The Seven File

Fourteen

Crowley came on his second lead shortly after his talk with Ellie Bradley. Since then he had been working in the study, fingerprinting every surface the telephone repairman night conceivably have touched; the phone itself yielded nothing, but he was hoping for prints in a less obvious place — around the window or desk perhaps, areas that weren’t dusted and handled every day.

He found a single print on a small black metal box attached to the floorboard behind the desk. The box contained the bell and telephone coil, he knew, an arrangement which was peculiar to older buildings. Crowley opened his fingerprint kit and removed a silver powder, white lifting tape, a brush and scissors. Then he went to work.

When he finally straightened up and turned he saw that Mrs. Jarrod was watching him from the doorway. “I didn’t want to disturb you,” she said, with her stiff, old-fashioned dignity. She was a woman, Crowley guessed, who had little tolerance for scatterbrains and idlers; she was direct and revelant, and she knew the difference between fact and guesswork. She wasn’t here out of curioosity, he was sure of that.

“I’ve been trying all morning to remember something else Kitty told me,” she said.

“Yes? What is it?”

“I–I can’t remember,” she said, and her plump cheeks became pink with annoyance. “I can’t quite get hold of it.”

“Well, that happens to all of us,” Crowley said easily. He lit a cigarette and sat down on the edge of the desk. “And the harder you try, the blanker your mind gets.”

“That’s it exactly.”

Crowley began replacing the fingerprint equipment, making each movement deliberate and casual. If he could get her mind onto something else the information she wanted might pop into her head. “Have you got a scissors?” he asked her.

“Why, yes, of course.”

“I don’t need it now. Later perhaps. Mine seems kind of dull.”

“You use a scissors in taking fingerprints?”

“Yes, to cut the lifting tape. First we powder the prints, then photograph them, then lift them with this tape which, as you can see, is about like the kind you use to repair an automobile tire. Then we put a cellophane cap over the tape to prevent smudging. And that’s it.”

“It’s complicated, isn’t it?”

“Just routine, that’s all.”

Mrs. Jarrod was frowning. “It was something about a nickname. There, I’ve got that much. The man told Kitty something about this nickname.”

“Good. That’s a start.”

“But I can’t remember what it was.”

“Let’s see now. Nicknames usually fall into categories, don’t they? How about physical characteristics? Fatty or Fatso, Slim, Tiny, Baldy, Blackie—” Crowley was speaking quietly and slowly. “Or Lefty perhaps. Then there’s Pudge, Specs, Four-eyes—”

“No, it’s nothing like that.”

Crowley took a pull on his cigarette. “We’ll hit it, don’t worry. Was it unflattering? You know, like Gimpy or Creep or Humpy?”

But Mrs. Jarrod was shaking her head. “It’s just the opposite.”

“You mean flattering? Like Handsome or Big Boy or — let’s see — Romeo?”

“It’s not flattering. It’s — special. I thought when Kitty told me about it that it was pretty high-and-mighty for a j repairman.”

“High and mighty, eh?” Crowley frowned and took another deliberate pull on his cigarette. They were close; he could feel it. But he didn’t want to stampede her thoughts. “How about Champ then? Or Ace?”

“That’s it, that’s it. Ace!” Mrs. Jarrod suddenly shook her head irritably. “No, that’s not it. But it’s closer than anything else you’ve said.”

“Ace? How about cards? Ace, King, Queen. Jack — any of those fit?”

“No, no, no.”

“Just relax, we’ll get it.” Crowley was smiling easily, but he felt like shaking her. “Let’s work on the cards a little more. Joker or Thirty Days — that’s poker slang for three tens. How about Full House, Royal Flush, Deuce—”

“Deuce, deuce! That’s it,” she cried in a high, excited voice. “That’s it exactly.”

“Deuce? You’re sure.”

“No—” She gave a little moan. “It’s not Deuce. But that’s close, so close — Duke! It was Duke! I’m certain of it. His father nicknamed him Duke. He told Kitty that.”

Crowley glanced down at the black metal box from which he had lifted the single fingerprint. “Duke,” he said softly.

“It was silly of me to forget it,” Mrs. Jarrod said.

