said thoughtfully. His manner had changed; he seemed relaxed and at ease, and there was an approving little smile on his lips. “I couldn’t have handled Grant any better myself. They taught you that in the army, eh?” He stood indolently, lazily, a sleepy glaze altering the look in his eyes.

But Hank wasn’t fooled; he knew how fast Duke could move from any position.

“You’re real tough,” Duke said, grinning. “But that gun is on safe.”

“You heard that one in the movies,” Hank said. “Just stand nice and quiet.” Stepping over Grant’s body he put a hand on the knob of the upstairs door.

“Wait!” Duke said.

“There’s nothing to wait for.”

“Wait, for God’s sake,” Duke cried, and Hank stopped short, arrested by the desperation and fear in his brother’s voice and eyes. Watch yourself now, he thought, as Duke rubbed a hand over his forehead with a despairing gesture.

“You’ve got to help me, kid,” Duke said. “I got nobody else. You’ve got to help me.”

“What kind of trouble are you in?”

“I tried to keep you out of this,” Duke said, rubbing his hands on the sides of his trousers. “I wanted you to go, to get out of here. You know that, don’t you?”

“What are you mixed up in?” Hank said coldly; he knew Duke too well to pity him.

“Grant lied to me,” Duke said, his voice rising sharply. “You’ve got to believe that. Grant said it was a stick-up. I was broke, kid. I went along with it, because I was broke. I was supposed to drive, that’s all. I didn’t know about the baby. I’ll swear to that on my knees.”

A chill went through Hank. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“It’s a kidnaping, a snatch,” Duke said in a rough, trembling voice. He turned away from his brother and rubbed his hand across his lips. “Grant suckered me into it. But I tried to get you away from here, kid. You know I did.”

Hank stared at his brother, feeling the straining silence beating at his ears. He was conscious of his pounding heart, the sound of his breathing, the cold butt of the gun in the palm of his hand. “You crazy fool,” he said, barely whispering the words.

“It wasn’t my fault.” Duke stared down at Grant, his big chest rising and falling rapidly. “He lied to me, the bastard. You think I’d touch a kidnaping with my eyes open?”

“Who’s the girl upstairs?”

“The baby’s nurse. We had to take her along.” Duke wet his lips. “What are you going to do, kid?”

“I’m calling the police. Now.”

“It’ll be the end of me. Think of that, for God’s sake.”

“If the cops believe your story you may get a break.”

“They won’t believe me,” Duke said harshly. “I’ve done time. That’s all a cop cares about. I’m wrong to start with. It’s a form bet. That’s the way their minds work. No, they’ll burn me.” He raised his hands desperately, imploringly. “You got to help me, kid.”

“No,” Hank said.

“Listen to me for a second. That’s all I’m asking.”

“No.” Stepping around Grant he moved carefully toward the phone, holding the gun on his brother. He was aware of his danger now. There was a woman upstairs with the nurse. She might be armed.

Duke moved sideways with him, edging slowly toward the telephone. “Give me a break, kid,” he said hoarsely. “Just till tomorrow morning. The baby goes home then. Grant’s taking her back. It will be all done, finished. In just ten or twelve hours. Give me that much of a break.”

“Not a chance.”

“Listen, kid! If the cops bust in here that baby’s going to get hurt. Grant will use her to cover himself. Let’s get her out of here before the fireworks start. Isn’t that smarter? Or don’t you give a damn?” Duke’s voice rose angrily. “You want to be the big hero, is that it? Call the cops, get your name in the paper. But supposing the baby is killed. Will that make you happy?”

Hank said gently, “The baby isn’t going to be killed. I’ll shoot you and Grant first. You’d better believe that.”

“Don’t talk that way,” Duke said, shaking his head quickly. “This is Duke, remember. Your brother, kid.” His lips were trembling, and his limp was very pronounced as he dragged himself across the floor. “We can make a deal, kid. Let Grant take the baby home. Then I’ll go with you to the cops. They’d believe me then. We’d turn Grant in.” He wet his lips. “Just a few hours. That’s all I’m asking. I don’t want to die, kid.”

Unconsciously, Hank hesitated. He wanted to believe him; that had always been his trouble. Even now, listening to his wheedling lies, he wanted to believe him. The story about Grant — it could have happened that way, he thought.

And Duke, six feet from the phone now, watched him with narrowing eyes. “What do you say, kid? Just a few hours?” With what seemed an immense effort, he shifted himself closer to the phone. “You can’t blame me for wanting to stay alive. It’s not much fun with one leg, but it’s better than nothing, I guess. How about it?”