The Seven File

Twenty

Creasy collected the ransom money early Wednesday morning on a deserted stretch of Highway One, just south of Oxford, Pennsylvania. There was no difficulty, no confusion, no possibility of surveillance, Creasy was certain; the highway was dark and empty for miles in either direction when he came up behind Bradley’s slowly moving convertible, and sounded his horn three times. Bradley stopped obediently, and within sixty seconds Creasy was on his way back to New York with the suitcase full of money in the rear of the car.

Grant’s plan had been brilliantly ingenious, he thought, as he drove through the darkness; maximum simplicity, minimum risk. Creasy had been free to choose the time and place for the contact; Bradley’s car, traveling at a constant thirty miles per hour, had been absurdly easy to keep under safe observation. Creasy had passed it several times, then pulled up at a gas station or diner to let Bradley resume the lead. If anything had seemed suspicious he would simply have turned off the highway and gone back to New York. But everything was exactly as Grant said it would be; there was little traffic, chiefly interstate buses and trucks traveling slightly over the legal speed limit. And there were dozens of deserted stretches along the road where contact would have been safe and easy — and all those areas had been carefully checked by Grant weeks before. Yes, it had been simple... Even the business about the transmitter had gone smoothly. Grant had been afraid that Bradley — or the police — might have installed a radio transmitter in the convertible to flash a signal when Creasy made the contact. To circumvent this, Creasy (on Grant’s instructions) had turned his car radio on as he drew up behind the convertible. Grant had warned him to listen closely for signs of static or interruptions then — evidence that a transmitter was operating in Bradley’s car. But there had been no suspicious interference or noises, only one or two normal little cracklings. Not two, one, Creasy remembered. The reception had been quite perfect.

Then he had honked three times. And a minute later was in possession of two hundred thousand dollars. He had opened the suitcase to make sure — that had taken fifteen seconds at the most — and then he had turned around and started for the New Jersey Turnpike, heading for New York.

When Creasy reached the outskirts of Wilmington, Delaware, he turned off the highway into a dark residential area, and parked in a block of arching trees and handsomely landscaped homes. Only a few cars and buses had passed him since he had picked up the money, but he decided to wait here in the darkness and make absolutely certain he wasn’t being followed... No precaution was ever pointless.

Creasy took a road map from the glove compartment. If a police car happened to stop, he would have his story... “I seem to have gotten turned around, officer. Could you tell me the best route to the Memorial Bridge? Ah, yes. Silly of me. Thanks so much...”

Creasy lit a cigarette, and then settled back and smiled at the dim reflection of his glasses in his windshield. Grant had been so worried — giving him instructions as if he were lecturing a backward child. So meticulous, so exasperatingly repetitious. Grant seemed unable to believe that Creasy could actually drive a car. But Creasy was an excellent driver, having been in service as a chauffeur for a number of years. In Old Westbury, he thought, remembering the quiet, winding roads and gardens, its air of spaciousness so incongruous with the proximity of New York. There was regal privilege, he thought — to have nine-hole golf courses on land that was worth ten or twenty dollars a square yard. An elegant life, oh yes, with indoor tennis courts for the winter months, heated pools and polo fields and endless chatter about horses and games and schools, and how well old Mrs. So-and-So would cut up for the lucky survivors. He had worked for the Winthrops. Not the good branch, not the direct line — but second cousins. Nobodies, actually. He had traced them thoroughly. And how superior and disagreeable they had been! The daughter... He remembered her so well. Haughty little bitch. Lying on her back in white shorts, toasting her slim brown body in the sun. Cool drink at her side... Now she had a son, he remembered. Michael Desmond. The christening party had taken up quite a bit of space in the society pages. Little Michael was about a year old now...

Creasy was puzzled by the direction of his thoughts, and by the splintered, irrelevant anger that was growing in his breast, spreading pleasurably through his body. The Winthrops, yes, indeed. They needed a comeuppance. Doting on their first grandchild. So many people needed a lesson. And it was so easy.

With a start he glanced at his watch. He must be on his way. There would be time for all this later. But time for what? His thoughts were strangely confused. Only the sustaining sense of anger churned clearly and satisfyingly in his mind. With a vicious thrust of his small foot he tramped down on the starter...

The radio on Inspector West’s desk cracked through a tense silence, and Roth sat up quickly and leaned toward the speaker, his face hard with strain and fatigue.

A voice said, “Davis, Philadelphia office. Subject crossed the Memorial Bridge a few minutes ago, on the approach to the New Jersey Turnpike.”

“Okay,” Roth said.

“I’m turning off now.”

“Good work, Davis.”

Roth glanced up at West who was sitting on the edge of the desk with an unlighted cigarette in his mouth. The days of strain had drawn lines of exhaustion in his lean, youthful face, but his eyes were hard and bright as marbles.

“Looks like he’s coming back to New York,” Roth said.

West nodded slowly, and glanced at the clock.

The radio sounded again, and a voice said, “This is Brandell, Philadelphia. Subject is on the Turnpike. I’m going to pull ahead of him. He’s doing forty-five. I’ll check off in ten or twelve miles.”

“Right, Brandell,” Roth said.

West stood up, glancing at the clock again; it drew his eyes like a magnet. It was three o’clock Wednesday morning. Time was working against them now; each minute that passed lengthened the odds against the baby. The ransom had been paid, the kidnapers had their money. Now the baby became dangerous and incriminating excess baggage. A nuisance... Why risk taking her home? That would be the question they’d put to themselves. And West knew how they would answer it...