“You did fine,” Crowley said, reaching for the mike to flash Inspector West...

Shortly after eleven o’clock that same morning a florist’s station wagon pulled up and stopped in front of St. John’s Church on Thirty-second Street. A man wearing a visored cap and a smart green twill uniform climbed out, checked through a sheaf of bills, then took two long boxes from the rear of the car and walked briskly into the vestibule of the church. He returned in less than thirty seconds, hopped into the car and drove off. It was a commonplace occurrence, a millionth part of the city’s daily logistical problem; flowers for a baptism or wedding, a floral piece for the altar — the most alert observer could hardly suspect anything else.

The flower boxes had been placed on a table in the baptistery, and standing beside them now (and trying not to stare at them) was the church’s pastor, a tall, middle-aged man with strong features and deep, thoughtful eyes. He checked his wrist watch every few seconds, and occasionally cleared his throat and patted his forehead with a handkerchief. The baptistery door opened a few minutes later, and a young man in a business suit came in and smiled at the priest.

“My name is Nelson, Father.”

“Yes — I was expecting you. Your office called.”

The young man showed him an identification card with his picture on it, and the priest studied the photograph carefully. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said at last. “Is there anything else I can do? Any way I can be of help?”

“No, everything is all set.” The agent was a generation younger than the priest, and possibly many generations less wise, but he had a veteran’s confidence about him that put the older man at ease.

“The stairs are just there,” the priest said, nodding at a closed door. “I’ll see that no one else goes up.”

“Perfect.” The young man raised the lid of one of the flower-boxes and checked the equipment inside: his alert eyes moved over the reels of film, the camera, the foot-long telescopic lenses... “I’ll get busy then,” he said. “Thanks again. Father.”

Shortly after this an old but rakish convertible pulled up before the brownstone building where Crowley’s uncle lived. The driver, a tanned, crewcut young man in slacks, grinned at two small boys who were staring at his car. “She’ll do sixty-five in second,” he said.

“Yeah?” The boys sounded skeptical.

“Yeah. It’s got a special carburetor and a high compression head.”

Still grinning at them, he lifted a bag of golf bags from the back seat, and then went around to the trunk and removed two tennis rackets and a sagging leather suitcase. His manner was brisk and cheerful: he was whistling as he locked the car, apparently a healthy young animal with nothing on his mind but the latest popular songs and the price of tennis balls.

“You fix up your car yourself?” one of the boys asked him.

“Sure. That’s the only way to be sure of what’s under the hood. Take it easy.”

As he trotted up the steps the two boys stared after him, not speaking, hardly breathing, caught in the sudden intense thrall of hero-worship.

Inside the house the young man showed Crowley’s uncle his identification card, and then said, “I’ll go up and get things ready now.”

“Can I help you with your grip?”

“No. I can manage. Thanks anyway...”

Crowley was frowning at his watch, following the steady inevitable sweep of the second hand with his eyes. He stood facing the windows in the Bradleys’ living room, and he held the Venetian blind cords in his right hand.

“How much longer?” Dick Bradley said.

“Two more minutes.”

Bradley lit a cigarette quickly, his movements a little flurry of nerves and tension. “They’ll be outside, that’s what I can’t take,” he said. “They’ll come right to the house and look to see if the blinds are closed. And we sit here and can’t do one damn thing about it.”

“We’ve just got to sit tight,” Crowley said. He knew the cameras were turning by now, covering the Bradleys’ house, and the sidewalks and doorways and windows on both sides of the street. There were dozens of agents scattered through the neighborhood, in trucks and cabs, strolling through the block on carefully arranged time schedules. It was highly unlikely that any known criminal could walk through the area without being spotted. They wouldn’t be picked up, of course, but they’d be put under close, thorough surveillance.

“How much longer must we wait?” Ellie Bradley said. She sat on the edge of the sofa with her arms crossed over her breasts.

“One minute more,” Crowley said, looking at her. She had come down only a few minutes before, and so far had said very little to her husband. They were a million miles apart, Crowley thought. This crisis had marked the enormous gulf between their temperaments and backgrounds. They had drifted along without realizing this, lulled into a facsimile of unity by the variety of casual interests they shared; under ordinary circumstances the fact that they hardly knew each other might never have disturbed their placid and privileged existence. But now they were strangers; the pressure of the past day and night had driven them apart.

