The Seven File

Six

At five o’clock on Sunday afternoon the traffic approaching the Triborough bridge was fairly light. Three hours later every lane would be clogged with streams of cars, winding their way in from Long Island to Manhattan. It would take a full hour then to cross the bridge, and the pleasant memories of the week end would dissolve into the city-hard realities of blasting horns, exhaust fumes and irritable traffic cops.

Dick Bradley was thinking along these lines as he slowed down to pay his fare at the toll house. Ellie was probably right, after all: check out early, avoid the tedious drive back to the city. He glanced at her as they started up again under a smooth rush of power. They hadn’t spoken since leaving the Kimbles’, and she showed no evidence of recovering her normal good humor. His own irritation quickened again; her peremptory insistence on leaving had embarrassed everyone at the party. They had all known something was wrong. Frank Kimble had been fine about it, of course, tactful and casual, taking Ellie’s side against him with comic belligerence, and shooing them off with cheerful good-bys. Trust old Frank, he thought, smiling slightly.

Well, it was over and done with. And it wasn’t as if she’d made a scene — that idea deepened his smile — she had simply insisted they leave. And no one could talk her out of it.

As they swept into the wide concrete curve that led them down to the river drive, he found himself admiring the warm sun on the surface of the water, and the clean, precise tracery of the bridge against the blue sky. Sunday was the best day of the week in New York. Everything was so blessedly quiet and peaceful. In spite of Ellie’s withdrawn silence, his mood was benign and cheerful; the sun and exercise had been a magnificent tonic. He enjoyed feeling in shape, and he always got out of sorts if he were cooped up in the city too long.

He glanced at his wife. They were only a few minutes from home; it was time for a truce.

“You look nice and rested, honey,” he said.

“Have I been so noticeably haggard lately?”

“No, of course not,” he said, grinning at her set profile.

She was coming around, he knew; her sarcasm was usually a token shot fired just before the white flag was run up. All he’d have to do now was jolly her up a bit.

“You’ve got to learn how to sail though,” he said. “That’s the main reason for a week end at Frank’s and Polly’s.” He remembered with pleasure how excellent she had looked in white shorts and one of his shirts — very slim and chic and elegant. “We’ll put you in training this summer,” he said. “Polly is a great sailor, you know.”

“I’m sure she does everything magnificently.” Ellie said. “Sailing, hunting, wrestling — all the feminine virtues.”

“That’s a hell of a thing to say.” His voice was formal and stiff, and she realized that she had hurt him deeply; loyalty was an intense business with him. “Polly happens to be en excellent sailor,” he said. “It’s odd that should annoy you.”

“Well, why shouldn’t she sail well? It’s about like playing an oboe, I imagine. If you keep at it you’ll get the hang of it. And she’s kept at it for about thirty years.”

“Some people never leant to sail,” Dick said, in a stubborn, deliberate voice. “There’s a thing to it, a spirit, that you either have or—” He frowned and took out his cigarettes. “Perhaps you don’t understand this at all.”

“You either have it or you don’t,” Ellie said dryly. “We used to say that back home about playing a game called duck-on-the-rock. You either had it or you didn’t.”

“I hate it when you start being cute and advertising gameish,” he said. “Things matter. Period. You can’t pretend they don’t by making wisecracks about them.”

“All right. I’m sorry,” she said, smiling at the frown that had settled above his clear, direct eyes. “Polly’s an angel. You know I adore her.”

“Maybe I’m being stuffy,” he said. His voice was still odd and stiff. “But I think it’s bad form to carp at someone who’s tried her best to make you feel at home with our crowd.”

“Bad form? Yes, that’s a little stuffy, Dick.”

“All right then, I am stuffy.” He knew he was being cranky and censorious — but that couldn’t be helped; he was prudish, and he couldn’t pretend a Bohemianism that he didn’t believe in. He felt (as his father had taught him to feel) that narrow-mindedness was preferable to a wishy-washy, indiscriminate tolerance. To not have convictions, and strong ones, about behavior, dress and language — that was surrendering to anarchy out of sheer timidity or laziness.

