The Seven File

One

At ten-thirty in the morning a big man in a black leather jacket turned off Second Avenue into Thirty-first Street. He stopped for a moment to check the number on a building, then continued down the block, limping slightly, favoring his left leg.

The day was bright with early spring sunlight. Children played along the sidewalks, piercing the iron sound of traffic with laughter, and here and there old men sat out on fire escapes, soaking up the soft, thin sun.

The man in the leather jacket kept his eyes on the numbers as he limped past a tailor shop, a cigar store and several old tenements which had recently been converted into smart and functional town houses. The area was in a state of inevitable transition; drab old shops were giving way to florists and interior decorators; and families that had lived here for half a century were being displaced by people who had the taste and means to turn these stately relics into chic, in-town homes. There were children in the block who had grown up like a fungus on the city’s sidewalks; there were others who went to school in taxis, who spent their week ends in the country, and who never went outside unless accompanied by maids or nurses.

The limping man stopped halfway down the block and looked up at a tall building which had been lavishly restored to respectability. He smiled then, admiring the freshly painted trim, the tuck pointers’ handsome effects and the elegantly massive door, with its antique knocker and heavy brass numerals.

The man’s name was Duke Farrel. Smiling now, with the sun brightening his dark bold features, he seemed strikingly handsome. Good humor dissolved the suggestion of coarseness in his face; the wariness in his eyes, and the sullen heaviness about his mouth were less evident when he was smiling. And he smiled much of the time. He was in his late thirties but looked ten years younger than that; his shoulders were wide and powerful, his waist was trim as an athlete’s and his smile was charged with youthful humor and confidence. Except for the limp, which he could accentuate or minimize as he chose, he might have been taken for a lifeguard or a professional football player, a man used to exercise and sun, who lived simply and cleanly, enjoying good plain food and plenty of rest.

Now he started up the stone stairs, one hand on the black, wrought-iron railing, and moving in spite of his limp with an air of businesslike efficiency. He lifted the heavy brass knocker and chimes sounded faintly within the house. Smiling, he listened to their echoes trembling away into silence. He was still smiling when the door was opened by a slender, dark-haired girl in a nurse’s uniform.

“Telephone company,” he said, touching the peak of his cap in a casual salute. His jacket was open and the nurse saw the leather tool pouch that was attached to his belt. The head of a small hammer glinted sharply in the sunlight. “Any trouble on your line this morning?” he said.

“There’ve been no incoming calls,” she said. “And I’ve had no occasion to use the phone myself.” Her accent was Irish, faint but unmistakable.

“Lucky you didn’t.” He smiled easily at her, making her a participant in the little joke. “There’s some trouble with the wiring along the block. It might be here. I’d better take a look.”

She hesitated an instant, and he understood why. Be very careful about letting strangers in. Make sure they have proper identification. This is New York, my dear, and you must remember... She’d undoubtedly received some such injunction from her mistress. Frowning, he looked at his watch. “There’s more than one phone here, I guess,” he said.

His manner disarmed her; he seemed completely business like, anxious to get on with his work. “Yes, there are phones on the first and second floor,” she said. “Come in. please But be as quiet as possible, won’t you? The baby is asleep.”

“I’ve got kids of my own,” he said, with a reassuring smile. “I’m an expert at tiptoeing around the house. What is it, boy or girl?”

“A girl, just a year old.”

Duke Farrel shook his head, still smiling. “They’re really terrific at that age.”

“Yes, aren’t they?” She was smiling back at him now, completely won over.

It was always so easy, Duke Farrel thought, as he stepped into the foyer and waited for her to close the door. People simply didn’t believe in evil. It was a staggering fact. They read the papers presumably, they had a front-row view of the world’s meanness and viciousness, but they still reached for their wallets when someone whined. “Look, I ain’t had a bite since—,” or they took strangers in, picked up hitchhikers, went to the aid of vagrants and derelicts, behaving in short as if human beings were worthy of love and trust.

“The phone is in the study,” she said, walking ahead of him into the living room.

It was all very choice, Duke thought, glancing around with alert, appraising eyes. The original flooring had been restored and the old wood glowed softly and warmly. Fresh flowers and vivid paintings stood out in bold contrast against the charcoal-gray drapes and wallpaper. A group of three low chairs was arranged before the fireplace, and lavishly ornate candelabra stood at either end of the marble mantel piece. It was a charming room, done with loving, experienced care.

