The Seven File

Seven

At seven-thirty on Sunday night the phone rang at the lodge. Duke was sitting before the fireplace, sprawled comfortably in his chair, a cold cigar in the fingers of his trailing hand. He was nodding drowsily and his dark, strong face was flushed with the heat from the log fire. The room was warm and snug, the old furniture and flooring gleaming softly under lamplight, the windows and doors closed against the storm that had sprung up in the gathering darkness. Wind and rain drove against the sides of the house in swerving erratic bursts, buffeting them with great banging blows.

Grant was pacing the floor, drawing nervously on his cigarette, and occasionally glancing at his wrist watch. He looked tense and preoccupied; his heavily muscled body was clumsy with strain and his eyes were on the move constantly, switching from side to side, pointlessly checking the comers of the room, the shadows thrown by the spurting flames.

When the phone rang he turned and stared at Duke. “It’s the phone,” he said.

“You were expecting maybe something by Mozart?” Duke said, grinning at him.

“Cut it out,” Grant said sharply.

“Cut what out? Pick up the phone.”

“Sure, sure,” Grant said. Crossing the room quickly, he lifted the receiver and said, “Yes,” in a cautious voice. He listened for a few seconds, frowning faintly, and then, little by little, his expression cleared and a smile began to turn the comers of his lips. “Good,” he said. He drew a deep breath. “That’s fine.”

Duke looked at Grant. “Tell him not to start spending the dough yet.”

Grant made an impatient gesture with his hand. “So far, so good then,” he said, speaking into the phone. “But we’ve had a mix-up. I can’t get back to New York. You know what that means?” He listened, shaking his head slowly. “No, I can’t tell you on the phone. You understand what it means?” Finally, after another pause, he said, “That’s right. There’s nothing to it. It’s all worked out. We’ll be in touch right along, of course. If there’s any question at all, let me know. Yes, yes. Of course...”

When Grant put the phone back in place, he came over and sat down beside Duke. He lit a cigarette and patted his damp forehead with a handkerchief. Some of the tension had eased in his big body. “So far, so good,” he said, glancing sideways at Duke. “The Bradleys got home at five. Creasy saw them pick up the note. They went inside, and that was that. The housekeeper got in at six. Nobody else showed.”

“They’ll do what they’re told,” Duke said, stretching his arm over his head. “They want the kid back. How’s Creasy? All charged up?”

“He sounds fine. He’s going to handle the payoff. We worked out the plan between us, you know. He’s studied every step.” Grant smiled then, but he was watching Duke’s profile from the corners of his eyes. “He can handle it just as well as I could. He’s a damn shrewd little guy.”

“I don’t like him,” Duke said yawning. “I can always spot oddballs. You watch. He’ll be picked up for undressing in the park one of these days.”

“That will be his first pinch then,” Grant said. “Lots of guys can’t say that much. You and me, for instance. But he’s never been picked up, never mugged or printed. And he’s lived in that room across from the Bradleys’ for two years. Even if the cops got into this they couldn’t get a line on Creasy.”

Duke yawned again and got to his feet. “And if they do get a line on him, squealing won’t do him any good. That’s the nice thing in a deal like this.” He put his hands on his hips and grinned down at Grant. “You can trust your partners. The cops don’t provide incentive for weasels. They just bum everybody.”

“Stop talking about burning,” Grant said, and threw his cigarette into the fire.

The door that led upstairs opened and the nurse stepped into the room. “Well, well,” Duke said, turning to look at her. “Everything okay in your department?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“That kid must be pretty good company.”

“She needs a lot of attention,” Kate said. Then she added quickly, “All babies that age do.” She weighed each word carefully; contempt was too dear a luxury. If I don’t anger them they won’t hurt her... this wasn’t hope, it was prayer.

It had come as a shock to her that she could accept the conditions of evil so readily. At first she had known fury, and a kind of terrible surprise — they dare not do this. That had been her first outraged thought. Until then she hadn’t known that men like Duke and Grant existed; God wouldn’t create creatures without pity or mercy, as callous as animals to the suffering of others. But now that feeling of surprise, of incredulity was gone. Duke and Grant existed. Evil existed. And it must be appeased...