“My father always said a house guest should leave two things behind him: one, a tip for the servants, and second, anything he might have seen or heard that would reflect discredit on his host.”

“Your father has mentioned that to me,” Ellie said. “Several times, in fact.”

“It’s a good point, don’t you think?”

“Oh, damn it. I don’t care what your father says.”

Ellie felt close to tears; normally she admired Dick’s tribal loyalty to his father and friends. It was a sweet, old-fashioned virtue, and she respected him for not covering his feelings with layers of brittle irreverence. But occasionally she was hurt by the lack of an equal loyalty to her. And there were so many old friends, a great free-masonry of them, initiated at birth into the cabalistic rituals of the Unionville Hunt, the horse shows in Raleigh, the skiing at Stowe, the sailing and swimming and fishing here, there and everywhere — so many of them, she thought, bound together by nostalgic memories of dancing schools and prom dates, or foolish old camp songs, of football games and tennis matches, of poor old Jerry who got the Navy Cross posthumously, and old Tim who dove into an empty swimming pool one night without so much as spraining a finger — memories that drew a magical circle around and kept out the new friends, the new wives, the squares in general. The old days were best. And what of the new days?

Dick made the light at 42nd Street with a burst of speed, and there was anger in the smooth, reckless way he handled the car. “I hope I haven’t bored you talking about my father,” he said.

“Dick, I’m frightened. I can’t help it.”

He stared at her and saw that she was very close to tears. “Damn it, what’s the matter, baby? I didn’t mean to—” He reached over and patted her hand. “Come on, cheer up. We’ll be home soon.”

“I told you I was worried about Jill,” she said. “I told you that last night, and again this morning. The phone didn’t answer. I called twice last night, and twice again this morning. But it didn’t bother you at all. ‘Stop being a howling Jane.’ That’s what you said. ‘Let’s go sailing, or play tennis or lift some dumbbells.’ That’s all that mattered.”

“Now, honey, don’t be unreasonable. Cheer up, that’s it. They’re probably out walking. Kate may have taken her to the park for the day.” In spite of his cheerful manner he was beginning to feel guilty — Ellie had been worried about the baby and he had behaved like a sulking boor. Of course, there was nothing the matter. But Ellie was worried, which was only natural. And it was a little odd that Kate had been out so long...

“Look, if anything was seriously wrong, Kate would have called you. This isn’t the Congo, honey.”

“I suppose I’m being a complete fool,” she said. “Me, the modem mother, calm and casual. Dr. Spock would send me back to chapter one if he heard about this.”

They were at Thirty-fourth Street now, traveling south on Second Avenue. Only three more blocks, then a right turn... The neighborhood was familiar and comforting, lazy and peaceful in the late afternoon sun. They passed the shops that Mrs. Jarrod ordered from: Bailey’s Meats, Ragoni’s delicatessen. Mercury drugs, and the names were reassuring symbols of the commonplace and ordinary. Nothing could be wrong... this is where we live, Ellie thought, as Dick swung into Thirty-first Street. Kate and Jill walk by these stores and homes every day on their way to the river or the park.

But she couldn’t completely silence the little voice of fear. Jill was too final and precious a goal. They had been married five years when she was born, and the wait had made her seem much more important. All her own life had been made of goals, Ellie thought. She had been poor for much of it, gracious and shabbily poor, the daughter of a general practitioner who had died before wartime demands might have made him worth his weight in gold.

She had worked her way through school — the first big goal. Then she had made the long jump from a job in fashion in Milwaukee to a better job in New York. Always there were small, immediate goals in sight; a new dress, a tightly budgeted vacation, slip covers for one of the half-dozen chic little apartments she had lived in before meeting Dick. Money was important to her and it had been fun earning it; she was happy making lists and accounts, budgeting herself carefully, keeping her balances as neat as her figure.

