The Seven File

Eighteen

Mail was delivered around eight-fifteen on Thirty-first Street, but at seven o’clock Crowley and the Bradleys were waiting in the living room for the postman. If things were as they hoped, the morning’s mail would bring the instructions for paying the ransom money — the last step before the return of the baby.

Crowley stood at the front window with his binoculars trained on the building across the street. The watcher was there, he saw, a dark outline behind the heavy curtains. Creasy, Howard Creasy. A neatly dressed little man who hadn’t had a job for four months. And who spent a great deal of his time watching the Bradleys’ home. Crowley had got another name from West: Duke Farrel, the man who had posed as a telephone repairman. So far they had only the names — but now a hundred agents were on the trail.

Ellie Bradley was pacing the floor slowly. She wore a dressing gown and slippers. Mrs. Jarrod had brought in a tray of coffee, but after one sip Ellie had put her cup down on the mantel. Dick Bradley was watching the front door and his father sat on the sofa, nervously sucking on a dry pipe.

No one made any attempt at conversation; small talk or banalities would have fallen grotesquely into the silence.

When the chimes sounded they were all caught by surprise; they weren’t expecting the mail for another hour. Oliphant Bradley stood quickly, his breathing loud and heavy in the stillness. Dick Bradley looked helplessly from his wife to Crowley.

“See who it is,” Crowley said.

“Yes — yes, of course.” Dick hurried down the short hallway and opened the door. A postman stood on the door step. “Special, sir,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Going to be a nice day, eh? So long.”

Bradley returned to the living room and said, “We didn’t think about special deliveries.” His voice was high and breathless. He fumbled at the envelope for a few seconds, and then shook his head and handed the letter to Crowley. “You open it. I–I can’t seen to manage.”

Crowley opened the letter and removed the single sheet of lined, copybook paper. It had been folded twice, and as he opened it he saw that it had been tom from a pad or tablet; the left side of the paper was ragged and uneven.

Ellie walked toward him slowly, her hands pressed tightly against her breasts. “What do they want us to do?”

Crowley was staring at the note and she saw the frown gathering above his eyes.

“What is it?” she said. “What is it?” Her voice was beginning to shake.

Each word in the note struck Crowley with a sickening impact; where did we slip? he thought despairingly. For the note, in neatly penciled capitals, read; You didn’t follow instructions, chickies! So you don’t want her back, after all.

Dick Bradley took the note from his hands. “What’s the matter? What do they—” He stopped then, as abruptly as if his words had struck a physical barrier. “God!” he said. “They know the police are in it.” His face was suddenly white and old as he stared at his wife. “It’s all over,” he said in a high, terrible voice. “It’s over.”

“This kind of letter is standard,” Crowley said. “At this stage they want to keep you scared. If you’ve been thinking of going to the police, this will stop you.” No one was listening to him, and he hadn’t expected them to; he hoped only that the sound of his voice might distract them for a second or so — give them an instant to adjust to this new terror. He hadn’t lied to them; a bluffing note might come in about this time. But they wouldn’t believe that. And, in this case, neither did he...

Ellie sat down very slowly. “They’ve killed her, I know. She’s dead.” The lack of emotion in her voice was more shocking than any outburst; she sounded as if she were discussing the weather. And her eyes were empty and dry.

Dick Bradley was staring straight at his father. “They didn’t kill her,” he said quietly, almost thoughtfully.

“Son—”

“We didn’t want the police. We wanted to pay the money and get Jill back safely. But you knew better. You called the police.”

“Son, listen to me. I swear I thought—”

“It doesn’t matter what you thought. What matters is that out daughter is dead. That’s what you’ve done.”

“No, no,” Ellie said, shaking her head. “Don’t say that, Dick. Please.”

“Ellie—” The old man sat down beside her and his lips were trembling helplessly. “I did — what I thought was best for our baby. You must believe me. I don’t want forgiveness. I don’t deserve it.” His voice was shaking. “But you must believe me, Ellie.”

“I do, I do, of course I do,” she said in a soothing voice.

Crowley felt a dry pain in his throat. She was making it easy for him, for all of them.

“Dick, bring us a drink, please,” she said. “I think your father might have a brandy.” She looked at his white face, the little circle of pain around his lips. “Then you’d better lie down for a while. There’s nothing — more to do now.”