Duke drifted over and lounged in the kitchen doorway, filling it with his big body. He smiled down at her, sensing something of her thoughts. “If you got any complaints, think of me as the manager of the joint,” he said.

“No, everything is all right,” she said, making herself meet his eyes steadily. This was the one she feared; not only because he was brutal and pitiless, but because she knew he could see right through her...

“Your room okay?” he said. “And that big bed? Is that okay?”

“Yes, it’s fine.” She made a move to pass him, but he didn’t step aside. Lounging in the doorway, he watched her growing confusion with a little smile. “I worry about you in that big bed. It seems so big and cold. I keep thinking you’ll be lonesome.”

“Please don’t worry,” she said, as he began to laugh softly. She knew her cheeks were blazing. He was doing this deliberately but pointlessly, and this was what infuriated her — the casual quality of his sadism. This was a game for a rainy evening, a substitute for darts or checkers...

“I must bring Jill a bottle,” she said.

“Sure, sure. I never kept people from their work.” Straightening slowly, he gave her room to pass. “But all work and no play does you know what.”

She had to squeeze past him to go into the kitchen, and she knew this was deliberate on his part, too; he wanted to watch her shrink away from him, watch her involuntary reflex of distaste. This told him precisely what she was thinking; all her politeness and tact couldn’t conceal that physical revulsion.

“See you later,” he said, watching her with his knowing little grin. “We’ve got to figure out some way to kill time up here.” Turning from her he strolled back into the living room. Grant looked up at him, frowning faintly. “I told you to lay off,” he said.

Duke shrugged and smiled; his mood was cheerful and he decided to ignore the rebuke. “What a housemother you’d make,” he said, shaking his head.

Hank was sitting at the kitchen table, his injured hand resting in his lap. A pulse under the broken bone was beating sluggishly, and each heavy stroke sent splinters of pain streaking along his forearm. This had been going for thirty-six hours now, and his face was drawn and pale beneath a two-day smudge of beard. Belle sat opposite him, staring blankly at the glass of rum she held in her small, plump hand. They hadn’t been talking; they were hardly conscious of one another’s presence.

Hank glanced up when the nurse came into the kitchen. He had heard the exchange between her and Duke, and now he saw the angry color in her cheeks. Duke’s work, he thought; he always regarded innocence as something of a personal challenge. Nothing delighted him like proving that virtue was a result of fear or apathy. Or lack of opportunity...

He watched her as she moved from the sink to the stove, putting the nursing bottles on to boil. There was no way he could help her, nothing he could do. The completeness of his loss had numbed him; he hardly noticed the pain beating rhythmically as a metronome through his hand and arm. Everything he had fought for in those eight years away from Duke had blown away like dust in a high wind. Freedom, self-respect, the secret, almost sheepish pleasure he had taken in the discovery of courage — that was all gone. But had it ever been his? No; he had only kidded himself. Away from Duke he could deny the fear and guilt. But it was there all the time.

Belle looked up and stared at the heavy rain rolling down the black windowpanes. “How long does this go on?” she said.

“It could last a week,” he said.

Belle sighed and took a sip of rum. “Great, just great.” She was in a miserable mood, blue and dispirited. Unless she was clean and looking her best, she took no pleasure in anything. The house was damp, with drafty currents swirling around her feet; she had put on a coarse woolen shirt over her dress, but that had made her feel sloppy and shapeless. A big fat blonde, she thought unhappily. The rum kindled a warm self-pity in her breast. And not so blonde at that...

“You want some help?” she said to the nurse.

“No, thank you.”

“I know all about babies, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

“No, I can manage.”

“Why, sure you can, dearie.” Belle’s tone was querulous; she wanted to move around, get her mind off herself. “But it won’t hurt you to take a break. Have a cup of coffee and I’ll give the baby her bottle.”

“She’s used to me,” Kate said. “But thanks anyway.” She spoke casually, almost pleasantly, but Hank could see the anger in the line of her jaw.

“All right, all right,” Belle said. “I just thought I’d ask. Proves my heart’s in the right place.” Standing, she hugged her arms to her body and strolled out of the kitchen.

Hank stood slowly when he heard Grant talking to Belle in the living room. The girl turned from the stove and watched him steadily as he moved around the table. This was the first moment they had been left alone together and the tension between them tightened in the straining silence. Fear and danger had heightened their perceptions; each word, each flickering expression was charged with significance.