But the Bradley money was something else again. It was simply there — a solid, unexciting substance surrounding her on all sides. No one earned it on a week-to-week basis, or worried about how long it would last. It was as permanent as the ground beneath their feet. When they wanted something they discussed buying it in terms of quality and convenience, not in dollars and cents. Dick was careful with money, but in a way she didn’t understand; he regarded it in the abstract, as counters put here to accomplish this or that — he didn’t think of dollars in terms of food and clothing and rent.

Dick slowed down as they passed a group of youngsters who were playing ball against the side of a building. “Well, here we are,” he said. “You’ll see, everything will be fine. Jill, sticky with pablum, Kate in her usual sunny mood. Want to bet?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, smiling at him. She was suddenly sure that he was right. The Bradleys had a longterm lease on good luck. The house would be shining and peaceful. Kate and Jill would be romping around in the nursery. The evening would follow a safe, pleasant pattern. Dick would mix martinis, and very probably would mention the time he had drunk four in a row at the Goldstones’ hunt party. They would have Jill to themselves downstairs for an hour or so, and then Mrs. Jarrod would announce dinner...

As Dick stopped in front of their house, she said, “I’ll leave you to cope. Okay?”

“Sure thing. You dash on in.”

Dick stretched gratefully. The hour’s drive after a week end of tennis and sailing had stiffened him up a bit. But it was a pleasant feeling. Coming around the car he glanced up and down the street, savoring its Sunday emptiness. Ellie loved this place, he knew. And he didn’t mind making this concession to her happiness; she wanted to go on working for a while, and living in town made that possible. It I wouldn’t do when Jill was ready for school, of course. Then they’d move out to the country. And Ellie couldn’t commute to a job. He couldn’t see that at all; it wasn’t that he objected to women having careers if they wanted them, but in the country he knew that her time would be taken up completely with running their home, and participating in the activities of the community.

As he went up the stairs he was thinking of her with an especial tenderness and warmth. He was lucky to have her — she had been easily the most attractive woman at the Kimbles’. Frank had shepherded her around like a happy mastiff, and the women had seemed honestly delighted with her... She was a new experience for them, with her funny, humorous slant on things. And, of course, her figure and clothes had set them right back on their heels.

She had turned the key in the lock and was pushing open the door, and his eyes were on a level with her shining black sling-pumps. He smiled appreciateively at the sharp turn on her ankles, the sleek elegance of her legs — he loved the way she walked, each step precise and sure and graceful.

As he went up another step he saw the letter that was lying on the polished floor of the foyer. Something was wrong about that, he thought. Why hadn’t Kate put it in the study?

Ellie hadn’t noticed it; she was looking up toward the nursery, smiling with anticipation and pleasure. “Jill, baby,” she sang out. “We’re home, darling.” She stepped on the letter as she crossed the foyer, and the sharp heel of her pump left its square outline just below the special delivery stamp. “Jill, it’s Mummy,” she called, as she ran quickly up the stairs. “Where’s my big girl?”

Dick bent and picked up the letter, aware of Ellie’s voice echoing flatly throughout the big house. He noted automatically that there was no return address on the envelope, and that the stamp had been cancelled in Manhattan early Saturday morning. It had been lying here all day then. And all day yesterday...

As he ripped open the envelope and removed the single sheet of notepaper, he heard Ellie calling Jill’s name again and again, her voice high and frantic against the echoing silence.

He read the note quickly, and it made no sense to him. Standing in the open doorway with a square of yellow sunshine falling across his legs, he frowned and rubbed the tips of his fingers across his forehead. What the devil is this? he thought. What kind of nonsense?

Then — scanning the note again — the meaning struck him with sickening, physical impact; the paper shook in his hands, and he realized that he was trembling from head to foot. Ellie’s voice sounded louder and louder around him — she was coming down the stairs now, her heels clattering with frantic speed, and she was calling his name desperately and helplessly.

“Dick, Dick, they’re not here!”

“I know— I know.”

She stopped and stared at him, her body tense and rigid in the straining silence. “Dick, what is it?” Her voice trembled and broke as she saw the fear in his face. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

He couldn’t speak. He tried, but couldn’t; his throat was dry and tight with pain.

