William McGivern - The Seven File

“Yes, of course.” Creasy was smiling shyly now; they I didn’t realize that he was wealthy — that was his little joke. The suitcase full of money belonged to him, and it represented a permanent barrier against rudeness and insult. He would put these vulgar fools in their place, oh, yes indeed. But not yet. Give them a bit more rope... Creasy I was beginning to laugh as they put him into the car. It was f so funny he didn’t know how he would ever stop.

On the sidewalk across the street Ellie Bradley was looking up at Crowley. She hadn’t seen Creasy’s arrest; Crowley had spotted Roth, and had stepped in front of her just as he had closed in on Creasy. Ellie had been crying; her face was streaked with tears, but her eyes were radiant — clear and incredibly happy.

“I can’t say good-by properly now,” she said, holding his arms with both hands. “Will you come over tonight? With your wife? I want you to see Jill. Will you?”

“Yes, I’ll call you,” he said, smiling at her. “Now hop in. Your baby’s waiting for you.”

“And so is yours,” she said. “We can’t ever be grateful enough, can we?”

“I don’t see how.”

“Okay, honey,” Dick Bradley said, touching her arm. He was waiting for her at the side of the car. The driver had already started the motor.

“Yes, yes,” she said, in a voice that was trembling with eager excitement.

She turned and climbed into the rear of the car. Bradley grinned and shook hands with Crowley. “You’ll call us? For sure?”

“For sure,” Crowley said.

The car moved away from the curb, gathering speed as it headed toward Third Avenue. Ellie looked out the rear window and blew him a kiss, as the driver swung into the intersection.

Crowley waved a good-by to them. He stood there for a few seconds, smiling faintly at the early morning serenity of the street; trucks and cabs went by on their way to the new day and there were children playing in front of the old brownstones down the block. Women walked toward the avenues with shopping bags folded over their arms, and on the landings of fire escapes a few old men were soaking up the thin spring sunlight.

Crowley lit a cigarette and flipped the match toward the curb. He buttoned the top button on his shirt and pulled up the knot of his tie. Still smiling faintly, he glanced up at the massive black door of the Bradleys’ home. Inside another agent was on duty, tidying up loose ends. Crowley’s job was over. The tension of the last three days was flowing out of him and a bone-deep tiredness was settling in; he felt very weary, very eager to be home. Taking a deep drag from his cigarette, he walked to the curb and waved down a cruising cab.

Inspector West had used the office of Sheriff Davis as his headquarters during the tense, exhausting day. Now it was almost dark and he was relaxing for a few moments at the sheriff’s desk. In the square below him groups of people stood talking in the gathering dusk; he could hear the faint murmur of their voices, see the flare of their cigarettes in the deep gloom. They were discussing the kidnaping, he knew; no one in Williamsboro had talked about anything else that day. The village had been swamped by newspapermen, photographers, television crews; the wire services and big dailies had flown in reporters, and mobile TV units had been cruising through the streets all day long, covering every detail they could get a camera on. Anyone who had been in contact with the kidnapers had become exciting and newsworthy; the druggist, the grocery clerk, friends and relatives of the dead Adam Wilson — they had been interviewed, quoted, photographed, their likenesses and comments preserved forever on tapes and film.

West had held two press conferences, and had faced TV cameras every time he stepped from his office into the corridors of the courthouse. These were chores, irksome but necessary; the public had first rights to the story now. But there was also a vast amount of work to be done — fingerprints, photographs, personal inventories — the routine but exhaustive processing of the prisoners. And their stories had to be checked and rechecked, the contradictions examined from every possible perspective. Leads had to be run down, fast; this morning West hadn’t been able to assume that he had caught all the kidnap mob in one bag. There might be a lookout, a courier, a pickup man, still free, and he didn’t intend to give anyone a chance to run for cover.

This work had gone on at a furious, orderly pace, but now, at last, things were blessedly quiet for a few minutes. The clerks had gone home, his agents were out for dinner, and even the reporters and TV crews had drifted away from their posts in the corridor. The sheriff s second floor suite was calm and peaceful, and West sighed as he lit a cigarette and shifted into a comfortable position in the swivel chair. But the door to the inner office opened a moment or so later, and Hank Farrel walked into the room.

West smiled at him. “Pretty short nap.”

“There’s not much point trying to sleep,” Hank said.

“You’ve been churning along at about three times normal speed for quite a while. It takes time to slow down. How about a cigarette?”

“Thanks.” Hank sat down slowly and rubbed a hand over his forehead. He was completely spent, but he wasn’t able to sleep. The doctor had given him a sedative half an hour ago, and West had told him to stretch out on the sofa in the sheriff s inner office. But sleep hadn’t come; he had lain staring at the dark ceiling, keeping a vigil with his thoughts. This day had been the longest of his life. They had dressed his injured hand, and then listened to his story — not once or twice, but twenty times. Fifty... They had checked his statement point by point, cross-examining him on each detail. Not merely to trip him up, he knew; they wanted to be sure he hadn’t been involved in the kidnaping. Eventually they had accepted his story; the girl’s testimony had supported his statement fully and exactly. And Grant had talked...

“Is there any reason I can’t go home?” he said.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Are the reporters still out there?”

“No, you won’t be bothered. Your car is parked in back of the courthouse. I think you can get away without posing for any more pictures.”

“Fine. Were there any calls for me?”

“There was a message from Mr. Bradley,” West said. “He’s grateful, which is putting it about as mildly as possible. He wants to talk to you, up here or in New York, at your convenience. And on the same subject, let me say I’m grateful, too, Hank. You had a very tough job and you handled it perfectly.”

“Thanks,” Hank said, getting to his feet. He felt awkward and stiff. “And there were no other calls?”

“No.”

She had said she would call him — here or out at the lodge. When she had a minute... They hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words this morning. West had listened to their stories and then she and the baby had been driven out to the airport to meet the Bradleys. But before that she had crossed to him and put a hand on his arm. She had said she would call him, as soon as she could...

“There’s one favor I’d like to ask,” Hank said.

West sighed and came around his desk. “I can guess,” he said. “You want to see your brother.”

“Yes — can I?”

“Sure, but why not wait a day or so?”

“I’m ready now.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“I didn’t expect it to be.”

“Adam Wilson is dead, Hank,” the Inspector said, and now there was a hard, angry edge to his voice. “A friend of yours, a good, decent guy. The woman, Belle, is dead. It’s only through the grace of God that the baby and the nurse are alive. You, too, for that matter. The baby’s parents were put through three days of unrefined hell, waiting to know if they’d ever seen their child again. This is the dirtiest crime in the book, for my money.” West made a sharp, abrupt gesture with his hand. “And how do you think your brother is taking it? Can you guess? He’s playing it for laughs. Wisecracking, acting as if he’s a celebrity besieged by autograph hounds. He’s loving every minute of it, enjoying the attention and excitement. If you think he’s touched by repentance, or any kind of regret — think again.” West sighed and shook his head. “I sound pretty tough, I know. But I don’t want you to walk in on that right now. Don’t you think you’ve taken enough in the last three days?”