“I couldn’t shoot him,” he said. Unconscioulsy his hands rose in a gesture of appeal. “Do you understand?”

She stared at him, her eyes dark and watchful in her pale face. “No,” she said.

“He’s my brother. Don’t you understand.”

“I tried to.”

“And you can’t.”

“No.” She looked down at his injured hand then, and said quietly, “It should be in a sling.” There was no feeling at all in her voice.

She took a folded dishtowel from the rack above the sink, and with a swift, precise gesture, ripped it down the middle. Knotting the ends together, she said, “If you can, soak your hand in hot water every few hours. That won’t help the pain, but it will keep it clean. Raise your arm now. Higher. That’s about right.” She looped the dishtowel around his wrist, then put the ends over his shoulders and tied them behind his neck.

“Thanks,” he said.

She looked closely at his hand then, and he heard her draw a sharp little breath. “A doctor should see to it.”

“You don’t understand why I couldn’t shoot him?” he asked her again.

“It doesn’t matter.” She looked up at him, her eyes dark and empty. “Understanding, I mean. You didn’t. That’s what matters.”

Hank heard Belle’s footsteps coming back toward the kitchen. He moved away from the girl and sat down at the table. There was nothing more to say to her now; she didn’t trust him, and that was what he needed to know. He couldn’t trust her then. For he understood what she probably hadn’t realized yet; that Duke and Grant couldn’t possibly let them live.

Belle came in, still hugging her arms to her body, and when she saw the nurse take the bottle from the stove, she said, “You’re going to feed her now?”

“Yes.”

“Let me do it. For heaven’s sake, dearie, I won’t drop her. I was taking care of kids while you were in your cradle.”

“No.” Kate started past her but Belle put a hand on her arm. “Wait a minute. You act like I’ve got something catching. Don’t you think I’m good enough to touch that precious little brat?”

“Good enough?” Kate turned and stared at her for an instant in silence. She looked puzzled and fascinated — as f she were seeing some strange but repellent animal for the first time. “Good enough?” she said, shaking her head slowly.

“That’s what I said, good enough!” Belle’s voice had become shrill and strident. The contempt in the girl’s eyes cut her painfully; she felt here eyes beginning to sting. “You don’t have to act so high and mighty,” she said. “You don’t even know me.”

The revulsion she felt was nakedly apparent in the girl’s eyes and face. “I wouldn’t let you feed a dog of mine,” she said in a low, trembling voice.

“Well, that’s a fine thing to say!” Belle tried to laugh, but there was no conviction in her effort; she couldn’t face the contempt in the girl’s eyes. Turning, she smiled shakily at Hank, appealing to him for understanding. “You hear her?” she said. “Real temper, eh?” She wanted sympathy now, a friend to say, “Forget it. She’s bats—”

But Hank’s eyes gave her no such comfort.

Kate walked out of the kitchen and Belle sat down slowly at the table and poured herself a short shot of rum. The girl’s footsteps passed over their heads, clicking softly down the hall to the baby’s room, and Belle said, “She’s got her nerve, eh?” Glancing at the ceiling, she shook her head. “To hear her talk you’d think I built concentration camps as a hobby. You’d think she was the only woman in the world who could take care of that baby. And it’s not even hers, get that. She don’t have any kids at all. And giving me all that holier-than-thou talk. Me, a better mother than she’ll ever make. I’ve got a kid, did you know that?” She smiled at Hank, “A boy, what’s more. He’s sixteen. And you talk about being a good mother. I gave him everything, but he wasn’t spoiled. I could be strict when I had to.” She sipped her drink and nodded, involved with her recollections. “I’ve seen what happens in these spare-the-rod homes. Of course, I never had to be real strict with Tommy. He was always a good boy.”

“Where is he now?” Hank asked her.

“With my mother.” She smiled at him again, pleased at his interest. “He needs a home, you know. And I’ve been on the move pretty much. He’s on the track team. Runs the mile. He’s good about writing me, and my mother sends me all kinds of pictures.”

“Supposing you didn’t know where he was?”

She looked puzzled for an instant. “But he’s with my mother. I just told you.” Then her expression changed and she smiled slowly. “Oh, oh, digging traps for me, eh?”

