William McGivern - The Seven File

Roth stared at the notebook for half a minute in silence. Then he said, “God help me,” in a low voice, and reached for his brief case.

Having made the decision, he worked quickly: he zippered open the brief case and flashed Carstairs with movements that were maximums of precision and economy. He said quietly, “I’m going to phone Crowley. Get every word. You’ll know what to do then...”

“Right,” Carstairs said. “I’m standing by.”

Roth placed the radio beside the phone and dialed the Bradleys’ number, and when the buzzing started he heard a sudden heavy stroke of his heart. He talked first to Dick Bradley and then to Crowley. “This is Roth,” he said. “I’m across the street in Creasy’s room.” Crowley didn’t answer him and Roth said, “your middle name is Francis, your card number is one, two, four eight, you’ve got a bullet scar on your left forearm. The guy who shot you was named Miller. Okay?”

“Right,” Crowley said.

“Okay, listen carefully now...”

Roth crossed the room after putting the phone down and looked out at the windows of the Bradley home, at the sun gleaming on the massive brass knocker and antique numerals. A moment later Mrs. Jarrod came out and walked briskly toward Third Avenue, a mesh market bag in her hand. Roth patted his forehead with a handkerchief. Mrs. Jarrod had the note in her purse, and Carstairs was waiting for her in the supermarket. She would leave the note in a freezer and he would be standing beside her to retrieve it...

Five minutes passed. Then two more. “It’s got to work,” he said softly, using the words as a wall against his fears. He stood perfectly still, breathing as deeply as a man who had been running hard for blocks. Then he heard footsteps in the hallway, a man’s footsteps brisk and sharp in the silence. The man was whistling Dark Eyes. Roth let out his breath slowly. The tune was a favorite of Carstairs’...

He crossed the room, turned the knob and took the sheet of paper from Carstairs. No words were needed. Roth opened the notebook and placed the sheet of paper on top of the second page, moving the tom edges toward each other, lining them up with his eyes until they fitted together, meshing exactly...

Roth’s thoughts leaped ahead. They had Creasy. Now they must get Duke Farrel.

But as he turned toward the door the radio clicked softly, and the agent in the room on Third Avenue said, “Clear out!” in a sharp, imperative voice. “Creasy just pulled up in a cab. Move! Fast!”

Creasy fumbled in his pockets for change. He wasn’t sure why he had returned home. Something had frightened him and he always felt safer in his room — that was all he knew. All his life he had been spied upon; he had caught people staring at him from windows and doorways since he had been a child. And today the awareness of these hostile watchers had been very strong...

He discovered he had no change. He gave the driver a five-dollar-bill and said, “Please, I’m in a hurry.”

“In a hurry? This all you got?”

“Yes. You should have change for a five.” Creasy’s voice almost shot out of control. “You can’t expect your passengers to carry the fare in silver. You’re supposed to carry change. Isn’t that correct?”

The driver looked at him in silence, his head tilted slightly. Finally he said, “Mac, I asked you a simple question. I said, ‘This all you got?’ All you got to do is say no. Lecturing me ain’t going to help. There’s nothing to yak about. No hard feelings, nothing.” He counted out Creasy’s change carefully, smiled philosophically at the size of his tip, and drove off, shaking his head.

Creasy’s room was dark and empty. He leaned against the door, drawing confidence from the silence, the familiar shadows, the musty smells. Finally he snapped on the night-lamp beside his bed, fearful as always that the shadows might begin to move. He looked in the closet and under the bed for his enemy. Some day he would find him. When the shadows moved... But today he was safe. His fears subsided slowly into the depths of his unconscious. He lit a cigarette and walked to the windows, smiling at the Bradleys’ house. He felt secure again, dominant...

Roth stood on the stairs leading to the second floor of Creasy’s building. He had barely made it. When he heard Creasy go into his room, he glanced at his watch. He waited five minutes, then came briskly down the stairs and walked into the bright sunlight. Now to call West.

Grant was dozing before the fireplace when a car turned into the driveway in front of the lodge. As he came to his feet, shaking his head in confusion, headlights swept brilliantly across the windows and a train of grotesque shadows leaped through the fire-lit room.

“Duke!” he cried, in a hoarse, sleep-thickened voice. “Duke, for God’s sake!” He drew the gun from his pocket and faced the front door, shaking his big head groggily as the lights passed the windows and darkness plunged back into the room. Outside the sound of a motor faded and trembled away into silence.

Duke turned on the lamp beside his chair and glanced at his watch. Hank had been stretched out on the sofa but now he sat up, his eyes switching from his brother to Grant.

“It’s only nine-thirty,” Duke said, as a step sounded on the porch. “Sociable hour for callers.”

“Get up!” Grant said, as the steps came solidly toward the front door. “Get up, damn you.”

“Put that gun away,” Duke said. His face was blurred by the shadows, but his eyes were hard splinters of light in the darkness. “We got a caller, a friend of my brother’s maybe.” Without raising his voice he said harshly, “Put it away, you fool!” Duke stood and hitched up his trousers. He looked at Hank and said, “Play along, kid. If anything slips you get it first. Then the nurse and kid.”

A knock sounded and Duke said, “You’re the host, kid. Act like it.”

Hank nodded and got slowly to his feet. As he crossed the room a second knock shook the panel, and a third sounded just as he pulled open the door. Light from behind him slanted through the doorway and touched the smiling face of the big man who stood on the porch: it was Adam Wilson, Hank saw, an amiable giant who ran a sporting goods store in Williamsboro.

“Not too late for a visit, I hope,” Adam said, smiling first at Hank, and then at Grant and Duke who stood together at the fireplace.

“No, come on in,” Hank said. “We were just sitting around talking. You haven’t met my brother, I know, or his friend, Eddie Grant.”

“Glad to meet you both,” Adam said. He smiled at them, turning his hat slowly in his big hands. “I drove out this way to see Pop Macky and I thought I’d drop in on Hank here. I heard he missed his fishing trip because he hurt his hand. A fellow out at the airport told me about it. How’s it coming along, boy?”

“It’s coming along okay,” Hank said.

Adam was staring at the dirty bandage and the deep purple color of his wrist. “You sure?” he said doubtfully.

Duke came across the room smiling. “Nice to meet you, Adam. Maybe you can make him be sensible about that hand of his. I tried to get him in to the doctor twice, but he’s got a superman complex.”

“I’d listen to your brother,” Adam said, glancing at Hank. “That paw don’t look a bit good.”

“Tomorrow he goes to the doctor if I have to carry him,” Duke said. “Sit down now and I’ll find you a drink. Rum okay?”

“Rum’s my drink,” Adam said, smiling again. He took off his heavy jacket, a big man, tall and broad, with a padded, comfortable-looking body. There was a quality of gentleness in his manner; his eyes were clear and innocent behind rimless glasses, and his humor was of an old-fashioned, friendly sort, completely without sting or malice.