William McGivern - The Seven File

Duke turned into the kitchen and Hank and Adam settled themselves before the fire. Grant remained standing at the mantelpiece, watching Wilson with narrow, cautious eyes.

Silence settled in the room. “You in business in town?” Grant said suddenly.

“Yes, that’s right, Mr. Grant. I run a little sports store. Guns and fishing tackle mostly.”

“That’s a pretty good deal, eh?”

Adam looked at him, polite and attentive. “Well, yes and no, I’d say. Not much money, but quite a bit of fun. There’s a good bunch in town, and it’s not too hard sitting around swapping lies with them.”

Grant ran a hand over his forehead and Hank saw him glance at his watch. Adam saw it too...

The silence closed around them once more. Hank knew Adam was no fool; in spite of his bland good humor he was a successful trader in a country of historically good traders. Nothing much escaped his big clear eyes. He knew what went on behind people’s faces; when he lost at poker it was news in town. Now he was curious about Grant’s strained manner, turning it over slowly in his uncomplicated mind.

“Small towns have their points, eh?” Grant said. He made a nervous gesture with his hand. “Everybody knows everybody. A man feels at home, I guess.”

“Yes, that’s true. You live in the city, Mr. Grant?”

“Always have, always will, I suppose,” Grant said, smiling quickly. He put his elbow on the mantel and the cloth of his jacket tightened over the gun he carried in his pocket. Adam saw that; Hank was sure of it. His eyes passed over that significant bulge casually; he paid no more attention to it than he did the buttons on Grant’s coat. But he had recognized it; he knew the shape of guns.

Duke came back into the room with a bottle of rum and a tray of glasses, his manner cheerful and ebullient. “Good thing rum’s your drink, Adam. It’s all we’ve got.”

“Rum’s the next best thing to a good wife,” Adam said. “Some old fellows around here been drinking it since they were kids. Nobody knows how old they are now. They go on about hearing Dan Webster talk though.” Adam raised his glass smiling. “Take it or leave it, that’s their story.”

“I’ll take it,” Duke said. “Well, long life, eh?”

Everyone drank and shifted into more comfortable positions. Duke’s mood was genial and expansive. “The good life, eh? A fire, something to drink — pretty good, eh.”

“You said it.”

“That’s what we city slickers miss,” Grant said. He was taking his cue from Duke now, Hank saw — striking a note of jovial normality. “We don’t relax enough. We think life is just something that gets in the way of work — instead of the other way around.”

“That’s well put,” Adam said, nodding. “We’re just the opposite, eh, Hank? Too much fishing, not enough work.”

“You mean Hank’s turned into a playboy up here?” Duke said.

Adam laughed. “Telling tales out of school. There I go again.”

“Well, watch it,” Hank said easily; but all his senses were suddenly alert. Too much fishing — Adam’s sport was gunning. He was no fisherman.

Adam sipped his drink and smiled into the fire. “Speaking of work, which I hate about as much as working itself, I got those new reels you wanted. Two of ’em, real beauties. It’ll take a lot of fish to make that investment pay off.”

“It’s fun trying,” Hank said. Now he could feel the slow heavy pounding of his heart; he hadn’t ordered any reels from Adam.

“They’re out in the car, as a matter of fact,” Adam said. “In the back under a lot of junk. You want to help me dig ’em out? Or let it ride till you’re in town?”

“Oh, let it ride,” Hank said. Duke wasn’t smiling any more, he saw; he was watching Adam with a puzzled little frown. “I can’t do much fishing with this hand.” They were taking a dangerous chance with Duke; he was always alert for betrayal and deception. When he double-crossed a friend he felt he was simply beating him to the punch.

The conversation drifted into casual channels. Adam told some of his favorite stories, and Duke poured another round of drinks. Grant said he had always wanted to go on a hunting trip in Africa — that had been his ambition as a kid. Adam seemed interested in this, and Duke added a bit of rum to everyone’s glass. The time passed uneventfully. Finally Duke yawned and said, “Look, I hate to be the wet blanket, but I’m bushed.”

“I didn’t mean to keep you up,” Adam said. “I’ve got to be going along.”

“Finish your drink,” Duke said. “Don’t let me spoil things.” He shook hands with Adam and said, “We’ll stop by one of these days. I’d like to see the shop.”

“You do that,” Adam said. “I want you to meet some of the boys.”

After Duke went upstairs the silence that followed was normal, almost comfortable: Grant had his nerves under control and was waiting for Adam to leave without visible impatience. They sipped their last drinks and watched the fire, seemingly suffused with lazy contentment Finally Adam said. “There’s something I forgot, Hank. I ran into Hairy Davis yesterday and he asked me if you still wanted that job done on the roof. Said he’d drop out and give you an estimate if you were interested. I told him I’d ask you.”

“I don’t know,” Hank said, shrugging lightly. The wrong word here might finish them; Harry Davis was no contractor, he was the sheriff of Williamsboro. “It’s a job for him, all right,” he said finally. “But I’m worried about the price. It may be pretty steep. He can’t handle it alone, I know.”

“The longer you let it go, the worse it gets,” Adam said. “Like me, for instance. I let a leaky roof go one year, next thing I knew I had a plastering job on my hands.” Puffing on his pipe, he seemed completely relaxed and at ease. “So I’ll tell him to come out, eh?”

“Okay, do that,” Hank said.

“Now I’ve got to be going. Eddie, I hope you can stop by the store before you leave. I’d like to have you all up to my place for a bite to eat. And who knows? Even a drop to drink.”

“That sounds good.”

“Come when you can. I don’t need advance warning.” They all went to the door, and Hank said, “Watch the road, Adam, you’ve been belting that rum tonight.”

Adam laughed as he put on his hat. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. Smiling at Hank, his expression changed slightly. “Don’t worry about a thing, boy. Get back to the fire now, both of you.”

“So long,” Grant said. “Take it easy.”

“That’s my middle name. Good-by now.”

Grant closed the door and listened for a few seconds to Adam’s heavy footsteps crossing the porch. Then he shook his head and took out cigarettes. “The local wit, eh? The Jackie Gleason of the crackerbarrel crowd.”

“He’s a pretty nice guy,” Hank said casually. He was estimating the time it would take Adam to reach Williamsboro, find Harry Davis — an hour at least. Then Davis would be back out here in another half hour...

“These village clowns are all nice guys,” Grant said, strolling toward the fireplace. “They haven’t got brains to be anything else. I’d hate to be stuck with him in a stalled elevator, that’s all I can say.”

But supposing Adam couldn’t find Harry Davis? Would he call the State Police? Yes, of course. They could make it in two hours or less. Hank glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty. By twelve-thirty then...

A heavy footstep sounded on the front porch. Grant straightened spasmodically, the tendons in his throat drawing tight with fear. “You expecting anybody else?”

“Don’t do anything in a hurry, Eddie. Adam might have forgot something.”

“Shut up! Just sit there.”