William McGivern - The Seven File

They stared at each other, and again (as it had happened the first time they were alone) the tension between them was charged with significance; it was an instant of silence, probing appraisal, an attempt at a communion that might be truer than any they could establish through words. There was no time for a leisurely comparison of attitudes and values. Trust between them could only be intuitive. Hank had known this sort of thing in the army. Sometimes you looked at a man and wondered if he would still be alongside you in the next few seconds. What you knew of his poker habits, his taste in liquor and women or the fact that he loved or was bored with his wife and kids — none of that told you what you needed to know. You made a snap judgment based on criteria you could never define or articulate. And sometimes you were wrong. He understood her fear.

“Let’s hope she gets over it,” he said.

“That’s all we can do,” she said, watching him steadily. She used the plural deliberately, with an unmistakable emphasis; and she told him with that word, and with her eyes, that she believed they were on the same side.

He had no time to answer her, for Duke sauntered into the kitchen then, a speculative little smile on his lips.

“You two look pretty solemn,” he said. “Well, that’s the younger generation for you.”

Neither of them answered him and he said dryly, “Secrets, eh? You’d rather I left? And Grant, too, I suppose.”

“The baby’s running a temperature,” Hank said.

“Well, that’s a shame.” He seemed to accept this as an explanation of their curious silence. “What’s the matter with her?” he said to the nurse.

“I don’t know. It could be the ride, the change.”

“She’ll get used to that in a day or so,” Duke said. “Fevers don’t mean much in kids. Keep her nice and warm. If she’s no better tomorrow we might try a little terramycin.”

“I wouldn’t unless a doctor prescribed it,” she said.

“Sure, a doctor would be the best bet,” Duke said. He rubbed his jaw. “But that’s a pretty tough order.”

“You won’t call a doctor? Even if she gets worse?”

“We’ll do what we can,” he said. “You think we’d stand around and let the kid get real sick?” Duke put his big hands on her shoulders. “Don’t you worry, it’s going to be all right.”

Hank saw her stiffen at his touch, and he felt the heat of anger in his own cheeks.

“You’re what the doctor would order anyway,” Duke said, smiling down at her pale face. “The kid’s lucky to have you. I’ll bet you’re great with babies.”

“She may be awake now.” She attempted to turn but he held her easily with his big hands.

“You’ll hear her if she wakes up,” he said.

“Please let me go.”

“Why sure,” Duke said, grinning into the revealing anger in his brother’s eyes. “You got to go, you got to go.” He tightened his grip slightly, not to hurt her, but to let her feel the power in his hands. When he released her she stood quietly for a moment, rubbing her shoulders with the tips of her fingers, and then she turned and walked quickly from the kitchen. The two brothers watched each other in silence as she crossed the living room and started upstairs. When they heard the click of her heels above their heads, Duke shook his head and began to laugh. “Kid, forgive me, but it’s pretty funny. You’ve fallen for her! Boom! Like that!” He struck the table with the flat of his hand. “You’re ready to bump your forehead on the floor when she walks by — and for what? A couple of soulful looks. Is that all?”

Hank shrugged lightly. “She’s nice-looking, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“You’re pretty casual about it. You got used to dames in the army, eh?”

“As a matter of fact she reminds me of an old friend of yours.”

“Yeah? Who’s that?”

“Jo Reynolds.”

“Must be a couple of other people.”

“You don’t remember Jo?” Hank watched his brother with a little smile. “She had dark hair and a fair complexion. Just like this girl. You must remember her, Duke. Someone slapped her around pretty badly one night behind the football stadium. You can’t forget the row that caused. Her old man had the police on it for months.”

“Oh, that girl,” Duke said slowly.

“Sure, you know her. You used to try to date her, I think.”

Duke’s face had gone dark and hard. “Let’s forget about old times, and the kids from Big Springs,” he said. “This is now. And I got advice for you. Lay off this girl. A long way off. This is your big brother, Duke, talking, so you better listen.”

Hank shrugged again and put a cigarette in his mouth. Starting at his brother’s strangely troubled eyes, he thought: Will I be able to kill him if I get another chance?

The milkman sounded the knocker on the Bradleys’ door at eight o’clock Monday morning. It was a cool and lovely day; long golden shafts of sunlight were striking through the soft white mists that had blown in from the sea. The air was fresh and the sky was a brilliant blue. Later traffic would increase, the air would be thick and gray with exhaust fumes and the people would be irritable and preoccupied as they bought papers and lined up for buses or disappeared into damp echoing subway tunnels. But now the streets were quiet and cheerful in the bright sunlight.

The milkman was whistling serenely when Mrs. Jarrod opened the door. He smiled at her and tugged the peak of his cap. These were excellent customers; they bought everything from him, cottage cheese, yogurt, ice cream, the items most people shopped for in the supermarkets. As he took the weekly order, he said, “And how’s the little girl? Getting fat and saucy on our milk?”

“Yes — yes, of course.”

The milkman glanced up at her, surprised by the edge in her voice. She didn’t look cross, he thought. Nerves probably. Getting to that age. Everything either fine or hopeless. No middle ground. When he went down to his truck he turned to give her a big wave and a smile, but she had already closed the door. Tomorrow she’ll probably be perky as ever, he thought.

The FBI agent and Mr. Bradley were still at the table when she entered the dining room. They had been up all night, the FBI agent asking questions, prowling through the house, talking on the radio that he had installed in the study.

Dick Bradley glanced up at her, and said, “Could we have more coffee, please?”

“Yes, Mr. Bradley.” Mrs. Jarrod’s manner was crisp and impersonal; they needed service from her, she knew, not sniffles and tears.

Crowley ran a hand through his thick black hair, and lit a cigarette. “Let’s see, where were we? Princeton, I think. No trouble there?”

“No.” Bradley tried to smile, then sighed and shook his head. “Just with math.”

Crowley had been going over his past with him for the last hour or so, on the chance that he might recall someone who disliked him, someone he had wronged or embarrassed — intentionally or otherwise. But so far they had uncovered nothing more significant than a scuffle in the cloakroom of his dancing school. Bradley’s past stretched quietly behind him, pleasant, well-cared-for terrain; all the bumps had apparently been smoothed over by his father. School, camps, trips to Italy and France — it had all been arranged thoughtfully and pleasantly. Then the Navy — flying a desk in Washington — and finally the partnership in the old man’s brokerage firm.

There had been no trouble about his marriage. Crowley got the impression that Bradley. Senior, had been unenthusiastic about it, but hadn’t stood in his son’s way.

“How about your business friends?”

Bradley shook his head and fumbled for a cigarette. He was exhausted and on edge; his face was white and there was a desperate expression in his eyes. “We’re getting nowhere,” he said in an uneven voice. “I–I don’t have enemies. I don’t have enough guts. I never got into fights, I never played around with other men’s wives. I–I never did anything. I’m Dickey Bradley, model young man. The good loser, the guy who comes in second, wearing a smile and carrying the winner’s coat. Nobody hates me.” He rubbed his forehead wearily, seemingly spent by the bitterness of his outburst. “Not this much anyway.”