William McGivern - The Seven File

What worried him was that the kid seemed sharp and alert, nobody’s fool. He’d seen the gun. Grant was sure of that. So what would he do? Have a drink with them, wave a big good-by — and then head for the cops? Could they let him go?

Grant drifted across the room toward the fireplace. “You got a fine spot here,” he said, his eyes going toward the ceiling. Everything was quiet up there. Maybe this would work out. Maybe they could send him off thinking nothing was wrong. “You know, you gave me a real jolt when you knocked,” he said. His laugh was a good effort, solid and cheerful, but just a bit embarrassed. “I’m a city boy, and too much peace and quiet gets on my nerves. Duke said nobody ever came by here, and when you banged on the door—” He laughed and shook his head. “I damn near went out of my skin. Look!” He took the revolver from his pocket and showed it to Hank. “That’s how nervous I was. I don’t know what I expected. A gang of drunken Indians maybe.”

“I’m sorry I startled you,” Hank said, smiling easily. “But this is pretty peaceful country. We haven’t had an Indian raid up here for weeks.”

Grant laughed and dropped the gun into his pocket. “But I didn’t know that,” he said.

“You might get in some target practice on the river,” Hank said. He was still smiling, playing out the farce. “But don’t waste time looking for Indians.”

A footstep sounded above them, and Hank glanced at the ceiling. Grant cleared his throat and said, “My wife will be sorry she missed you. She was pretty tired after the drive.”

“Maybe another time,” Hank said.

“Sure.”

Duke came into the room carrying a tray of hot rum drinks, his manner charged with a jovial bustle. “Here we are,” he said, “the old pain-killer.” The pungent smell of the liquor was sharp in the warm room. Firelight blazed on the satin-smooth pine floor, and sun glinted brightly on the clean windowpanes. A cute picture, Hank thought, taking a glass from Duke. Add a gun though, and it didn’t look so cute.

“Well, I hit the jackpot this time, kid,” Duke said, grinning at him. “Eddie and I can’t miss.”

“Let’s drink to that,” Hank said. Duke had written vaguely about his connection with Grant: a mail-order business, no overhead, vast profits and so forth. Hank had heard this sort of thing before. Duke was always just one step away from the pot of gold. Then something went wrong. Never through his fault, of course.

“You’ll have to get used to me being a big shot,” Duke said. He winked at Grant. “The kid was always after me to make something out of myself. Be a credit to the family. Like he was.” Duke’s voice was good-humored, but there was a needle in his manner.

Hank found the old mockery faintly tiresome. And this pleased him. Another bond broken...

Grant put his empty glass on the mantel and glanced at his watch. “That was a rough drive,” he said, covering a yawn with his hand. “I hate to be a killjoy, but I’m going to turn in.”

As Hank put his glass down, footsteps sounded above them, moving with a sense of determination and urgency. Looking up, he caught the sharp, warning glance that flicked between Grant and his brother. Then a woman’s voice, high with anger and desperation, cut through the silence.

“You can’t keep a baby in this icebox. She’ll die up here!”

“Now, now, don’t shout so!” It was another voice, soothing but stem, speaking as an adult might speak to a difficult child.

“Stay here, Duke,” Grant said. He stared at Hank, then turned and started up the stairs, his thick legs driving like pistons beneath his heavy, powerful body.

Duke closed the door behind him and looked at his brother with a lazy little smile. “You can always trust dames to provide some fireworks,” he said. “Don’t worry though, it doesn’t sound serious.”

“It doesn’t sound exactly cheerful,” Hank said. He heard Grant’s voice then, sharp and angry, and above it the note of desperation in the girl’s protest.

“Family squabbles usually sound like four-alarm fires,” Duke said. Leaning against the door he seemed completely at ease; he was like a fighter facing an opponent he had no reason to take seriously. “Just forget it, kid,” he said.

“Who’s the girl?” Hank said. “And who’s the baby she’s worried about?”

Duke glanced toward the sound of the argument upstairs, and then sighed and shrugged — gestures that suggested good-natured capitulation. “I guess you got a right to know,” he said. “It’s your house. The girl is Grant’s daughter. And the baby belongs to her. It’s a real cute little baby. But Grant’s daughter just doesn’t happen to have any real cute little husband.” Duke smiled whimsically. “You know how it is. People make mistakes.”

An ominous little chill went through Hank as he realized that Duke was lying to him. “That’s a shame,” he said casually. The instinct for survival had made him an authority on his brother’s poses; Duke’s shifting and deceptive masks had been an anxious preoccupation of his for years. And now he knew that Duke was lying. The lazy smile, the air of worldly compassion — they were both false. Underneath that indolent façade Duke’s muscles were tightening for trouble.

“It’s a shame, all right,” Duke said, sighing heavily. “And it’s a load on Grant. That’s why he acts so damn jumpy. Maybe you noticed it. His daughter is a hot-tempered kid, and they aren’t hitting it off so well. He was hoping they could patch things up if they had a little peace and quiet.”

“This is the place for it,” Hank said. Would they let him go? he wondered. Would they risk it?

The argument above them reached a climax. Grant shouted something, a door slammed with a crash and the echo of the two sounds trembled through the house, fading slowly into silence.

Duke sighed and took out his cigarettes. “Old Eddie’s got his troubles,” he said. “We were in our share of scrapes, but we never handed the old man that particular kind of headache. Eh, kid?” He smiled and offered the cigarettes to Hank. “Want one of these?”

“Thanks.” Hank accepted a cigarette and tapped it against the back of his hand, playing along with Duke’s mood of casual indifference. But he knew that Duke was watching him closely; over the flame of the match his brother’s eyes were sharp with speculation.

Would they let him go now? Hank wondered, as he heard Grant coming down the stairs. A little earlier they had been eager to get rid of him. But there was something wrong here. And they might wonder what he thought, what he suspected...

“Well, I’ve got to be on my way,” he said, as Grant stepped into the room. Turning, he strolled over to the chair where he had left his jacket. He didn’t want to look at either of them just now. Something in his face might give him away. While his back was turned they would make their decision about him...

“It was fine seeing you again, Duke,” he said, picking up his jacket. “And you, too, Eddie. I’m just sorry I couldn’t stay longer.”

“Sure, kid,” Duke said. “Let’s don’t put off the next reunion quite so long, eh?”

“Of course not,” Hank said. He laughed. “Eight more years and we’ll be old men.”

They were settling the issue now, with a glance, a gesture...

Hank turned slowly, frowning at his wrist watch. This was the appropriate gesture for the charade he was acting out — concern over time. “I’ll have to hurry,” he said, glancing up at Grant.

And then he saw they didn’t intend to let him go.

Grant was standing six feet from him, big hands hanging limply at his sides. There was no expression at all in his broad, strangely old face; even his eyes were blank and unrevealing. Duke stood with his elbow resting on the mantel, his teeth flashing in a smile against his healthy brown skin.