“Tell me, Dick,” she whispered.

He caught her to him, pulling her tightly against his chest. The note was before her eyes, and she read it then, crushed against her husband, standing in the yellow sunlight that poured into the foyer from the street

“We’ve got to do exactly as they tell us,” he said, whispering the words against her cheek in a high, straining voice. The week end color had drained from his face, and his eyes were bright with desperation and fear. “You understand? Exactly as we’re told.”

She was sobbing words against his chest. “No, God, no, no, no—”

“Stop it, stop it!” he said harshly. He stared into the street, sliding his eyes over the familiar sights with pointless, terrible fear. They were exposed, helpless and vulnerable. The sun-splashed sidewalks, the calm façade of the church that faced their house, a shouting boy on a bicycle — all of this was hostile and evil to his eyes. “We must do what they want us to do,” he said, tightening his grip around her shoulders. “I’ll call my father. Please stop, please, please stop,” he said, in a breaking voice. And then he swung the door shut against the bright, menacing world.

From his room across the street Creasy watched the door close with a sense of infinite and majestic satisfaction. He nodded slowly, deliberately, as a judge might nod while reading an inevitable and irrevocable sentence. “Yes,” he said, softly and quietly. “Yes, they will understand now.” His mood was judicial and calm, and this surprised him slightly. There was none of the frenzied anger that gave him such exquisite pleasure — instead he felt rather solemn, almost disinterested...

They had never know pain or humiliation, of course. But now they would learn. This was just and proper. Pain belonged to the rich and poor alike. But the rich refused to accept this fundamental law. They bought immunity at the expense of the poor.

He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed. And the door remained closed — no sirens were wailing, no police cars were rushing to comfort the privileged beautiful couple in the silent house.

Creasy chuckled softly, and the smile brightened his tiny ugly face, puckered the corners of his eyes. They wouldn’t call the police, he thought. They would wait for his bidding...

And what were they doing now? Bradley, the handsome sportsman, the young man with big bank accounts and a beautiful wife to batten his vanity. What would he be doing? At the phone now, talking to his father in hysterical whispers, begging for help, for speed... or perhaps they hadn’t reached his father yet. “We’ll try his club, sir, and call you back—” And he would hang onto the receiver like death itself...

And what of her? The disdainful, elegant beauty, too choice for any but a millionaire’s taste. Not so beautiful now with her make-up streaked, and her eyes red from weeping. Screaming at her playboy husband to do something, kicking her feet like a child in a tantrum.

Creasy watched the Bradleys’ home for a full hour, standing motionless behind the thick curtains. At six o’clock the Bradleys’ housekeeper appeared, a model of stout, complacent efficiency. Creasy knew her sort. Loyal to those who hired her, grateful for the dog-to-master relationship. Standing up for them against her own kind.

There were no other callers. It was apparent that the Bradleys were following instructions. By now they would have been in touch with the old man in Boston. The wheels were turning...

At seven o’clock Creasy put on his topcoat and left his dark, ill-smelling room. He stood on his stoop for a moment, smoothing his gloves over his small, neat hands. The sun was down now, and there was a chill edge to the wind. Finally he started down the steps, holding the iron railing with a gloved hand, setting his feet down with mincing care. A passing couple smiled at him; he was so obviously a bachelor or widower, a tidy little man setting off on a Sunday evening stroll. With a casual glance at the Bradleys’ home, Creasy turned and walked briskly toward Third Avenue. It was time to phone Grant now, to tell him that everything was all right...

Oliphant Bradley let himself into his Beacon Street apartment shortly after six-thirty on Sunday afternoon. He dropped his hat and stick in the foyer, and strode into the long, comfortable living room, a tall spare man with white hair and snapping blue eyes. At the moment he was in excellent spirits, and this was evident in the way he walked, and the expression on his face. He seldom bothered to hide his feelings or reactions; if he was pleased he laughed, if angry he shouted, if bored he turned off his hearing aid. There was enough egotism in his make-up and enough money in his banks to let him display his moods externally — and now he was grinning with pleasure because he had spent the afternoon with Joe Piersall and had won thirty dollars from him at pinochle.

