William McGivern - The Seven File

From his room across the street Creasy watched the door close with a sense of infinite and majestic satisfaction. He nodded slowly, deliberately, as a judge might nod while reading an inevitable and irrevocable sentence. “Yes,” he said, softly and quietly. “Yes, they will understand now.” His mood was judicial and calm, and this surprised him slightly. There was none of the frenzied anger that gave him such exquisite pleasure — instead he felt rather solemn, almost disinterested...

They had never know pain or humiliation, of course. But now they would learn. This was just and proper. Pain belonged to the rich and poor alike. But the rich refused to accept this fundamental law. They bought immunity at the expense of the poor.

He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed. And the door remained closed — no sirens were wailing, no police cars were rushing to comfort the privileged beautiful couple in the silent house.

Creasy chuckled softly, and the smile brightened his tiny ugly face, puckered the corners of his eyes. They wouldn’t call the police, he thought. They would wait for his bidding...

And what were they doing now? Bradley, the handsome sportsman, the young man with big bank accounts and a beautiful wife to batten his vanity. What would he be doing? At the phone now, talking to his father in hysterical whispers, begging for help, for speed... or perhaps they hadn’t reached his father yet. “We’ll try his club, sir, and call you back—” And he would hang onto the receiver like death itself...

And what of her? The disdainful, elegant beauty, too choice for any but a millionaire’s taste. Not so beautiful now with her make-up streaked, and her eyes red from weeping. Screaming at her playboy husband to do something, kicking her feet like a child in a tantrum.

Creasy watched the Bradleys’ home for a full hour, standing motionless behind the thick curtains. At six o’clock the Bradleys’ housekeeper appeared, a model of stout, complacent efficiency. Creasy knew her sort. Loyal to those who hired her, grateful for the dog-to-master relationship. Standing up for them against her own kind.

There were no other callers. It was apparent that the Bradleys were following instructions. By now they would have been in touch with the old man in Boston. The wheels were turning...

At seven o’clock Creasy put on his topcoat and left his dark, ill-smelling room. He stood on his stoop for a moment, smoothing his gloves over his small, neat hands. The sun was down now, and there was a chill edge to the wind. Finally he started down the steps, holding the iron railing with a gloved hand, setting his feet down with mincing care. A passing couple smiled at him; he was so obviously a bachelor or widower, a tidy little man setting off on a Sunday evening stroll. With a casual glance at the Bradleys’ home, Creasy turned and walked briskly toward Third Avenue. It was time to phone Grant now, to tell him that everything was all right...

Oliphant Bradley let himself into his Beacon Street apartment shortly after six-thirty on Sunday afternoon. He dropped his hat and stick in the foyer, and strode into the long, comfortable living room, a tall spare man with white hair and snapping blue eyes. At the moment he was in excellent spirits, and this was evident in the way he walked, and the expression on his face. He seldom bothered to hide his feelings or reactions; if he was pleased he laughed, if angry he shouted, if bored he turned off his hearing aid. There was enough egotism in his make-up and enough money in his banks to let him display his moods externally — and now he was grinning with pleasure because he had spent the afternoon with Joe Piersall and had won thirty dollars from him at pinochle.

“Anderson,” he called, switching on a lamp beside his reading chair. In the twilight he found the shadows in the big room depressing; he liked things bright and vivid and lively. Earthy, his wife had called it. He straightened, smiling at this chance recollection. In spite of your cold showers and proper Boston background, my dear, very earthy... Well, maybe I am, he thought, savoring the memory of Joe Piersall’s choleric bad temper.

The dining room door opened and his valet, Anderson, came in. He was younger than Mr. Bradley by several years, but not so well preserved; his hair was gray and thin on top, and he walked as if he were carrying a fragile and carelessly wrapped package. “I was just about to ring up the Piersalls, sir,” he said. “Your son has been calling from New York since five o’clock. He said it was quite urgent.”

“Oh. Anybody sick?”

“No, sir, he said that everyone was fine. He and Mrs. Bradley had been out to the Frank Kimbles’ for the week end.”

“Get a nice sunstroke with that crowd and not much else. How about Jill?”

“Well — I don’t believe he mentioned her, sir.”

Oliphant Bradley pulled out his watch, studied it for a second and then let the slim golden disc slide back into his vest pocket. The habit was a compulsive one, and his addiction to it annoyed him: why in the devil was he always fiddling around with clocks and watches? Timing his breakfast, timing his walks, even timing hands of bridge — a silly habit, the reflexive twitch of an idle old fool. He resolved to stop it — for the fiftieth time. Let the time go by. Stop staring at it. That won’t help...

“I’ll call him from the study,” he said. At the doorway he stopped and grinned at Anderson. “I clipped Joe Piersall for thirty bucks this afternoon. How about that?”

Anderson smiled back at him. “I’m sure that put him in a good humor.”

“Sure, sure. He didn’t quite claim I cheated, but that was only because I was a guest. If we’d been playing here it would have been different. Do you remember the time he insisted on staying until he got even? Slept on the sofa finally.”

“Yes, I do, sir. He was here two days, I believe.”

Oliphant Bradley was still chuckling as he picked up the phone in his study and gave the operator his son’s number in New York...

Anderson was setting the tea tray when he heard Mr. Bradley call for him in a high, unfamiliar voice. The urgency of the tone made him start; the cup and saucer he held rattled alarmingly as he put them down on the sideboard. “Yes, sir,” he said, as Mr. Bradley called his name again. He hurried through the apartment to the study, a small alcove off the library.

“Would you bring me a brandy, please.” Mr. Bradley stood beside his desk with one hand resting on the cradled telephone. There was a smile on his lips, but Anderson thought his eyes looked odd — bright and hard and intense.

“Is anything wrong, sir?”

“No, no. They just called to say hello. Everything is fine.”

“You look upset, sir. If there’s something—”

“No, it’s just that damn twinge again.” Still making an effort to smile, he touched the area above his heart. It would be hard to deceive Anderson; they had been together thirty years and knew each other very well. But he must deceive him. No one must guess...

“The brandy will do the trick,” he said.

“Shouldn’t I call Dr. Playton?”

“He’d be delighted if you did. The only pleasure he gets out of life lately is hospitalizing his friends. No, just bring me the brandy, please. And another thing. I’m going down to New York for a few days. I’ll need a grip. No evening things, thank God.”

“Yes, of course.” Anderson lingered in the doorway, obviously worried and uncertain. Mr. Bradley cursed himself silently; he was handling this like an hysterical child. Stupidly... giving everything away. “Dick wants me to go over a list of stocks with him,” he said, forcing an easier note into his voice. “He seems to think I’ve developed clairvoyance in my old age.”