William McGivern - The Seven File

Ellie sighed wearily and walked through the foyer to the doorway. She opened the door, narrowing her eyes slightly against the morning sun. “Yes?” she said.

The man on the stoop was small and neatly dressed, and his glasses winked like mirrors in the sunlight. There was a simpering little smile on his lips. “Ah, good morning, ma’am,” he said, removing his hat with an awkward little flourish. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No — no,” Ellie said. She recognized him then, and her heart began to pound with sudden violence.

“My name is Creasy and I live opposite you on the block,” he said. “I just stopped by to ask about your little daughter.”

“Yes—” Ellie’s lips were dry, and she could feel a pulse fluttering with terror at the hollow of the throat. “Yes?” Inside the house Crowley waved a warning hand to Dick Bradley who had just entered the living room with a tray. Then Crowley dropped a hand on his gun and moved as close as he could to the front door...

Creasy’s smile was secretive, and there was a curious blend of humility and arrogance in his manner. This was his moment of triumphant climax; he had been driven to do this, compelled against all common sense and caution to see her, to see the ravages of pain and fear in her face — for he had reached the point beyond which his imagination had become stale and unrewarding. That was why he had sent the special delivery letter to the Bradleys. Turn the screw once more... the instructions for paying the ransom were in the regular mail, and should arrive within an hour or so. Then the bonds of the rack could be loosened again. They could hope... Grant’s schedule wouldn’t be affected at all. This moment was pure luxury, an exquisite dividend.

“We haven’t met, of course,” he said, bobbing his head rhythmically. Yes, she had suffered — he saw that now. The shadows under her eyes were like deep purple bruises. “In the country I daresay it would be different.” He smiled to let her know he understood these protocols. “One still leaves cards, doesn’t one?”

“Yes—” Her voice was high and strained. “There’s — more time.”

“Precisely. Here it’s all rush, rush, rush.” He studied her drawn features carefully, memorizing each mark of anguish with clinical care. “But we who value such things find time for — what shall I say? — the older graces?”

“That’s true. I’m sure.” Ellie had known this feeling in nightmares: the rending need to scream and be silent at one I and the same time.

No make-up, Creasy observed, and unconsciously his smile became a trifle superior. Where was the elegant coiffeur, the luxurious attention to skin and eyes and nails? Without the expensive props what was she? A drab...

“I must tell you why I’ve taken this liberty,” he said. “Lately, I’ve enjoyed a smile or two from your charming little daughter. We pass in the street, and I bow quite formally to the little princess, and she rewards my fealty with a clap of her dimpled hands — the beginning and end of life saluting each other, one might say.” He pretended not to notice her trembling lips and dark, staring eyes. “Nothing much by the standards of the busy world perhaps, but quite a lot to one facing — why not confess it? — his autumn years. But I’ve missed my princess the last few days. I was afraid she might be ill. That’s why I stopped by.” Creasy chuckled softly. “I rather like to think I am her first gentleman caller.”

“It’s sweet of you to be worried. Jill has been under the weather, and we thought it best to keep her in for a few days.”

“What a pity! She’ll miss her outings.”

“Yes, she is restless.” Ellie was fighting as only she could; her smile was warm, and her voice was almost casual. He knew Jill was gone — that thought pounded in her mind.

“I’m sure she’ll be bright and chipper very soon,” Creasy said. “These indispositions don’t bother children at all. Please tell her I stopped by, and that I’m looking forward to seeing her in the near future.”

“Thank you. I will.”

“How fortunate you’re right here to take care of her,” Creasy said, smiling a little. He allowed himself a final savoring look at her white face, and then he nodded briskly, and said, “Well, I must be toddling along. Good day!”

“Goody-bye.”

Creasy crossed the street, beaming with a smug sense of accomplishment. Inside his room he lit a cigarette with a debonair gesture and took up his post at the windows. It had been risky, of course, he thought, still smiling brightly. But so well worth it...

When he saw the mailman go up their steps an hour later, Creasy experienced an odd moment of deflation and loss. Now it was over. Finally... The reprieve was in the postman’s leather pouch. The ransom instructions, detailed and explicit. Now they would hope again. He sighed and dropped his cigarette into the dregs of a coffee cup where it sputtered out with an angry and final little hiss. Over, he thought sadly. So soon, so terribly soon...

On Inspector West’s desk at FBI headquarters there were two enlarged glossy prints of Duke Farrel, one full face, the other in profile. The pictures had been wired from Washington, only a few minutes after the dossier on Farrel had come in by telephone. Since that time — ten o’clock the previous night — Roth had been in communication with Joliet Penitentiary in Illinois, and the police authorities in Chicago, and Madison, Wisconsin. Now it was nine o’clock. Tuesday morning. Long beams of cheerful sun slanted in the windows and from the streets below could be heard muted sounds of traffic and occasionally the shrill piping of a traffic cop’s whistle.

The Inspector stood at his desk with Roth. He had talked with Crowley twice this morning; he knew about the special delivery letter, Creasy’s subsequent visit and the ransom instructions which had arrived an hour later in the regular mail.

The Inspector was studying Duke Farrel’s dark bold features.

“According to Joliet, he’s dangerous,” Roth said. “He took solitary like it was a suite in a luxury hotel.”

They were assembling, bit by bit, a portrait of Duke Farrel. They knew that he was unmarried, seemed to have no close friends, that both his father and mother were dead. His only relative was a half-brother, Henry Todd Farrel, who had left Big Springs, Wisconsin, at the start of the Korean War. There was no indication that the brothers had been in contact since that time. The younger brother had enlisted in the army and served in Korea. They were waiting now for his service record. They had no idea of his present whereabouts...

West drummed his fingers on the desk. “We’ve got to get a line on him, Jerry.”

“We’ll have something when we get his service record. Right now all we know is that his mail was forwarded from Big Springs to Boston for a few months four years ago. Care of general delivery.”

West glanced at the big clock on the wall; the gesture was compulsive, almost desperate. Time had assumed a heightened and precious value now; the minutes seemed to be flowing away on a prodigal tide.

“Let’s check the pickup plans,” he said. On his left a small-scale map of Pennsylvania had been tacked to a bulletin board. The kidnapers’ plan was nearly perfect, West has seen instantly; it was simple, ingenious, safe. He could no longer hope that he was dealing with amateurs or neurotics.

West looked at a copy of the payoff instructions and then turned to the map of Pennsylvania. “Step one,” he said to Roth. “Dick Bradley takes the money to Philadelphia at three this afternoon. There he rents a convertible. He stays in Philly until ten o’clock. Then drives to—” West glanced at his memo. “Kennett Square.”