“Anderson,” he called, switching on a lamp beside his reading chair. In the twilight he found the shadows in the big room depressing; he liked things bright and vivid and lively. Earthy, his wife had called it. He straightened, smiling at this chance recollection. In spite of your cold showers and proper Boston background, my dear, very earthy... Well, maybe I am, he thought, savoring the memory of Joe Piersall’s choleric bad temper.

The dining room door opened and his valet, Anderson, came in. He was younger than Mr. Bradley by several years, but not so well preserved; his hair was gray and thin on top, and he walked as if he were carrying a fragile and carelessly wrapped package. “I was just about to ring up the Piersalls, sir,” he said. “Your son has been calling from New York since five o’clock. He said it was quite urgent.”

“Oh. Anybody sick?”

“No, sir, he said that everyone was fine. He and Mrs. Bradley had been out to the Frank Kimbles’ for the week end.”

“Get a nice sunstroke with that crowd and not much else. How about Jill?”

“Well — I don’t believe he mentioned her, sir.”

Oliphant Bradley pulled out his watch, studied it for a second and then let the slim golden disc slide back into his vest pocket. The habit was a compulsive one, and his addiction to it annoyed him: why in the devil was he always fiddling around with clocks and watches? Timing his breakfast, timing his walks, even timing hands of bridge — a silly habit, the reflexive twitch of an idle old fool. He resolved to stop it — for the fiftieth time. Let the time go by. Stop staring at it. That won’t help...

“I’ll call him from the study,” he said. At the doorway he stopped and grinned at Anderson. “I clipped Joe Piersall for thirty bucks this afternoon. How about that?”

Anderson smiled back at him. “I’m sure that put him in a good humor.”

“Sure, sure. He didn’t quite claim I cheated, but that was only because I was a guest. If we’d been playing here it would have been different. Do you remember the time he insisted on staying until he got even? Slept on the sofa finally.”

“Yes, I do, sir. He was here two days, I believe.”

Oliphant Bradley was still chuckling as he picked up the phone in his study and gave the operator his son’s number in New York...

Anderson was setting the tea tray when he heard Mr. Bradley call for him in a high, unfamiliar voice. The urgency of the tone made him start; the cup and saucer he held rattled alarmingly as he put them down on the sideboard. “Yes, sir,” he said, as Mr. Bradley called his name again. He hurried through the apartment to the study, a small alcove off the library.

“Would you bring me a brandy, please.” Mr. Bradley stood beside his desk with one hand resting on the cradled telephone. There was a smile on his lips, but Anderson thought his eyes looked odd — bright and hard and intense.

“Is anything wrong, sir?”

“No, no. They just called to say hello. Everything is fine.”

“You look upset, sir. If there’s something—”

“No, it’s just that damn twinge again.” Still making an effort to smile, he touched the area above his heart. It would be hard to deceive Anderson; they had been together thirty years and knew each other very well. But he must deceive him. No one must guess...

“The brandy will do the trick,” he said.

“Shouldn’t I call Dr. Playton?”

“He’d be delighted if you did. The only pleasure he gets out of life lately is hospitalizing his friends. No, just bring me the brandy, please. And another thing. I’m going down to New York for a few days. I’ll need a grip. No evening things, thank God.”

“Yes, of course.” Anderson lingered in the doorway, obviously worried and uncertain. Mr. Bradley cursed himself silently; he was handling this like an hysterical child. Stupidly... giving everything away. “Dick wants me to go over a list of stocks with him,” he said, forcing an easier note into his voice. “He seems to think I’ve developed clairvoyance in my old age.”

