William McGivern - The Seven File

“Yeah?” The boys sounded skeptical.

“Yeah. It’s got a special carburetor and a high compression head.”

Still grinning at them, he lifted a bag of golf bags from the back seat, and then went around to the trunk and removed two tennis rackets and a sagging leather suitcase. His manner was brisk and cheerful: he was whistling as he locked the car, apparently a healthy young animal with nothing on his mind but the latest popular songs and the price of tennis balls.

“You fix up your car yourself?” one of the boys asked him.

“Sure. That’s the only way to be sure of what’s under the hood. Take it easy.”

As he trotted up the steps the two boys stared after him, not speaking, hardly breathing, caught in the sudden intense thrall of hero-worship.

Inside the house the young man showed Crowley’s uncle his identification card, and then said, “I’ll go up and get things ready now.”

“Can I help you with your grip?”

“No. I can manage. Thanks anyway...”

Crowley was frowning at his watch, following the steady inevitable sweep of the second hand with his eyes. He stood facing the windows in the Bradleys’ living room, and he held the Venetian blind cords in his right hand.

“How much longer?” Dick Bradley said.

“Two more minutes.”

Bradley lit a cigarette quickly, his movements a little flurry of nerves and tension. “They’ll be outside, that’s what I can’t take,” he said. “They’ll come right to the house and look to see if the blinds are closed. And we sit here and can’t do one damn thing about it.”

“We’ve just got to sit tight,” Crowley said. He knew the cameras were turning by now, covering the Bradleys’ house, and the sidewalks and doorways and windows on both sides of the street. There were dozens of agents scattered through the neighborhood, in trucks and cabs, strolling through the block on carefully arranged time schedules. It was highly unlikely that any known criminal could walk through the area without being spotted. They wouldn’t be picked up, of course, but they’d be put under close, thorough surveillance.

“How much longer must we wait?” Ellie Bradley said. She sat on the edge of the sofa with her arms crossed over her breasts.

“One minute more,” Crowley said, looking at her. She had come down only a few minutes before, and so far had said very little to her husband. They were a million miles apart, Crowley thought. This crisis had marked the enormous gulf between their temperaments and backgrounds. They had drifted along without realizing this, lulled into a facsimile of unity by the variety of casual interests they shared; under ordinary circumstances the fact that they hardly knew each other might never have disturbed their placid and privileged existence. But now they were strangers; the pressure of the past day and night had driven them apart.

He felt sorry for them. It would help if they could help one another, but they had nothing to give, nothing to receive.

Ellie was looking at her husband, who was pacing up and down before the fireplace. She was very pale, and the strain and fear in her face was pitifully evident. “You took your father to a hotel?” she asked him.

“Yes, yes — it seemed better.”

“How is he feeling?”

Dick Bradley said a very smart thing then, probably the smartest thing he had ever said in his life. “I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t ask him.” In a guileful man it would have been a guileful remark. But he had no guile. She knew that much about him.

“Sit here beside me,” she said. “Please.”

“Yes — certainly.”

They sat close to each other and he put an arm tentatively and awkwardly about her shoulders. “It’s going to be all right, honey,” he said. “I feel sure of it.”

“You — may be right.” She was looking down at her hands. “You’ve always had lucky hunches, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have at that. But this is more than a hunch.”

Crowley glanced at his watch. “Twelve o’clock,” he said quietly, and pulled the cord that closed the blinds on the middle window. Take a good look at it, he thought with cold anger. Look hard. And maybe we’ll be looking at you...

Standing behind his heavily curtained windows, Creasy had been watching for the sign from the Bradleys since ten o’clock that morning. He had enjoyed the vigil; it was strangely exciting to watch the house, and speculate on the anguish growing behind those handsome walls. There was the street to study also; he didn’t let pleasure distract him from duty. His small, glinting eyes were alert for strange faces, suspicious behavior, out-of-the-ordinary circumstances. He watched each car and truck that stopped within his range of vision, scanned all passengers stepping out of taxis, every person strolling along the sidewalks. He had a flair for the police; they couldn’t hide from him.

But in two hours he saw nothing to arouse his suspicions. The life of the block rolled casually past him, reassuringly routine and familiar to his searching eyes.

The signal came exactly at twelve o’clock, and when Creasy saw this evidence of capitulation a strange excitement shook his frail body; this was a climax too exquisite to squander in a greedy burst — this must be prolonged and savored.

For several minutes he stared at the closed blind, a soft smile brightening his small, gray face. Their knees were hinged, oh yes, he thought. Quick to bend. All they needed was practice. He laughed quietly. It was all a matter of leverage and purchase. Once you turned the screws they went down as nicely as you please, whining like any poor mortal.

How were they taking it? he wondered. The lady with her haughty beauty? And him? What good were his clubs and schools and money now?

Creasy’s smile faded slowly. The money would buy back the baby, of course, and with that realization came a sharp flick of disappointment. Yes, their money would help — they always had that advantage. They could buy what they wanted; a car, a yacht, the safe return of their child — it was always so easy for them. A curious premonition of defeat grew in him; they would have an anxious day or two at the most, and then it would be over. The baby would be safely home again, and they would go on as before, pampered and protected, snapping their fingers for service, knowing their whims to be laws...

Perhaps they hadn’t even been worried about the child’s safety. Why should they be? They knew the power of their money; this conviction would temper their anxiety and allay their fears.

It was infuriating. Creasy turned petulantly from the window and pulled the short cigarette stub from his lips. Then he grimaced with pain; the paper had become stuck and a sliver of his dry skin came off with the stub. He looked about his dark, close-smelling little room, feeling restless and irritable. His lunch was on his bedside table, an egg salad sandwich and a container of coffee. He sat down to eat, taking what pleasure he could in the greasy food, the cold coffee that tasted nauseatingly of the cardboard carton. The cut on his lip stung painfully and his mood became despondent.

He glanced around his room, a frown gathering over his eyes. Normally he was happy enough here; he liked this gloomy little box, it was quiet and warm and safe. But now it depressed him. Even his photographs and genealogical charts — the latter was more an obsession than a hobby — even looking at them failed to restore his good humor.

The pictures adorned the wall at the foot of his bed, dozens of faded and cracked photographs of once-famous movie stars. Most of them were now dead or forgotten. They watched Creasy with the expressions and smiles fashionable in their generation: the women were stark and pale for the most part, with low bangs and dramatically widened eyes; the masculine accent was on the suave and mysterious, the cynically raised eyebrows and patent-leather hair. Creasy hated them all. They had been young when he was young, but they had been famous and beautiful and happy. This was his revenge, to pin them helplessly to his walls and speculate on what they must look like today — if they were still alive. In a sense he won a victory over them every night. He lay in bed, reconstructing their faces, mentally drawing in the marks of age, the white or thinning hair, the sagging jowls, the squints, the lines of worry and fear, the gums and sunken cheeks.