William McGivern - The Seven File

Jerry Roth stood behind the desk in his brightly lighted office, a bear of a man with features that looked as if they had been cut from dark, well-seasoned wood. In spite of gray hair and the deep lines at the comers of his mouth and eyes, he was a belligerently formidable man; anyone with sense would have kept clear of him in a barroom brawl.

Now, staring at the five agents before him, he rapped on his desk, not for attention but for emphasis. “I’ll go through this just once,” he said quietly. “A girl named Jill Bradley was kidnaped from her home at 715 East Thirty-first. An extortion note has been received, so we’re in on it now. We don’t have to wait five days for a presumption of an interstate violation. The parents don’t know for certain when the baby was taken. Possibly Friday night or sometime Saturday. They’ve made arrangements to meet the ransom demand.” Roth let his eyes touch each face deliberately. “So far nobody else is in on it. That’s the way it’s going to stay. Washington is sending an Inspector over to handle the job at this end. It’s Dave West. You’ve heard of him. I’ve worked with him. When this is all over you’ll know why I think he’s the best we’ve got. Now let’s go. We’ve got things to do before he gets here.” Roth picked up a paper from his desk and glanced at it briefly. “Okay then: Bums, I want you to get out to Thirty-first Street. Photograph the block from your car. We’ll need a blow-up of that neighborhood to work with here.

“Doorways, alleys, newsstands, shops, houses, warehouses, everything, check for spots from where we can keep the Bradleys’ home under surveillance. Make sketches, so we can get the scale right. When you’re finished report to the photo lab. They’ll be ready for you. Get moving now. Nelson, you go down to our library and dig up everything you can find on Oliphant Bradley. Check Dun & Bradstreet, Poor’s Directory of Executives, Who’s Who. I want every line you can find on the family’s business associates, in-laws, clubs they belong to, where their summer homes are, everything. There’ll be yards on the old man. The son is Richard Townsend Bradley. He’s married to a girl whose maiden name was Eleanor Sims. There may be something on her; I don’t know. Put it all on tape, and get two girls to type it up. I want in on my desk when West arrives.”

Nelson, a tall redhead, said, “Do you want me to check the morgues on the local papers?”

Roth hesitated, then shook his head. The newspaper morgues were more complete sources of information, but no matter how they camouflaged their interest in the Bradleys, an alert editor or reporter might guess at the truth... Their prime consideration was returning the child safely to its parents. Nothing else mattered. Catching the kidnapers, trying them, executing them — these were secondary considerations. “Never mind the papers,” he said. “Work with what we’ve got in our own files.”

“Right, sir.”

Two agents remained. To the one on his left, Roth said, “Bell, I want you to set up a headquarters for the Inspector on this floor. Get a dozen of our best clerks in here tonight, and line up communications men. Have extra cars and trucks standing by, and fingerprint kits, assault equipment, tear gas rifles — anything we might need. Set up a file on this case, and keep it clear of the regular records.”

Control and speed were essentials; if West wanted an agent, a file, a lead card, anything at all, he would want it right away — not thirty seconds from now. A ton of paper might bulge in this file before they were through, and each separate piece had to be instantly available. The clerks would set up indexes to channel the flow of tips and action reports, and register would be provided to account for the minute-by-minute location and activity of each of the hundred-odd men under West’s command. This was routine, standard operating procedure; when West walked in an hour or so from now his headquarters staff would be standing by, ready for action.

“Open our file with this,” Roth said, and handed Bell the telephone memorandum from Washington.

“A seven file,” Bell said.

“That’s right.” Roth’s voice was suddenly hard and angry. “Seven.” This was the general file number for kidnapings, and its implications touched bitter memories in these men. “Get with it,” Roth said, and then turned to the last men who stood before his desk. “If it had been any other job, I wouldn’t have called you in, Crowley.”

“That’s okay, sir.”

Roth rubbed his wide hands together, and a frown deepened the lines at the comers of his eyes. “How is she?” he said. “Any word at all?”

“No, they’re still making tests.”

Roth cleared his throat. “I called you because I remembered you’ve got an uncle living on Thirty-first Street. In the same block as the Bradleys.”

Crowley nodded, and said, “That’s right.” He frowned faintly, a pleasant-looking young man with curly black hair and intelligent eyes. “He’s lived there ever since he took his pension from the city police.”

“And you visit him, don’t you?”

“Yes, every couple of weeks. He’s all alone now, except for a son in New Mexico.”

“Well, you can probably see what I’m getting at,” Roth said. “West will want a man inside the Bradleys’. You could go to your uncle’s and cross the roofs to the Bradley house.”

“That would work,” Crowley said.

“I know,” Roth said. “And you’ve got an excuse to be in the block. You’ve been going there to visit your uncle. If the street is being watched, you won’t give anything away. If anyone asks questions about you, they’ll get safe answers.”

“Sure,” Crowley said. “It makes sense.”

Roth looked down at his desk. “Once you go inside the Bradleys’ house, you stay inside. No matter what happens to your daughter. We can’t pull you out after you go in. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I understand.” Crowley said.

“You want me to leave it up to the Inspector?”

Crowley hesitated, then smiled slightly and shook his head. “He’s got his problems. Don’t worry him with mine. Look, I don’t want to make a speech. If I can help find that Bradley baby, I’ll go in. Tell the Inspector I’m his boy.”

Roth nodded slowly. “All right. Tom.”

Oliphant Bradley walked into La Guardia’s terminal building at ten-thirty that night, only four hours after receiving his son’s message in Boston. He carried a grip in each hand, but shook his head at a porter who offered to assist him; in one bag was a change of clothes, in the other was two hundred thousand dollars in used bills of small denominations. The old man was frowning as he strode through the crowded terminal toward the cab rank; during the flight he had begun to worry about having called the FBI. It was the wisest thing to do. of course. That wasn’t what worried him. It was the question of propriety. It was his son’s decision to make...

The agent he had talked with in Boston had held him up for several interminable minutes with questions: What was the exact wording of the note? Had there been any threatening letters in the past? When was he leaving for New York? When would he arrive? Would he bring a picture of his granddaughter?

Bradley had finally hung up on him and driven off to the bank. He had his work to do, let them get busy with theirs! But it wasn’t this interrogation that had started him worrying — it was the task that faced him now; the business of explaining his decision to Dick and Ellie. Dick had stressed the need for secrecy; no one must know the baby was missing. Jill’s life depended on their swift, silent obedience, he had said. But Dick was wrong there. The baby was already dead. All they could do now was make certain that retribution was swift and final. But to exact payment you needed the machinery of investigation and enforcement. Oliphant Bradley was convinced he had done his duty. But he wondered uneasily if Dick and Ellie would understand...