William McGivern - The Seven File

“Well, first we’ve got to get rid of this guy,” Duke said, getting to his feet. “I’ll drive him out into the woods. That’s all. When he’s found the cops will probably think a hitchhiker did it.”

“And they may not,” Grant said.

“That’s right,” Duke said, glancing from Grant to Belle. “Understand this. We’re in trouble. The job went sour. Eddie, you aren’t going to make your entrance at Donovan’s on schedule. That’s all you wanted out of this deal. Ten minutes of glory, ten minutes of pretending that jail never happened and you’re not an old man with a fat stomach and a bald spot. Listen!” he said harshly as Grant took a step toward him. “You don’t get your entrance. We’re running now, dodging and hiding, using the alleys and comers until we’re clear. And you’re doing what I tell you. Or I run alone. Belle, you get upstairs and stick with the nurse. Get moving.”

Belle hurried out of the room, and Hank said, “You had a chance with Grant running things. Now you’re through.”

Duke smiled at him, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. “I’ve watched you building up your nerve, kid, bit by bit, like a guy making a house of matches. It’s a long hard job for you, isn’t it? Everything’s got to be just so, right in balance. Otherwise you fall apart. Now you’re ready to start acting like a man. Well, I can’t let you play hero — funny as you look trying. There’s no time for laughs.” He glanced at Grant. “Eddie, there’s a springhouse built right into the basement. Stone walls, a heavy door with a lock on it. That’s our solitary wing. Hank’s going in there until we need him again. If he makes a racket, beat him senseless. You’re handling this end. Check the car, have some coffee and food ready and sit tight. Got that?”

Hank knew they had lost. The waiting, the hoping, the pressure on Grant and Duke — none of it was any good. And he wouldn’t have another chance after the door of the springhouse swung shut on him. None of them would...

“All right. Junior,” Grant said.

“Sure,” Hank said. He turned toward the door, then spun around, dropping into a crouch. Grant said, “Why, you bastard,” charging at him — and Hank came up fast, swinging a left hook from the floor. The blow caught Grant on the forehead, staggering him, and Hank clawed at the pocket in which he kept his gun.

Duke bent down and picked up the piece of firewood. “Hero,” he said. His voice was disgusted. He raised his arm and brought the club down in a vicious arc. As Hank fell to the floor, Duke shook his head and looked at Grant. “He almost took you,” he said. “Start being a little sharp, okay?”

Grant stared down at Hank’s limp body. “I’ll fix him before we leave,” he said. “That’s a promise.”

“Just stay sharp, okay?”

Creasy collected the ransom money early Wednesday morning on a deserted stretch of Highway One, just south of Oxford, Pennsylvania. There was no difficulty, no confusion, no possibility of surveillance, Creasy was certain; the highway was dark and empty for miles in either direction when he came up behind Bradley’s slowly moving convertible, and sounded his horn three times. Bradley stopped obediently, and within sixty seconds Creasy was on his way back to New York with the suitcase full of money in the rear of the car.

Grant’s plan had been brilliantly ingenious, he thought, as he drove through the darkness; maximum simplicity, minimum risk. Creasy had been free to choose the time and place for the contact; Bradley’s car, traveling at a constant thirty miles per hour, had been absurdly easy to keep under safe observation. Creasy had passed it several times, then pulled up at a gas station or diner to let Bradley resume the lead. If anything had seemed suspicious he would simply have turned off the highway and gone back to New York. But everything was exactly as Grant said it would be; there was little traffic, chiefly interstate buses and trucks traveling slightly over the legal speed limit. And there were dozens of deserted stretches along the road where contact would have been safe and easy — and all those areas had been carefully checked by Grant weeks before. Yes, it had been simple... Even the business about the transmitter had gone smoothly. Grant had been afraid that Bradley — or the police — might have installed a radio transmitter in the convertible to flash a signal when Creasy made the contact. To circumvent this, Creasy (on Grant’s instructions) had turned his car radio on as he drew up behind the convertible. Grant had warned him to listen closely for signs of static or interruptions then — evidence that a transmitter was operating in Bradley’s car. But there had been no suspicious interference or noises, only one or two normal little cracklings. Not two, one, Creasy remembered. The reception had been quite perfect.

Then he had honked three times. And a minute later was in possession of two hundred thousand dollars. He had opened the suitcase to make sure — that had taken fifteen seconds at the most — and then he had turned around and started for the New Jersey Turnpike, heading for New York.

When Creasy reached the outskirts of Wilmington, Delaware, he turned off the highway into a dark residential area, and parked in a block of arching trees and handsomely landscaped homes. Only a few cars and buses had passed him since he had picked up the money, but he decided to wait here in the darkness and make absolutely certain he wasn’t being followed... No precaution was ever pointless.

Creasy took a road map from the glove compartment. If a police car happened to stop, he would have his story... “I seem to have gotten turned around, officer. Could you tell me the best route to the Memorial Bridge? Ah, yes. Silly of me. Thanks so much...”

Creasy lit a cigarette, and then settled back and smiled at the dim reflection of his glasses in his windshield. Grant had been so worried — giving him instructions as if he were lecturing a backward child. So meticulous, so exasperatingly repetitious. Grant seemed unable to believe that Creasy could actually drive a car. But Creasy was an excellent driver, having been in service as a chauffeur for a number of years. In Old Westbury, he thought, remembering the quiet, winding roads and gardens, its air of spaciousness so incongruous with the proximity of New York. There was regal privilege, he thought — to have nine-hole golf courses on land that was worth ten or twenty dollars a square yard. An elegant life, oh yes, with indoor tennis courts for the winter months, heated pools and polo fields and endless chatter about horses and games and schools, and how well old Mrs. So-and-So would cut up for the lucky survivors. He had worked for the Winthrops. Not the good branch, not the direct line — but second cousins. Nobodies, actually. He had traced them thoroughly. And how superior and disagreeable they had been! The daughter... He remembered her so well. Haughty little bitch. Lying on her back in white shorts, toasting her slim brown body in the sun. Cool drink at her side... Now she had a son, he remembered. Michael Desmond. The christening party had taken up quite a bit of space in the society pages. Little Michael was about a year old now...

Creasy was puzzled by the direction of his thoughts, and by the splintered, irrelevant anger that was growing in his breast, spreading pleasurably through his body. The Winthrops, yes, indeed. They needed a comeuppance. Doting on their first grandchild. So many people needed a lesson. And it was so easy.

With a start he glanced at his watch. He must be on his way. There would be time for all this later. But time for what? His thoughts were strangely confused. Only the sustaining sense of anger churned clearly and satisfyingly in his mind. With a vicious thrust of his small foot he tramped down on the starter...