And it was then, as Dick Bradley left the room, that the chimes sounded for the second time. Ellie stood up quickly, a hand moving to her throat, and Crowley said, “Could you go to the door?”

“Yes, I’m all right, I can manage.”

He looked at her steadily for a second or so, and then said, “You could manage anything, for my money.”

Ellie sighed wearily and walked through the foyer to the doorway. She opened the door, narrowing her eyes slightly against the morning sun. “Yes?” she said.

The man on the stoop was small and neatly dressed, and his glasses winked like mirrors in the sunlight. There was a simpering little smile on his lips. “Ah, good morning, ma’am,” he said, removing his hat with an awkward little flourish. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No — no,” Ellie said. She recognized him then, and her heart began to pound with sudden violence.

“My name is Creasy and I live opposite you on the block,” he said. “I just stopped by to ask about your little daughter.”

“Yes—” Ellie’s lips were dry, and she could feel a pulse fluttering with terror at the hollow of the throat. “Yes?” Inside the house Crowley waved a warning hand to Dick Bradley who had just entered the living room with a tray. Then Crowley dropped a hand on his gun and moved as close as he could to the front door...

Creasy’s smile was secretive, and there was a curious blend of humility and arrogance in his manner. This was his moment of triumphant climax; he had been driven to do this, compelled against all common sense and caution to see her, to see the ravages of pain and fear in her face — for he had reached the point beyond which his imagination had become stale and unrewarding. That was why he had sent the special delivery letter to the Bradleys. Turn the screw once more... the instructions for paying the ransom were in the regular mail, and should arrive within an hour or so. Then the bonds of the rack could be loosened again. They could hope... Grant’s schedule wouldn’t be affected at all. This moment was pure luxury, an exquisite dividend.

“We haven’t met, of course,” he said, bobbing his head rhythmically. Yes, she had suffered — he saw that now. The shadows under her eyes were like deep purple bruises. “In the country I daresay it would be different.” He smiled to let her know he understood these protocols. “One still leaves cards, doesn’t one?”

“Yes—” Her voice was high and strained. “There’s — more time.”

“Precisely. Here it’s all rush, rush, rush.” He studied her drawn features carefully, memorizing each mark of anguish with clinical care. “But we who value such things find time for — what shall I say? — the older graces?”

“That’s true. I’m sure.” Ellie had known this feeling in nightmares: the rending need to scream and be silent at one I and the same time.

No make-up, Creasy observed, and unconsciously his smile became a trifle superior. Where was the elegant coiffeur, the luxurious attention to skin and eyes and nails? Without the expensive props what was she? A drab...

“I must tell you why I’ve taken this liberty,” he said. “Lately, I’ve enjoyed a smile or two from your charming little daughter. We pass in the street, and I bow quite formally to the little princess, and she rewards my fealty with a clap of her dimpled hands — the beginning and end of life saluting each other, one might say.” He pretended not to notice her trembling lips and dark, staring eyes. “Nothing much by the standards of the busy world perhaps, but quite a lot to one facing — why not confess it? — his autumn years. But I’ve missed my princess the last few days. I was afraid she might be ill. That’s why I stopped by.” Creasy chuckled softly. “I rather like to think I am her first gentleman caller.”

“It’s sweet of you to be worried. Jill has been under the weather, and we thought it best to keep her in for a few days.”

“What a pity! She’ll miss her outings.”

“Yes, she is restless.” Ellie was fighting as only she could; her smile was warm, and her voice was almost casual. He knew Jill was gone — that thought pounded in her mind.

“I’m sure she’ll be bright and chipper very soon,” Creasy said. “These indispositions don’t bother children at all. Please tell her I stopped by, and that I’m looking forward to seeing her in the near future.”

“Thank you. I will.”

“How fortunate you’re right here to take care of her,” Creasy said, smiling a little. He allowed himself a final savoring look at her white face, and then he nodded briskly, and said, “Well, I must be toddling along. Good day!”

“Goody-bye.”

Creasy crossed the street, beaming with a smug sense of accomplishment. Inside his room he lit a cigarette with a debonair gesture and took up his post at the windows. It had been risky, of course, he thought, still smiling brightly. But so well worth it...

When he saw the mailman go up their steps an hour later, Creasy experienced an odd moment of deflation and loss. Now it was over. Finally... The reprieve was in the postman’s leather pouch. The ransom instructions, detailed and explicit. Now they would hope again. He sighed and dropped his cigarette into the dregs of a coffee cup where it sputtered out with an angry and final little hiss. Over, he thought sadly. So soon, so terribly soon...