This would be Mrs. Bradley’s triumph, Duke knew Fashion was her business. He could imagine her planning these effects, chic and slender, laughing as an idea struck her. “Let’s try a pickup of honest-to-goodness red right here!” And her husband, crewcut and healthy, the product of Boston’s best studs. “It’s fine with me, honey. You do what pleases you.”

The telephone was in a small study which had been decorated solidly and conventionally — a concession, Duke guessed to Boston and background. Green leather chairs, book-lined walls, hunting prints — a man’s room, yes indeed. That would be the lair of Bradley the broker. “A man needs a place to relax in, dear.” And she’d humor him, of course. Because he was handsome, gentlemanly and very, very wealthy. And they were in love, too. Mustn’t forget that. Duke didn’t know the Bradleys personally, and he didn’t want to. But he had become something of an authority on their tastes and habits.

For several minutes he went through the motions of checking the telephone, paying no attention to the nurse who watched him from the doorway.

“Well, this looks okay,” he said, replacing the plate on a black metal box that was attached to the floorboard. “I’ll check the wiring down here, and then the upstairs phone. I can find my way around, I think.”

“As long as Jill is asleep I don’t have anything very urgent to do.”

“Jill? That’s cute.” He glanced at her, his smile casual and friendly. “You’re Irish, eh?”

“Yes.”

A bit cool, he wondered? Not mixing with the maintenance staff? Or was it just shyness? “My father was Irish,” he said. “He always called me Duke because he used to work for one in Belfast.” Duke shook his head. “He was a great old boy, but he never got used to America. Always said it was too big for one little Irishman.”

Most of this was impromptu invention; but it happened to be true that his father had nicknamed him Duke. And the tag had stuck ever since. Through school, in jail...

Duke talked casually while he made a pretense of checking the wiring in the dining room and kitchen. He was an instinctively good actor because he enjoyed deception for its own sake. Now he played a sincere, obvious, salt-of-the-earth type — and played it well. She relaxed after a bit, and began to smile at his good-natured chatter. Duke also knew how to listen, and she found his impersonal but attentive manner very flattering. Without realizing, she did most of the talking. Her name was Kathleen Reilly, he learned, and she had been with the Bradleys since Jill was born. Kathleen had left Limerick when she was fifteen, emigrating to America with her father. She was twenty-three now, and had decided to go back to school at the end of the summer and complete her training as an X-ray technician. But it would be very hard to leave. Jill was such a funny, dear child...

Duke listened with a convincing show of interest, but all the while he was noting the position of doors and windows and light switches. He drew a plan of the room in his mind so that he could walk through them in the dark if necessary. Or run...

In the kitchen he opened a door that led onto a small porch. Steps went down to a garden, in which there was a playpen and sandbox.

“That’s wonderful for the kid,” he said, estimating the height of the brick wall at the back of the small yard.

“Yes, she loves it,” Kathleen said.

Duke stopped and raised his hand. “Hey, I think I hear her.”

She turned, listening, and then walked lightly and quickly down the hall to the foot of the front stairs. Duke took a key from his pocket and eased it into the lock of the kitchen door. The tumblers turned under pressure of his fingers.

“Maybe I imagined it,” he said, when she came back to the kitchen. Smiling at her, he shook his head. “When we had our first I never got a full night’s sleep. I used to keep popping in to see that he was still breathing.”

She laughed and said, “I know how that is.”

She was quite a dish, he thought, looking at her with more interest. A very nice bundle, but not for him. She had long, silky black hair, dark blue eyes and a complexion that was white and soft as doeskin. In the immaculate white uniform her body was excitingly virginal, lovely and trim and vulnerable. She was obviously one of the world’s innocents, he thought. But worth cultivating in spite of that. Or because of it, rather. It would be fun to take off her rose-colored glasses and let her take a good look at what the world was like. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not with him anyway. He felt a little stab of envy for the man who would be in charge of that stage of her education.

“The nursery is at the head of the stairs,” she said, leading him along the hallway. “The phone is just beside it, in Mr. and Mrs. Bradley’s room.”

