The Seven File

Twenty-four

At eight o’clock that morning Creasy picked his way down the steps of his rooming house, one hand maintaining a cautious grip on the brim of his old-fashioned bowler. It was the start of a cheerful spring day, sunny and clear, but a lusty wind was blowing down the block, scattering refuse in the gutters and sending little eddies of dust spiraling into the air.

Creasy’s mood was benign and mellow. Everything was over now; before him stretched a calm interval for reassessment and recapitulation. Grant had told him to follow his usual routine and wait for further instructions. He hadn’t mentioned the baby and the nurse, but undoubtedly plans had been made for them; Grant had sounded confident and cheerful. Everybody was safe then; Grant and Duke and Belle were probably a couple of hundred miles from the lodge by now.

Creasy glanced casually at the Bradleys’ as he stopped to smooth worn gray suede gloves over the backs of his thin hands. A black car had parked in front of their house and a young man in a gabardine topcoat and a snap-brim hat had gone inside. The driver had remained behind the wheel. Creasy had seen this from the windows of his room. But he wasn’t curious about the waiting car, or the man who had gone into the Bradleys’; the Bradleys no longer interested him particularly. They were like shipboard acquaintances, he thought; drawn together interestingly for a time, but now going their separate ways, busy with other pursuits and activities. Other activities... Yes, indeed. He had already made a complete check of the Winthrops in his files.

This was au revoir, he thought, smiling at the clean, handsome façade of the Bradleys’ home. Savoring the moment, enjoying its ceremonial flavor, Creasy didn’t notice the car that was parked a dozen yards from him on the same side of the block. Four men stepped out while Creasy stood on the sidewalk, smiling and smoothing on his gloves. They sauntered toward him casually, fanning out to approach him from three angles.

Roth reached him first. Creasy felt a hand close on the lapel of his overcoat, and at the same instant he became aware of a man on either side of him, and the powerful hands gripping his arms. Creasy stared up into a face that might have been carved from iron.

“You’re under arrest,” Roth said.

“I say — this is some mistake.” Creasy felt himself trembling helplessly. “I’m hardly the sort—” He began to titter; his thoughts were suddenly spinning in a dizzy fashion. “Well, I should think that’s obvious. Gentlemen aren’t accustomed to — well, we’ll say no more about it, eh? I shan’t file a complaint. Rather a good joke, actually. Mistake...”

“Let’s go,” Roth said, nodding at the men who held Creasy’s arms.

“Now see here!” Creasy suddenly started and blinked his eyes; the street was full of leaping shadows. Moving — yes, moving like quicksilver, twisting with bewildering speed into intricate and strangely ominous designs. He laughed triumphantly; this was what he had always expected, the shadows and the enemies. He had been right. Yes, indeed.

The Bradleys were leaving their house, he saw, hurrying to the car parked at the curb. They moved through the shadows as if they weren’t there, protected and shielded by their magic circles of youth, beauty and money. She was truly beautiful now, pale and drawn, refined by pain, all the dross consumed by the cleansing fire. Creasy tried to wave to her, but he found that he couldn’t raise his arms. “They’re friends of mine,” he said petulantly. “A fine old family. We’re quite good friends.” He struggled helplessly against the hands that carried him toward the car. “She’s a nobody, of course. But we’re friends. I’ve called on them. You don’t believe that, do you?”

“We’ll talk about it later,” Roth said. His face was still hard, but his voice had changed slightly; he saw the sickness in Creasy’s face and eyes. “Let’s go now.”

“Yes, of course.” Creasy was smiling shyly now; they I didn’t realize that he was wealthy — that was his little joke. The suitcase full of money belonged to him, and it represented a permanent barrier against rudeness and insult. He would put these vulgar fools in their place, oh, yes indeed. But not yet. Give them a bit more rope... Creasy I was beginning to laugh as they put him into the car. It was f so funny he didn’t know how he would ever stop.

On the sidewalk across the street Ellie Bradley was looking up at Crowley. She hadn’t seen Creasy’s arrest; Crowley had spotted Roth, and had stepped in front of her just as he had closed in on Creasy. Ellie had been crying; her face was streaked with tears, but her eyes were radiant — clear and incredibly happy.

“I can’t say good-by properly now,” she said, holding his arms with both hands. “Will you come over tonight? With your wife? I want you to see Jill. Will you?”

“Yes, I’ll call you,” he said, smiling at her. “Now hop in. Your baby’s waiting for you.”

“And so is yours,” she said. “We can’t ever be grateful enough, can we?”

“I don’t see how.”

“Okay, honey,” Dick Bradley said, touching her arm. He was waiting for her at the side of the car. The driver had already started the motor.

“Yes, yes,” she said, in a voice that was trembling with eager excitement.

She turned and climbed into the rear of the car. Bradley grinned and shook hands with Crowley. “You’ll call us? For sure?”

“For sure,” Crowley said.

The car moved away from the curb, gathering speed as it headed toward Third Avenue. Ellie looked out the rear window and blew him a kiss, as the driver swung into the intersection.

Crowley waved a good-by to them. He stood there for a few seconds, smiling faintly at the early morning serenity of the street; trucks and cabs went by on their way to the new day and there were children playing in front of the old brownstones down the block. Women walked toward the avenues with shopping bags folded over their arms, and on the landings of fire escapes a few old men were soaking up the thin spring sunlight.

Crowley lit a cigarette and flipped the match toward the curb. He buttoned the top button on his shirt and pulled up the knot of his tie. Still smiling faintly, he glanced up at the massive black door of the Bradleys’ home. Inside another agent was on duty, tidying up loose ends. Crowley’s job was over. The tension of the last three days was flowing out of him and a bone-deep tiredness was settling in; he felt very weary, very eager to be home. Taking a deep drag from his cigarette, he walked to the curb and waved down a cruising cab.