On Inspector West’s desk at FBI headquarters there were two enlarged glossy prints of Duke Farrel, one full face, the other in profile. The pictures had been wired from Washington, only a few minutes after the dossier on Farrel had come in by telephone. Since that time — ten o’clock the previous night — Roth had been in communication with Joliet Penitentiary in Illinois, and the police authorities in Chicago, and Madison, Wisconsin. Now it was nine o’clock. Tuesday morning. Long beams of cheerful sun slanted in the windows and from the streets below could be heard muted sounds of traffic and occasionally the shrill piping of a traffic cop’s whistle.

The Inspector stood at his desk with Roth. He had talked with Crowley twice this morning; he knew about the special delivery letter, Creasy’s subsequent visit and the ransom instructions which had arrived an hour later in the regular mail.

The Inspector was studying Duke Farrel’s dark bold features.

“According to Joliet, he’s dangerous,” Roth said. “He took solitary like it was a suite in a luxury hotel.”

They were assembling, bit by bit, a portrait of Duke Farrel. They knew that he was unmarried, seemed to have no close friends, that both his father and mother were dead. His only relative was a half-brother, Henry Todd Farrel, who had left Big Springs, Wisconsin, at the start of the Korean War. There was no indication that the brothers had been in contact since that time. The younger brother had enlisted in the army and served in Korea. They were waiting now for his service record. They had no idea of his present whereabouts...

West drummed his fingers on the desk. “We’ve got to get a line on him, Jerry.”

“We’ll have something when we get his service record. Right now all we know is that his mail was forwarded from Big Springs to Boston for a few months four years ago. Care of general delivery.”

West glanced at the big clock on the wall; the gesture was compulsive, almost desperate. Time had assumed a heightened and precious value now; the minutes seemed to be flowing away on a prodigal tide.

“Let’s check the pickup plans,” he said. On his left a small-scale map of Pennsylvania had been tacked to a bulletin board. The kidnapers’ plan was nearly perfect, West has seen instantly; it was simple, ingenious, safe. He could no longer hope that he was dealing with amateurs or neurotics.

West looked at a copy of the payoff instructions and then turned to the map of Pennsylvania. “Step one,” he said to Roth. “Dick Bradley takes the money to Philadelphia at three this afternoon. There he rents a convertible. He stays in Philly until ten o’clock. Then drives to—” West glanced at his memo. “Kennett Square.”

“That’s about here,” Roth said, putting his finger on the map. “Fifteen miles from Wilmington, Delaware, thirty miles southwest of Philadelphia.”

“He leaves Kennett Square at midnight on Highway One and drives south at thirty miles an hour,” West said. “He keeps going until dawn if necessary — he keeps going until a car pulls up behind him and signals him to stop with three blasts of the horn. Then Bradley drops off the money and continues south for another fifty miles.”

“That will be tough to cover,” Roth said.

“If we cover,” West said slowly.

“The baby may be down that way. South, I mean.”

“Sure. Virginia, Florida, Panama, Peru. There’s a lot of territory south of us.”

“But if they take the money and disappear, where does that leave us?”

West glanced at him. “And suppose they spot us? Where does that leave the baby?”

Roth shrugged his big shoulders and said nothing...

Afterwards, West knew, the correct decision would seem the inevitable one — a wrong decision would be attributed to the judgement of a fool or an incompetent. The only thing that mattered was the baby’s safety. But either path he chose might cost the baby its life. And a million jurors would sit in judgement on the bureau’s decision over their morning coffee and papers. “What the hell was he trying? A grandstand play? Why didn’t he let them have the money? The baby’s the important thing, right?” And if it went the other way: “Chicken-hearted, that’s what they are. They had the bastards right in their hands and didn’t have the guts to close their fists. Why didn’t they have a hundred men waiting when they tried to grab that money? Where were they?”

West didn’t give a damn about those million jurors. He was thinking only of the baby — but the jurors’ arguments were the same ones that sounded in his own mind.

“Let’s set up to cover,” he said quietly. “Let’s be ready.”

“Right,” Roth said.