Duke let her move ahead of him on the stairs so that he could enjoy the view of her ankles. And it was quite a view, he thought. Even in low-heeled shoes and white nylons her legs were slim and beautiful. There were few girls who could do as well in sheer stockings and high heels. This was talent. She stopped at the landing and looked back at him. “I’m sorry,” she said, with a quick compassion in her voice. “I didn’t mean to rush you.”

It was difficult not to laugh; he could have taken these stairs in three strides. “I can get around as well as the next guy,” he said sharply. This went right through them, he knew. Proud, hating pity — it melted them down like butter.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, helplessly.

He put her at ease with a smile. “The guy who nicked me is even sorrier.”

“Was it the war?”

“Germany, a long time ago.” Still smiling, he said, “And now I’m more interested in what’s wrong with your boss’s phone. What’s over is over. That’s the nursery, eh?” he said, nodding at a door that stood a few inches ajar.

“Yes.”

Duke stared at the creamy white paneling, the shiny brass knob and hinges. Little Jill was sleeping in there — little Jill, the granddaughter of Oliphant Bradley, whose name was synonymous with directorates, banking firms, brokerage office and money — mustn’t forget plain, vulgar old money. Jill was a million-dollar baby without a doubt. Duke felt excitement stirring in him. The next time he stood here the house would be dark and silent...

“The phone is in the bedroom,” she said quietly.

“Sure,” he said, wondering if she had attached anything to his interest in the nursery.

The Bradleys were living it up, Duke thought, as he entered their bedroom. Housekeeper (off today, as he well knew), nurse, cute little baby, cute big house, money in the bank — living it up, yes indeed. There was a fireplace opposite the bed, and wall-to-wall carpeting that felt a foot thick under his heavy shoes.

The décor of the room was pink and black — humorously erotic, sex with a broad smile, modern and uninhibited. Real cute kids, he thought. This was information he could do without.

While he checked the phone and wiring Kathleen contributed a few more bits about the Bradleys. None of it struck him as essential or significant. They were delightful people, wonderful to everyone.

“Democratic, eh?” he said.

She felt the edge to his voice. “It’s not something they put on,” she said.

“Sure,” Duke said. He studied her with a crooked little smile. “You know something? You were smart to come to America.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because people in America like beautiful things.”

“And people in other countries don’t?”

“We put a higher price on them,” he said. “You’ll find that out.”

“Well, thanks for the warning,” she said lightly; but his words had brought a flush of color to her cheeks. She was aware of the hard and speculative interest in his eyes.

Duke knew he was behaving stupidly. Worse than that, dangerously. But the stillness of the house, the faint perfume of the bedroom, her innocent vulnerable beauty — they were working in him like whiskey on a cold day. A sensuous warmth was blunting the edge of his caution. “A girl like you could have the world for a cupcake,” he said. “You know that, I guess.”

“I haven’t thought about it,” she said evenly. She wasn’t smiling anymore. “Are you through in here?”

“Not quite,” he said, studying her with a hard, intent smile. His instincts warned him to clear out, but the call was muted and distant. He wasn’t thinking about playing it smart now. He was thinking that she had the whitest skin he had ever seen. And that his two hands would almost circle her waist.

Turning slowly, he moved between her and the door. And it was then the baby woke and began to cry. The girl stepped around him and hurried across the room. “I’m coming, honey,” she said in a cheerful, reassuring voice.

Duke let out his breath slowly and walked into the hall. His heart was pounding hard. “I’ll be leaving now,” he said, watching the half-open nursery door. He could hear the sleepy gurglings of the child.

“Did you find the trouble?” Her voice was friendly and impersonal. An act? He didn’t think so. She wasn’t that clever.

“No, it’s probably across the street on another circuit.”

“Will you let yourself out, please? I’ve got my hands full with Jill.”

“Sure thing. So long.”

Outside in the bright spring sunshine Duke took a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his damp forehead. Fool, he thought, but without anger or rancor. Risking a deal that had been in the works for three months. And for what? A pair of good-looking legs and a healthy body. A real prize, he thought. There were probably only a million girls in the city with the same qualifications for immortality. But he wasn’t really annoyed with himself. He had always taken what he wanted — ignoring circumstances and consequences — and he wasn’t likely to change now. It was the exact moment of the present that he knew and savored.

