William McGivern - The Seven File

“What the hell can we do?” Roth said, pounding a fist into the palm of his hand.

“Relax — and start doing it right now,” West said, and there was a sudden snap of command in his voice. “We’re handcuffed till that baby is safe. We’re not taking any chances yet. So let’s go to work. Check the post office to see if any registers were delivered to Farrel while he was at the Wells. And the telephone company for long distance calls. And Western Union for wires.”

West swung around to the agents standing in front of his desk. “All right, move! Don’t waste time explaining what you want to clerks. Go right to the top. We want this information now.”

Turning, he beckoned to the agent on the Chicago phone. “Let that go now, Bill. I want you to check the police precinct covering the Wells Hotel. Find out what paroled convicts they’ve got in the area. Get their names and addresses. Find out if they’re watching anyone at the Wells — for any reason at all. Say you’re on a security job. Phone me here when you’ve got that dope.”

Roth came back to West’s desk after assigning three agents to phones. “I’m sorry I blew my top,” he said.

“Forget it,” West said. “We may hit something now.” He was thinking of the million jurors with just a touch of bitterness. They’d quarter-back this decision, too, from the stands, not knowing or not caring that a kidnaping put law officers in a strait jacket: the police didn’t have the breaks in this case. Not as long as the baby was missing...

A few minutes later they had a final radio report on Creasy; he had left his car and the ransom money at a garage on Second Avenue. From there he had walked to his room on Thirty-first Street. He was now inside.

Phoning, West thought, saying, “This end is all wrapped up Sure, I’ve got it. You can fade now. Don’t take anything you don’t need ...”

They’d get Creasy, of course. And Farrel and the others. That was no problem. They’d try them and execute them as quickly as the law would allow...

But would that compensate the Bradleys for a dead baby? The minutes seemed to be rushing by now. West tried not to watch the clock but his eyes shifted there compulsively — and on each occasion another precious amount of time was lost forever.

And then, at four-fifteen, an agent scrambled to his feet and knocked his chair over backwards. “Here it is,” he yelled in a sharp, breathless voice. He spun around, kicked his chair from his path, and reached West in two long strides. “Here it is, sir. From Farrel’s brother.”

West jerked the paper and scanned the message. Yes, he thought, feeling the pounding beat of his heart. Yes... The message read: “My cottage available two weeks. More if you need it. Won’t see you. Sorry. Am leaving for fishing trip Canada. Regards. Hank.”

“Where was it sent from?”

“Williamsboro, Main.”

West stood perfectly still for an instant, staring at the message. “Now listen carefully, Jerry,” he said — and as quiet and deliberate as his voice was, it brought silence over the room. “I’m going up there. I’ll call you from the Boston airport. You phone Washington, tell them what we’ve got, and have them on a conference line for my report. After that, call Boston. I want a dozen agents to meet me at the airport. Men who know the country around Williamsboro. You’ve got that?”

“Right.”

“Tell Boston I want to know where Hank Farrel’s cottage is. I want to know who lives in every house near it. Tell them to be set to block the roads leading away from Farrel’s place. I want to use local trucks — power company trucks, moving vans, delivery trucks. Equipped with two-way radio apparatus. They can fly men up now to get that detail ready. I’ll phone Washington again from Williamsboro. You’ve got all this?”

“Yes, I’ve got it. You want me to call the Bradleys?”

West hesitated, then shook his head slowly. “They’ll want to know one way or the other. And we don’t know — not yet.”

He pulled up his tie and without looking, reached out for his coat and hat; an agent held them ready. With a last quick glance at the clock, West started for the elevators at a run...

Duke stood at the kitchen window, a cup of rum-laced coffee in his hand, and watched the new day spreading along the horizon. The sky was gray and pink above the green waters of the tidal estuary, and the tips of the fir trees were gleaming in the first thin sunlight. Duke felt pleasantly sleepy as he sipped the hot coffee and stared out at the fresh countryside. He’d had very little rest the past three days, and he had been drinking steadily most of that time: the combination had worn him down to a state of comfortable, almost luxurious drowsiness.

When he did sleep it would be a sensuous pleasure, as rewarding as food or drink or a woman. But he couldn’t sleep yet. There were still a few loose ends. Creasy had called at four-thirty: he had the money. So that was set. And Adam Wilson’s body had been taken care of; Duke had driven deep into the woods and left it there sprawled behind the wheel of the car, alone and staring in the empty stillness of the forest. Duke had come back to the lodge on foot, leaving no more sign of his passage than a canoe would leave on water. He had enjoyed the silent, stealthy return; it reminded him of his boyhood in Wisconsin, the old Indians, the hunting and fishing and the powerful excitement that had always gripped him when he was alone in the secret darkness of the woods. When you knew how to handle yourself you could come within ten feet of a camping party and listen and watch for hours without being seen or heard...

He glanced at his watch: six-thirty. The girl would be ready with the baby. The last loose ends. He had told her he was taking her home, but she hadn’t believed that: she had stared at him, knowing he lied, watching him with eyes that were like a trapped animal’s.

Duke stretched his arms above his head, then put his hands on the small of his back and twisted sideways and forwards, limbering up his big body. A cramping pain tightened his chest. He still felt stiff as he limped upstairs. Stale, he thought. He needed exercise.

Grant hadn’t been sleeping. He opened the door at Duke’s knock, wearing slacks and a sports shirt. A cigarette burned at the comer of his mouth and the perspiration of his forehead glistened in the light of the flaring ash.

“You set to go?” he said.

“All set.” In the big double bed behind Grant, Belle’s body was a soft mound under the blankets. She was breathing softly, evenly. “Nothing wrong with her conscience,” Duke said.

“She’s good for hours. It’s that booze. Don’t worry, I’ll get her up when you’ve gone.”

“That’s right. We’re moving when I get back.”

“With your brother?”

“We’re taking him, sure,” Duke said. “We’ll stop in town, let folks see him. That will keep anybody from coming out here and nosing around.”

“Okay. You’d better get going.”

“I found a nice spot for it,” Duke said. “A hundred-foot drop, straight into water.”

“There’s no point talking about it.”

Duke smiled faintly. “I get the nice jobs, don’t I?”

“Why talk about it?”

“The water is deep there,” Duke said. He knew Grant was ready to fly apart; his eyes were bright with tension. “They won’t find the car for days.”

Grant wet his lips. “The engine number is a phony, the plates are registered to a John Doe in Seattle. Washington They can’t ever trace it.”

“Sure, there’s nothing to worry about,” Duke said, smiling at the sickly sheen on Grant’s face. “But maybe you’d like to handle this last job yourself. Just to make sure. Just to make sure you’ll get back to Donovan’s.”