“Call Philadelphia first. The instructions don’t specify where Bradley is to rent the car. That’s one break. Have Philly plant a convertible for him, equipped with a camera and transmitter that works off a foot pedal. Now let’s see: at thirty miles an hour Bradley will travel about one hundred and eighty miles on Highway One by dawn. Okay, get enough men to cover that stretch thoroughly this afternoon. Spot every garage, diner, restaurant and all the side roads. Prepare small-scale maps of the area on both sides of the highway, secondary roads, rivers, bridges, overpasses — everything. And mark out deserted stretches on Highway One — places where the contact is likely.”

“If we decide to cover, everything’s got to be ready. Enough cars on an intercom hookup, enough men to follow any length of tail job.”

“They’ll be ready.”

West turned back to his desk, still studying the ransom instructions. Regardless of their preparations, this would be risky; the kidnapers had every advantage. They could be miles ahead of Bradley, or miles behind him, choosing their moment of contact from a wide latitude of times and places. They could wait until the road was dark and empty — then make their move.

Roth came to his side later and said, “It’s rolling. What next?”

Nothing more had come in on Duke Farrel, nothing at all on his brother.

“I want more on Creasy,” West said.

“You aren’t sure of him?”

“There’s no proof. He could be the neighborhood crank or a Peeping Tom. He turned down a cab in the rain. Maybe he likes getting wet. He’s watching the Bradleys’ house. Maybe he likes old brownstones. I want more.”

“We’ve been covering him since last night,” Roth said. “We’ve made a duplicate key to his room. Maybe if I took a look around there—”

West glanced at him, a little frown on his face. “We’ve got to know,” he said. “Right now all we’ve got is a handful of smoke.”

Roth said nothing. He wanted to go, he wanted to be doing something positive, but he controlled his impatience; he didn’t want to influence West’s decision.

“Okay,” West said at last. “But for God’s sake be careful, Jerry...”

Roth and an agent named Carstairs parked on Third Avenue just below Thirty-first Street. They waited there almost an hour before the radio in the car crackled, and a voice said, “Subject just leaving building, walking toward Second Avenue.”

Roth picked up his telephone. “All right, I’m going in. Keep your eyes open.”

The agent who had given him this information was stationed in a room at the intersection of Third Avenue and Thirty-first Street. From there he had a clear east-west view of Thirty-first Street.

A few moments later Roth walked briskly into Creasy’s building with a zippered brief case under his arm. In the case were insurance literature, application forms, a rate book — and beneath these a receiver and a transmitter by which he could keep in touch with Carstairs and the agent stationed in the room at the intersection. The hallway was empty and dark, and the house smelled faintly of old wood and German cooking. Roth listened for an instant, and then let himself into Creasy’s room and closed the door quickly.

He was alert for anything and everything. There were I phone numbers on a desk pad, and he made a note of these, and then went rapidly through Creasy’s bureau drawers. The files of genealogical data had no significance for him, but he stared for a few seconds at the faded pictures of silent film stars that covered the wall at the foot of his bed. A movie fan? A hero worshiper? Speculation was pointless, but something in that collection of handsome, forgotten faces alerted his highly developed sense of the incongruous — which in Roth was an intuitive faculty, an almost a priori awareness of significant peculiarities. Scientists have similar antennae, as do doctors and priests, and occasional politicians.

But Roth ignored these ephemeral promptings; there was no time for anything but facts. He turned to the top of the bureau where Creasy’s toilet articles were spread in a disorderly heap, a sorry little monument to a man’s lack of respect for his own body. The bristles of his hairbrush, dark with scurf and oil, were worn down to the wooden back, and the tubes of shaving cream and toothpaste had been squeezed and twisted into little accordions of ugly economy. His bar of soap, partially wrapped in a damp wash cloth, was festooned with swirls of drying suds, and flecked with little curls of hair. All of this added to Roth’s picture of Creasy — from these data he could have drawn a hundred accurate inferences about the man. But they didn’t need inferences now; they needed facts.

Finally he picked up a notebook from a table in the middle of the room — the sort school children use, with ruled paper and cardboard covers in black and white check. Roth leafed through it, aware of a little stir of excitement. Crowley had said the special delivery letter had been written on ruled, copybook paper — and the front page had been tom from this book, and there were pen or pencil indentations on the second page. The message to the Bradleys had been brief — two short sentences — and the marks on the second page were also brief — two short sentences.