Crossing the city to his hotel, he enjoyed the warm sun on his face and the sense of excitement generated by the hurrying crowds and noisy traffic. He felt absorbed in the millions of lives that were flowing around him, pleasurably sustained by the limitless promise of the city. Luxury, women, sensation — all of it crammed for convenience into a few square blocks. And all of it for sale; the city kept its promise to the rich. He knew that much. Only to the rich...

His hotel was in the west forties, a narrow, soot-colored building that looked as if it had been squeezed into place in the block. The street itself was gaudy and illicit, with its cheap bars and strip joints, suggesting the cleverly camouflaged entrances to a huge trap. At the lobby desk Duke picked up his keys and asked the clerk if there were any messages for him.

The clerk was a plump, pink-cheeked young man with a contempt for the hotel’s trade which he didn’t bother to disguise. He knew that most of the men who stopped there were only a notch above vagrants, and he saw no earthly reason to treat them as anything else. Without looking up he shook his head in answer to Duke’s question.

“I’m expecting a wire from my brother.” Duke said gently. “From up in Maine. It’s important.”

“I’ll watch for it. Don’t worry.”

Duke hesitated a second or so, smiling at the clerk. Then he said dryly, “It’s nice of you to put yourself out. Thanks very much.”

The clerk stared after him as he limped toward the elevators. Then his lips tightened with exasperation. He knew the type. Sarcastic and boorish. If they weren’t kept in place they became impossible...

Upstairs Duke removed his work clothes and put on a gray flannel suit and a white shirt with a neat dark blue tie. Smiling at his reflection in the mirror, he poured a drink of whiskey into a plastic toothbrush glass. He liked the look of his dark, arrogant features and the hard expression in his deep-set eyes.

Then the smile left his face and he swore softly. Why hadn’t Hank answered his wire? It wasn’t like his brother to ignore him; Hank had been trained like a dog. painstakingly and thoroughly. Even after all these years he wouldn’t have forgotten his lessons. But still — he hadn’t sent word that they could use his cottage. Grant wouldn’t understand the delay. And he wouldn’t like it.

Sipping the whiskey, Duke smiled slightly. Well, to hell with Grant, he thought. He couldn’t keep his thoughts from straying back to the nurse. In fact, he didn’t try; he gave himself over to them with relish. She didn’t know much about men. Start with that. She’d be thinking about marriage and babies and a house with a little garden in back of it. But not about men. Not until she grew up some more. He began to place her in different frames; at a bar, walking among trees, fighting her way through the crowds in a subway, with men of all kinds. And he imagined her in evening gowns, in sports clothes, in filmy lingerie in a warm, scented bedroom, lying almost naked on a beach. Would she tan? He wondered, looking at his own dark hands. Probably not. But that would be okay. A pink tone would go great with her black hair and blue eyes.

Duke finished his drink, suddenly irritable and restless. It was time to call Grant. Tell him there was no word on the cottage yet...

When Duke dropped his key at the desk the clerk looked up at him, and said, “A wire came in for you about five minutes ago.” Turning, he took a telegram from the key rack and slid it across the counter toward Duke.

Duke stared at him, ignoring the yellow envelope. He had been drinking for the last hour, and his eyes were ugly and dangerous. “Why didn’t you send it up?”

“Well— I’m here alone at the moment. The bellboy is out for coffee.”

“Didn’t I tell you it was important?”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t expect...”

“I expect service,” Duke said, his voice cutting harshly across the clerk’s. “You’re here to say ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ and do exactly what you’re told. That’s why you’re paid a small salary. Trained monkeys come cheap.”

The clerk’s cheeks trembled with indignation. “There’s no cause to be abusive,” he said. “I know your type—” He paused and wet his lips, finding it suddenly very difficult to meet Duke’s eyes.

“What’s my type?” Duke said gently. “Tell me about it.”

“I merely meant—” The clerk’s voice became high and uncertain; all of his dignity dissolved in fear. “We try to be of service, sir. This won’t happen again, I assure you.”

Ignoring the apology, Duke ripped open the telegram with an abrupt angry gesture. The wire was from his brother, Hank. As he read it, a slow, secretive smile relieved the sullenness in his face. The kid hadn’t forgotten his lessons... Turning, Duke limped across the lobby toward the public phones, and the clerk stared after his broad back with wide frightened eyes.