“Well, it will be pleasant for you, sir. Seeing Mrs. Bradley and Jill again.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

While Anderson was packing his grip Mr. Bradley put in a call to Joe Piersall. A baby girl watched him from a silver frame on his desk. Round and rosy as an apple, with doll-like curls and dimples, she beamed out at the world with a sense of breathless wonder and excitement. He had made her smile for that picture, he remembered; the photographer, a stupid, clucking fool, had only frightened her, and Ellie and Dick hadn’t done much better. But he had got her laughing... the old trick of staring solemnly at her and widening his eyes very slowly had done it. Suddenly he slammed his fist down on the desk. Don’t get excited, Playton had said. Damn Playton! He had never known such a cold, deliberate fury in all his life. They would pay for this. Every dollar he owned would be used to hunt them down...

The Piersalls’ butler told him that Mr. Piersall had gone for a walk in the woods but was expected back for tea. Mr. Bradley left a message asking Piersall to call him back the minute he came in.

Replacing the phone he stood and walked around the room, rubbing his hands together anxiously. Gone since Saturday night at least. But where was the nurse? The Irish girl, Kate. Dick hadn’t even mentioned her. Was she involved in this?

He drank the brandy Anderson had brought him, but it didn’t dissolve the nervous pain in his stomach. A sudden terrible fear had gripped him; Jill was already dead. Why should they let her live? The money would be paid anyway. A finger’s pressure on her throat, a few spadesful of earth on her body, and she wouldn’t cause them any more trouble.

Yes, she was dead. He was sure of that. And all of his own foolish dreams were dead. Of being around when she started to talk, of watching her learn to ride, of summers with her at the big old place at James Harbor. They never went there any more. It was made for children... Ellie wouldn’t have minded, he thought, rubbing a hand over his eyes. These were the dreams that had kept him alive. Bait, nothing more. The carrot in front of a tired donkey. Fooling himself with Playton’s blessing. “Just to see her, that’s all I want.” The only grandchild he would ever see. “That will satisfy me completely. I’m not asking for the moon, am I?” That was the start of it. And then; “I’d like to hear her talking.” And: “If I could see her in a party dress — they start early, you know.” An old dreaming fool. Encouraged by Playton.

He stared at the baby’s picture, fighting back his tears. He couldn’t help her, he couldn’t spare her an instant of fear and pain. With all his money, all his influence...

The phone rang and he lifted the receiver quickly. “Joe? This is terribly important. Can you talk? Are you alone?”

“I’m in my study, and the door is closed. Why?”

“All right, listen closely, Joe. I can’t repeat this.”

“Yes, yes. Shoot.”

“Get this then.” Oliphant Bradley’s voice was low and harsh. “I need two hundred thousand dollars tonight. Within the next two hours. I need—”

“Ollie, for God’s sake—”

“Listen to me. The bills must he in denominations of five, ten and twenty. They must be old.”

“Good God! When did this happen?”

“I can’t tell you on the phone. I’ll be at your bank in an hour. And I want a plane standing by for me when we’ve got the money counted.”

“Certainly.” Piersall’s voice sharpened. “I’ll call two of my managers to help us. And I’ll have my son arrange for the plane. I’ll see you in an hour, Ollie.”

Bradley put the phone down and rubbed the tips of his fingers over his forehead. Yes, they would pay the money. That was the least of it. There were fifty men he might have called, but Joe Piersall happened to be the handiest. The money meant nothing. It would go into the hands of human scum who had already murdered his son’s baby. And would they ever be caught? Ever punished? Not by tired old men and frightened parents. Dick and Ellie didn’t want the police brought in. It might be weeks before they faced the brutal fact that their baby was dead. And then it would be too late. The trail would have vanished; already it was cold. What did Dick and Ellie know about such things? he thought. They were hysterical children, unable to think or plan.

A knock sounded and Anderson looked in on him. “Your bag is ready, sir. And will you have tea?”

“No — no, thanks. I’ll have something downtown.”

When the door closed Mr. Bradley reached slowly for the phone. His old face was suddenly set in hard, bitter lines. This wasn’t his decision to make — but by God he would make it. He knew best. That’s what mattered. He picked up the phone and cleared his throat. When the operator answered, he said, “Get me the FBI, please. Right away.”