William McGivern - The Seven File

“She might have forgotten it.”

“No, you don’t understand. In the daytime she kept it on the bureau. At night she put it under her pillow. She said a rosary before she fell asleep.”

“Yes but—” Crowley hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s a nice habit, Ellie. That’s all.”

“Don’t you see? She was in bed ready to go to sleep. Otherwise the rosary wouldn’t have been under the pillow. Something must have waked her. She got up to see what it was — and she never came back.” Ellie shook her head impatiently. “Don’t you understand? Why should she have gone to bed if she intended to take Jill away?”

Crowley looked down at the rosary she held in her hands. Yes, it made sense. Whoever had taken the baby had also taken the nurse. Very probably... Professionals then, organized and competent, able to improvise... And that was bad. Professionals would have no compunctions about getting rid of the baby.

“I told you Kitty wasn’t involved,” Ellie said. She was looking up at Crowley, her eyes suddenly bright with hope. “We know that now. Won’t that help?”

“Yes, of course,” he said. She didn’t understand, he realized. “Now I think you’d better go back to your room and rest. I’ll call the Inspector.”

Ellie looked down at the rosary in her hands. She hesitated a second, then put it in her pocket and walked quickly from the room.

When they heard the car turning into the drive Grant glanced at Hank and then walked to the windows, his hand instinctively moving toward the gun in his pocket. As he pulled the curtains back, Belle said. “Is it them, honey?” Her voice was like an anxious child’s, uneasy and guarded, appealing to grownups for reassurance.

“Sure, it’s them,” Grant said bitterly. “With their arms full of junk. They must have hit every goddam store in town.”

“Williamsboro is quite a shopping center,” Hank said, and Grant looked at him, his eyes narrowing irritably. “The psychology bit, eh? Don’t strain yourself, Junior.”

Hank glanced at his watch: eleven o’clock. Duke had been gone about two hours and the tension had been building steadily; Grant was worried and his fears had infected Belle. She had attempted a few chattery gambits to break the long silences, but Grant was in no mood for small talk. For the past hour there had been little conversation. Once Grant had said to Hank, “You don’t like Duke, eh?” but Hank had shrugged off the question. Later Grant had come back to the subject from a different direction. “What did he do to you? You must have crossed him. He’s a loyal guy. I know him. He sticks to his friends.”

“You’d have to ask his friends about that,” Hank said.

“Yeah? I don’t have to ask anybody.”

There was a step on the porch and then the door was pushed open and Duke and (he nurse came into the room. In the movement and noise of their entrance Hank caught her eye, trying to read something in her expression; but she seemed distracted and nervous, and there was no communion between them, no warmth or awareness or recognition. He wondered if he had imagined her reaction to him last night.

“The baby’s fine, I think,” Belle said to her. “I haven’t heard a peep out of her.”

“I’ll go up,” Kitty said, turning to the stairs.

“If she’s awake, tell her we’ve got the stuff to fix her up,” Duke said. He was in a jubilant mood; a cigar jutted at a comical angle from his mouth, and his cheeks were flushed with sun and air and excitement. Hank knew the reason for his high spirits; the danger of being in town with the girl had exhilarated him. He always needed such stimulants; without them he became bored and sullen and troublesome.

“Take some of this loot,” he said, handing a big shopping bag to Belle. “We’re going to eat for a change. I’ve got steaks here two inches thick, and a dozen big Idahos.” He whacked Belle lightly on the hip with the flat of his hand. “Come on, shake it. I’ll make the sauce for the potatoes — a Duke Farrel special with cheese and butter. We’ll hate ourselves in the morning, eh, Belle?”

Belle responded gratefully to his enthusiasm. “Well, we’ll be a long time dead,” she said, laughing, “so let’s live it up a little.”

Belle loved a good time. Food and drink in generous amounts, jokes, horseplay, kidding around — this was her notion of a party. She knew from long experience that nothing mattered unless the men were in a cheerful mood: if they just ate and drank and got mad when you tried to cheer them up — that was murder. Now Duke seemed to be coming to life, and she was hoping some of it would rub off on Eddie.

“Steaks for lunch,” she said, smiling at him. “Black on the outside, pink on the inside. Like that place in Chicago you were talking about. Donovan’s.”

“Donovan’s?” Duke said, still grinning. “Everybody in jail thought about women. Except Eddie. He was torching for a steak house.”

“It was good enough for the biggest people in town,” Grant said shortly.

“Sure, sure,” Duke said. “Look, we need something to drink. We got nothing here but rum.”

“Rum is all right,” Belle said. She noticed unhappily that Eddie wasn’t responding to Duke’s good humor. Just when they had a chance for a little fun...

“Rum is for old men,” Duke said. “I want some whiskey.” He glanced at Hank. “Why didn’t you tell me this jerk town of yours was dry?”

“You didn’t ask me.”

“Sure, sure, and naturally you wouldn’t guess that I’d want to buy a bottle. Where’s the nearest place I can get one?”

“Jamestown. That’s about twelve miles from here.”

“What a crazy mixed-up state,” Duke said. “One town is dry, the next sells booze. Just the kind of place you’d pick to settle in. Well, I can make a liquor run in half an hour.”

“The rum won’t kill you,” Grant said.

“That’s for sure. I’m not drinking it.”

“Then stick to water,” Grant said sharply.

Duke looked at him for a second or so, and then he smiled easily. “Water won’t do, Eddie.”

“You’re not going back into town, get that straight.” Grant stood facing Duke, his hands swinging free and clear from his body. “We may be the hottest guys in the country right now. We aren’t taking any extra chances.”

“Sure, but we don’t have to go out of our way to be miserable,” Duke said. “Wearing hair shirts and eating bread and water isn’t going to help.”

“We aren’t going to argue about it,” Grant said.

Duke smiled slowly, and an uneasy little silence settled on the room. “Maybe we are, Eddie. Maybe we’ll have to.”

Hank stood perfectly still, not looking directly at either man. He had seen what was coming; Duke wanted to run things, not because he thought he was better qualified than Grant but simply because he was bored. And if Duke took over, Hank knew that they had a chance...

“You’re not being smart, Duke,” Grant said. “If you were, you’d see I’m right.”

“Brains are your department, eh?”

“Yeah, they’re my department,” Grant said, his voice rising suddenly. “You don’t think. You’ve got nothing to think with. Steaks, idaho potatoes, cigars, booze. You must have been about as inconspicuous as a drunk elephant on Main Street. We’re hot. Do you know what that means?” He took a step toward Duke, trembling with rage. “If we’re picked up we’ll be dead three weeks later. That’s what it means. But you act like you’re the advance party for a convention of picnickers. You got to have this, got to have that. Can’t drink rum. Can’t eat canned food. You think a few days off steak will stunt your growth?”