Roth made himself think clearly, trying not to give way to a precipitate impatience. The special delivery note was just across the street and it would take only a split second to match its tom edges against the back-bone of this book. He glanced at his watch; he’d been inside five minutes. But time was no yardstick on safety; Creasy might be gone all day, or he might be heading back home this minute.

Roth was suddenly aware that perspiration had broken out on his forehead. To bring the note here might crowd the limits of safety to dangerous lengths. If something slipped it could mean the baby’s life. Arresting Creasy would do no good; they couldn’t know what codes or signals had been arranged between him and the other kidnapers.

Roth stared at the notebook for half a minute in silence. Then he said, “God help me,” in a low voice, and reached for his brief case.

Having made the decision, he worked quickly: he zippered open the brief case and flashed Carstairs with movements that were maximums of precision and economy. He said quietly, “I’m going to phone Crowley. Get every word. You’ll know what to do then...”

“Right,” Carstairs said. “I’m standing by.”

Roth placed the radio beside the phone and dialed the Bradleys’ number, and when the buzzing started he heard a sudden heavy stroke of his heart. He talked first to Dick Bradley and then to Crowley. “This is Roth,” he said. “I’m across the street in Creasy’s room.” Crowley didn’t answer him and Roth said, “your middle name is Francis, your card number is one, two, four eight, you’ve got a bullet scar on your left forearm. The guy who shot you was named Miller. Okay?”

“Right,” Crowley said.

“Okay, listen carefully now...”

Roth crossed the room after putting the phone down and looked out at the windows of the Bradley home, at the sun gleaming on the massive brass knocker and antique numerals. A moment later Mrs. Jarrod came out and walked briskly toward Third Avenue, a mesh market bag in her hand. Roth patted his forehead with a handkerchief. Mrs. Jarrod had the note in her purse, and Carstairs was waiting for her in the supermarket. She would leave the note in a freezer and he would be standing beside her to retrieve it...

Five minutes passed. Then two more. “It’s got to work,” he said softly, using the words as a wall against his fears. He stood perfectly still, breathing as deeply as a man who had been running hard for blocks. Then he heard footsteps in the hallway, a man’s footsteps brisk and sharp in the silence. The man was whistling Dark Eyes. Roth let out his breath slowly. The tune was a favorite of Carstairs’...

He crossed the room, turned the knob and took the sheet of paper from Carstairs. No words were needed. Roth opened the notebook and placed the sheet of paper on top of the second page, moving the tom edges toward each other, lining them up with his eyes until they fitted together, meshing exactly...

Roth’s thoughts leaped ahead. They had Creasy. Now they must get Duke Farrel.

But as he turned toward the door the radio clicked softly, and the agent in the room on Third Avenue said, “Clear out!” in a sharp, imperative voice. “Creasy just pulled up in a cab. Move! Fast!”

Creasy fumbled in his pockets for change. He wasn’t sure why he had returned home. Something had frightened him and he always felt safer in his room — that was all he knew. All his life he had been spied upon; he had caught people staring at him from windows and doorways since he had been a child. And today the awareness of these hostile watchers had been very strong...

He discovered he had no change. He gave the driver a five-dollar-bill and said, “Please, I’m in a hurry.”

“In a hurry? This all you got?”

“Yes. You should have change for a five.” Creasy’s voice almost shot out of control. “You can’t expect your passengers to carry the fare in silver. You’re supposed to carry change. Isn’t that correct?”

The driver looked at him in silence, his head tilted slightly. Finally he said, “Mac, I asked you a simple question. I said, ‘This all you got?’ All you got to do is say no. Lecturing me ain’t going to help. There’s nothing to yak about. No hard feelings, nothing.” He counted out Creasy’s change carefully, smiled philosophically at the size of his tip, and drove off, shaking his head.

Creasy’s room was dark and empty. He leaned against the door, drawing confidence from the silence, the familiar shadows, the musty smells. Finally he snapped on the night-lamp beside his bed, fearful as always that the shadows might begin to move. He looked in the closet and under the bed for his enemy. Some day he would find him. When the shadows moved... But today he was safe. His fears subsided slowly into the depths of his unconscious. He lit a cigarette and walked to the windows, smiling at the Bradleys’ house. He felt secure again, dominant...

Roth stood on the stairs leading to the second floor of Creasy’s building. He had barely made it. When he heard Creasy go into his room, he glanced at his watch. He waited five minutes, then came briskly down the stairs and walked into the bright sunlight. Now to call West.