He felt sorry for them. It would help if they could help one another, but they had nothing to give, nothing to receive.

Ellie was looking at her husband, who was pacing up and down before the fireplace. She was very pale, and the strain and fear in her face was pitifully evident. “You took your father to a hotel?” she asked him.

“Yes, yes — it seemed better.”

“How is he feeling?”

Dick Bradley said a very smart thing then, probably the smartest thing he had ever said in his life. “I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t ask him.” In a guileful man it would have been a guileful remark. But he had no guile. She knew that much about him.

“Sit here beside me,” she said. “Please.”

“Yes — certainly.”

They sat close to each other and he put an arm tentatively and awkwardly about her shoulders. “It’s going to be all right, honey,” he said. “I feel sure of it.”

“You — may be right.” She was looking down at her hands. “You’ve always had lucky hunches, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have at that. But this is more than a hunch.”

Crowley glanced at his watch. “Twelve o’clock,” he said quietly, and pulled the cord that closed the blinds on the middle window. Take a good look at it, he thought with cold anger. Look hard. And maybe we’ll be looking at you...

Standing behind his heavily curtained windows, Creasy had been watching for the sign from the Bradleys since ten o’clock that morning. He had enjoyed the vigil; it was strangely exciting to watch the house, and speculate on the anguish growing behind those handsome walls. There was the street to study also; he didn’t let pleasure distract him from duty. His small, glinting eyes were alert for strange faces, suspicious behavior, out-of-the-ordinary circumstances. He watched each car and truck that stopped within his range of vision, scanned all passengers stepping out of taxis, every person strolling along the sidewalks. He had a flair for the police; they couldn’t hide from him.

But in two hours he saw nothing to arouse his suspicions. The life of the block rolled casually past him, reassuringly routine and familiar to his searching eyes.

The signal came exactly at twelve o’clock, and when Creasy saw this evidence of capitulation a strange excitement shook his frail body; this was a climax too exquisite to squander in a greedy burst — this must be prolonged and savored.

For several minutes he stared at the closed blind, a soft smile brightening his small, gray face. Their knees were hinged, oh yes, he thought. Quick to bend. All they needed was practice. He laughed quietly. It was all a matter of leverage and purchase. Once you turned the screws they went down as nicely as you please, whining like any poor mortal.

How were they taking it? he wondered. The lady with her haughty beauty? And him? What good were his clubs and schools and money now?

Creasy’s smile faded slowly. The money would buy back the baby, of course, and with that realization came a sharp flick of disappointment. Yes, their money would help — they always had that advantage. They could buy what they wanted; a car, a yacht, the safe return of their child — it was always so easy for them. A curious premonition of defeat grew in him; they would have an anxious day or two at the most, and then it would be over. The baby would be safely home again, and they would go on as before, pampered and protected, snapping their fingers for service, knowing their whims to be laws...

Perhaps they hadn’t even been worried about the child’s safety. Why should they be? They knew the power of their money; this conviction would temper their anxiety and allay their fears.

It was infuriating. Creasy turned petulantly from the window and pulled the short cigarette stub from his lips. Then he grimaced with pain; the paper had become stuck and a sliver of his dry skin came off with the stub. He looked about his dark, close-smelling little room, feeling restless and irritable. His lunch was on his bedside table, an egg salad sandwich and a container of coffee. He sat down to eat, taking what pleasure he could in the greasy food, the cold coffee that tasted nauseatingly of the cardboard carton. The cut on his lip stung painfully and his mood became despondent.

He glanced around his room, a frown gathering over his eyes. Normally he was happy enough here; he liked this gloomy little box, it was quiet and warm and safe. But now it depressed him. Even his photographs and genealogical charts — the latter was more an obsession than a hobby — even looking at them failed to restore his good humor.