The FBI had covered the payoff for that reason — hoping that the pickup car would lead them to the baby. More than a hundred cars, trucks, cabs and station wagons had participated in the coverage — even a few motorcycles. Creasy had been followed leaving Kennett Square, Pennsylvania by a relay of cars, working on a split-second schedule. Bradley’s convertible had been equipped with a radio transmitter and camera by agents from the Philadelphia office. When Creasy had pulled up behind him Bradley had touched a foot pedal — and the camera had recorded Creasy’s license plates, and the transmitter had thrown one signal to the cordon of agents who were patrolling the secondary roads that ran parallel to Highway One.

It was an intricate maneuver, demanding perfect timing and synchronization from the dozens of agents participating in the surveillance. And it had been brought off flawlessly. Now Creasy was apparently returning to New York with the money. And time was running out...

West threw his unlit cigarette aside with an abrupt, angry gesture. He stared at the two blown-up photographs on his desk: Duke Farrel and Howard Creasy. Where in the name of God was Farrel?

A half-dozen agents sat at the desks surrounding West’s long table. They were waiting for phones to ring, teletype keys or radio signals to break the silence; the nets had been cast wide — to Chicago, Madison and Detroit, south to Mobile, as far west as Colorado, to any place where there might be a lead on the Farrel brothers.

An agent had talked to the younger brother’s commanding officer, a retired colonel living in Red Bank, New Jersey. Another had spent three hours at Joliet Penitentiary, talking with the warden and trustees who had known Duke Farrel.

They had the two brothers in sharp relief now; army service, prison record, credit ratings, hobbies, tastes in food, clothing, women — that had all gone into the file. They didn’t have much on Creasy, but a file was growing on one Edwin David Grant, a seasoned Chicago hoodlum who had been an intimate of Duke Farrel’s in prison. They had been around Chicago for a while after being released from jail, and had gone on together to Detroit, and later to Denver. There the trail ended, there was nothing to indicate that Grant was with Farrel now...

Roth said, “I’ll be surprised if the younger brother is in on it.”

“You can’t tell,” West said.

Roth picked up a card from the desk. “He doesn’t fit. Two decorations, damn fine record, and you know what his CO thinks of him — it just doesn’t fit.”

“We’ll see.”

They knew that Henry Farrel lived and worked in Portland, Maine, as a junior partner in a real estate office. Agents had checked his apartment, but found it empty; he was away on a fishing trip in Canada, but his secretary didn’t know just where.

“It could fit,” West said. “Maybe the Farrel brothers met in Canada.”

“Sure,” Roth said, dropping the card back on the table. “I’ll be surprised though.”

There was nothing to do but wait. Everyone in the room looked up when the radio broke the silence with a periodic report on Creasy’s approach to New York. And occasionally, with almost furtive glances, they watched the relentless sweep of the second hand around the face of the clock.

At three-thirty the phone on West’s desk rang. He picked up the receiver and said, “Yes?” in his sharp official voice. Then: “Yes — certainly I’ve got time. What is it?” His voice was almost gentle then; the crisp official note was gone. Roth glanced up as he said, “Well, that’s fine news, absolutely great. I’ll get word to him... yes, of course. He’ll be — well, he’ll be just as happy as you are.”

West put the phone down and said to Roth, “There’s one break. That’s Crowley’s wife.”

“The baby’s okay?”

“Not okay. It’s polio, but a mild case, she says. The doctors feel sure the child is in no real danger.”

“How about the after-effects?”

“She just said the baby’s going to live. She’s taking the bridges one at a time.” He put another cigarette in his mouth. “Give Crowley a flash. He’s standing by...”

It was four o’clock when the direct phone to Chicago began to ring. An agent lifted the receiver, then glanced at West. “For you, sir. Agent-in-charge, Chicago office.”

West took the receiver and said, “Yes?”

“Jim Keely, Tom. We’ve got another line on Duke Farrel. I can’t vouch for it. It’s third-hand. But you can run it down. One of our sources here just phoned me. He came across a bookmaker who had a letter from Duke Farrel. He was in New York then, staying at either the Wells Hotel or the Bell Hotel — the bookie wasn’t sure.”

“When was this?”

“About a month ago. Farrel was in to the book for a couple of hundred bucks, and they were after their money. He wrote that he’d be in Chicago in six weeks and straighten it out then. That’s all we’ve got.”

“It may help,” West said. “Thanks, Jim.”

When he put down the phone Roth stood and said, “What is it?” The other agents had come to their feet, too, and were watching him with alert eyes.

“The Wells Hotel, or the Bell Hotel,” West said. “Farrel was at one of those places a month ago. Do you know them?”

“I know the Wells,” Roth said. “On Forty-seventh Street between Fifth and Sixth. It’s a trap. Vags, hustlers, horse players, that sort of thing.”

“The Bell is up in Harlem,” another agent said. “It’s run by some kind of a mission. You’ve got to be a member of the church to stay there.”

“The Wells sounds right,” West said. “We’ll try it first.”

“What do we do?” Roth said. He had already put on his coat; he was tense, ready to go, his big face hard and mad. “Take it apart brick by brick? Give the clients a memory lesson?”

“Farrel might have friends there,” West said.

“I’ll bet he does. And I’ll bet they know where he is.”

“We can’t go in with sirens,” West said.

“Someone in that hotel may have a lead for us,” Roth said, and unconsciously his eye shifted to the clock. “I’d like to bust it loose. While there’s time.”

“Yes, and someone there might be on the phone to Farrel ten minutes later,” West said. “The bellhop, the night desk clerk, elevator man — any one of them might be in on this deal.”

“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...