She didn’t seem annoyed; she was studying him with friendly interest. “You mean supposing he was kidnaped. Well, if I had the Bradleys’ money I’d just pay up and get him back. What else? That’s what will happen to the baby upstairs. Nobody’s going to hurt her. I told Eddie that from the start. ‘You take that baby home safe and sound or count me out.’ That’s what I told him. And the Bradleys won’t miss the money, you can bet. The worry may even do ’em good. They never had a worry in their lives, I’ll bet.”

She believes all this; Hank thought, watching her without expression. What kind of woman is she? There was no clue in her physical appearance; dyed blonde hair, plump, still-pretty features, surprisingly good legs — the cataloging meant nothing. A moral spastic, he thought. A spiritual idiot, physically incapable of defining behavior in terms of right or wrong. She saw nothing wrong in a kidnaping — she could even discuss the therapeutic effect the worry might have on the parents. But her feelings were hurt because the nurse despised her. Like a child, he thought, a stupid, evil child.

Grant walked into the kitchen, his expression sullen and irritable, and looked at Belle. “Well, what about dinner? You started anything?”

“There’s nothing to start except those cans of beans and frankfurters.”

Grant made an effort to control his exasperation; it wasn’t her fault they were eating out of cans.

“Well, fix something then,” he said. “And why the devil don’t you clean yourself up?”

“In this icebox? Are you crazy?” She stared at him defiantly, but the distaste in his expression made her feel shaky and vulnerable. Why was he he yapping at her? He was the one whose nerves were going to pieces.

It was because of him that she had forgotten to bring nail-polish remover and peroxide. Everything else had been neatly packed away; the baby supplies, powder, cream, food, diapers; and her own clothes had been ready for days. She had planned carefully for the trip, making up little lists each morning and crossing off the items as she bought them — the only thing she had skipped was a last stop at the corner drug store for peroxide and nail-polish remover. Grant had been so jumpy that she had stayed in the apartment, bringing him coffee, listening to his stories about the old days in Chicago. Belle’s mood became righteous and angry. In a day of so the roots of her hair would be turning dark, and that would give him something else to gripe about. “You shouldn’t be worrying about food all the time,” she said. “It would do you good to skip a few meals. You’re getting a nervous stomach. I eat anything that’s put in front of me.”

“Yeah, or drink it,” he said, staring at the bottle of rum. “You think frankfurters are T-bone steaks because you’re loaded most of the time.”

“Look, you got a nerve. I—”

“Belle, shut up!” he said, and she saw that his irritation had grown swiftly and dangerously; his eyes were blank and shiny, and there was a small white circle around his tight lips. “Get the supper started,” he said.

She knew he was ready to hit her. “Sure, Eddie. I’ll get right at it. I’ll fix up something. Something you’ll like.”

“Okay, okay, stop chattering. Get with it.” He looked at Hank for an instant, then turned and walked back into the living room.

Belle rubbed her fists into her eyes, like a child fighting back tears. “He doesn’t mean half of that,” she said. “It’s just that he’s got a lot on his mind.”

“I’ll help you with supper,” Hank said. He could hear Grant moving about in the living room, his heels making a steady rhythmic sound on the pine flooring. Pacing back and forth, lighting one cigarette after the other. “I know a way to dress up those beans,” he said, watching Belle. She would crack first, he thought. “How about it?” he said. “Can I give you a hand?”

“Why, sure.” She looked at him, blinking away her tears. “It’s always easier when you’ve got someone to talk with. That’s the only reason I wanted to help with the baby.” She stood and smoothed down her skirt. “Let’s go, friend. I’m a lousy cook, but willing, so help me.”

Later, while the coffee was heating they sat down at the table for a cigarette. “What’s your son’s name?” he said.

“Tom, so he’s a Tommy, naturally.” Belle was in more cheerful spirits; the bustle and talk had restored her normal good humor. “I shouldn’t have told you about him, maybe,” she said, grinning into his eyes. “You’ll be thinking of me as an old lady in a bonnet.”

He smiled at that. “He’s on the track team, you said?”

“That’s right. Let me get you a cup of coffee, okay?”

“Fine.” When she stood up Hank glanced toward the living room, listening again to Grant’s slow, heavy footsteps...