The pictures adorned the wall at the foot of his bed, dozens of faded and cracked photographs of once-famous movie stars. Most of them were now dead or forgotten. They watched Creasy with the expressions and smiles fashionable in their generation: the women were stark and pale for the most part, with low bangs and dramatically widened eyes; the masculine accent was on the suave and mysterious, the cynically raised eyebrows and patent-leather hair. Creasy hated them all. They had been young when he was young, but they had been famous and beautiful and happy. This was his revenge, to pin them helplessly to his walls and speculate on what they must look like today — if they were still alive. In a sense he won a victory over them every night. He lay in bed, reconstructing their faces, mentally drawing in the marks of age, the white or thinning hair, the sagging jowls, the squints, the lines of worry and fear, the gums and sunken cheeks.

This was his hobby — but genealogy was his passion. He had been collecting family trees for years; against the wall three steel filing cases held the results of this mania.

Creasy read the society pages from the Boston, New York and Philadelphia papers avidly, making careful notes of births and marriages, of who went where and who was doing what in the world of fashionable people. Then, like an excited ferret, he scrambled after those names in his files, tracking them through labyrinthine breedings and connections, to their original source, sniffing out frauds and phonies, the nouveau rich, the pretenders and climbers. Most of them were common as dirt, he had found out; it didn’t matter to him whether the blot was one generation removed or thirty — bad blood was bad blood and time wouldn’t purify it. He had made a careful study of the Bradleys, of course, and had discovered (as he had expected) that the tree was full of bad fruit.

He was thinking of this as he stood up from his lunch. Blackguards and rogues... and the latest issue from that rotten trunk put on such airs. He and his lady! They might have paid some of their debt. In cleansing fear and pain. But no, not even that. They simply paid the ransom — as they would pay a light bill — and back came the baby.

Creasy moved to the window. Yes, their blind was still down. It didn’t seem to matter. Rain was falling, he saw, and this increased his annoyance. He hated wetness of any kind. But he must go out to phone Grant.

Creasy put on rubbers, then wound a scarf around his neck and got into his raincoat. Taking his umbrella and gloves, he left his room. When he stepped outside he shivered involuntarily at the impact of the cold wet wind. He put up his umbrella and picked his way down the steps like a cat, avoiding the shallow puddles and flinching at the feel of the damp iron railing against his hand. There would be no point in trying to find a cab; he had resigned himself to walking.

But as he reached the foot of the stairs a small city miracle occurred; a cab stopped directly in front of him to let out a fare. Creasy called to the driver in a high, excited voice, and bobbed his umbrella up and down to catch his eye. The cabby glanced at him and nodded, as his passenger, a big man in a tweed topcoat, climbed out of the taxi. The big man grinned as he walked by Creasy. “She’s all yours. Luck, eh?”

“Yes,” Creasy said.

The rear door of the cab was open, the interior was a warm, dry haven awaiting him — but he hesitated, glancing uneasily after the man in the tweed coat.

The driver said patiently, “Let’s go, mister.”

“Yes,” Creasy said, stepping carefully down from the curb. The passenger had gone into an interior decorator’s shop next door. Quite normal...

But suddenly Creasy felt a small warning chill go through him. This cab — so opportune, so unexpected — was that coincidence? He hesitated again, staring at the casual, everyday look of the street. His eyes strayed across the brown bulk of the church, moved up to its steeple and then switched to the second-story windows on the opposite side of the block.

“All right, all right,” the driver said. “I got a living to make, Mac.”

“Never mind,” Creasy said curtly.

The driver reached back and closed the door of his cab with a crash. “Just so I know,” he muttered, and drove off with a roar of power.

Why take a chance? Creasy thought, as he walked with mincing haste toward the comer. You never lost if you never gambled... perhaps he was being overly cautious, but he didn’t think so. The arrival of the cab might have been simple good fortune, but he knew it paid to look carefully at the unusual, the unexpected, the seemingly lucky break. That was how they caught you. Enough rope...

Creasy walked to the intersection of Third Avenue where, after a reassuring wait of several minutes he succeeded in hailing another cab. The driver had turned into Thirty-first Street before catching his signal, so they had to go around the block — but Creasy knew the extra twenty cents was a small price to pay for being careful.

As they passed the Bradleys’ he glanced out at the closed blind, and then settled himself comfortably and lit a cigarette.