William P. McGivern
The Seven File
For Ken White
One
At ten-thirty in the morning a big man in a black leather jacket turned off Second Avenue into Thirty-first Street. He stopped for a moment to check the number on a building, then continued down the block, limping slightly, favoring his left leg.
The day was bright with early spring sunlight. Children played along the sidewalks, piercing the iron sound of traffic with laughter, and here and there old men sat out on fire escapes, soaking up the soft, thin sun.
The man in the leather jacket kept his eyes on the numbers as he limped past a tailor shop, a cigar store and several old tenements which had recently been converted into smart and functional town houses. The area was in a state of inevitable transition; drab old shops were giving way to florists and interior decorators; and families that had lived here for half a century were being displaced by people who had the taste and means to turn these stately relics into chic, in-town homes. There were children in the block who had grown up like a fungus on the city’s sidewalks; there were others who went to school in taxis, who spent their week ends in the country, and who never went outside unless accompanied by maids or nurses.
The limping man stopped halfway down the block and looked up at a tall building which had been lavishly restored to respectability. He smiled then, admiring the freshly painted trim, the tuck pointers’ handsome effects and the elegantly massive door, with its antique knocker and heavy brass numerals.
The man’s name was Duke Farrel. Smiling now, with the sun brightening his dark bold features, he seemed strikingly handsome. Good humor dissolved the suggestion of coarseness in his face; the wariness in his eyes, and the sullen heaviness about his mouth were less evident when he was smiling. And he smiled much of the time. He was in his late thirties but looked ten years younger than that; his shoulders were wide and powerful, his waist was trim as an athlete’s and his smile was charged with youthful humor and confidence. Except for the limp, which he could accentuate or minimize as he chose, he might have been taken for a lifeguard or a professional football player, a man used to exercise and sun, who lived simply and cleanly, enjoying good plain food and plenty of rest.
Now he started up the stone stairs, one hand on the black, wrought-iron railing, and moving in spite of his limp with an air of businesslike efficiency. He lifted the heavy brass knocker and chimes sounded faintly within the house. Smiling, he listened to their echoes trembling away into silence. He was still smiling when the door was opened by a slender, dark-haired girl in a nurse’s uniform.
“Telephone company,” he said, touching the peak of his cap in a casual salute. His jacket was open and the nurse saw the leather tool pouch that was attached to his belt. The head of a small hammer glinted sharply in the sunlight. “Any trouble on your line this morning?” he said.
“There’ve been no incoming calls,” she said. “And I’ve had no occasion to use the phone myself.” Her accent was Irish, faint but unmistakable.
“Lucky you didn’t.” He smiled easily at her, making her a participant in the little joke. “There’s some trouble with the wiring along the block. It might be here. I’d better take a look.”
She hesitated an instant, and he understood why. Be very careful about letting strangers in. Make sure they have proper identification. This is New York, my dear, and you must remember... She’d undoubtedly received some such injunction from her mistress. Frowning, he looked at his watch. “There’s more than one phone here, I guess,” he said.
His manner disarmed her; he seemed completely business like, anxious to get on with his work. “Yes, there are phones on the first and second floor,” she said. “Come in. please But be as quiet as possible, won’t you? The baby is asleep.”
“I’ve got kids of my own,” he said, with a reassuring smile. “I’m an expert at tiptoeing around the house. What is it, boy or girl?”
“A girl, just a year old.”
Duke Farrel shook his head, still smiling. “They’re really terrific at that age.”
“Yes, aren’t they?” She was smiling back at him now, completely won over.
It was always so easy, Duke Farrel thought, as he stepped into the foyer and waited for her to close the door. People simply didn’t believe in evil. It was a staggering fact. They read the papers presumably, they had a front-row view of the world’s meanness and viciousness, but they still reached for their wallets when someone whined. “Look, I ain’t had a bite since—,” or they took strangers in, picked up hitchhikers, went to the aid of vagrants and derelicts, behaving in short as if human beings were worthy of love and trust.
“The phone is in the study,” she said, walking ahead of him into the living room.
It was all very choice, Duke thought, glancing around with alert, appraising eyes. The original flooring had been restored and the old wood glowed softly and warmly. Fresh flowers and vivid paintings stood out in bold contrast against the charcoal-gray drapes and wallpaper. A group of three low chairs was arranged before the fireplace, and lavishly ornate candelabra stood at either end of the marble mantel piece. It was a charming room, done with loving, experienced care.
This would be Mrs. Bradley’s triumph, Duke knew Fashion was her business. He could imagine her planning these effects, chic and slender, laughing as an idea struck her. “Let’s try a pickup of honest-to-goodness red right here!” And her husband, crewcut and healthy, the product of Boston’s best studs. “It’s fine with me, honey. You do what pleases you.”
The telephone was in a small study which had been decorated solidly and conventionally — a concession, Duke guessed to Boston and background. Green leather chairs, book-lined walls, hunting prints — a man’s room, yes indeed. That would be the lair of Bradley the broker. “A man needs a place to relax in, dear.” And she’d humor him, of course. Because he was handsome, gentlemanly and very, very wealthy. And they were in love, too. Mustn’t forget that. Duke didn’t know the Bradleys personally, and he didn’t want to. But he had become something of an authority on their tastes and habits.
For several minutes he went through the motions of checking the telephone, paying no attention to the nurse who watched him from the doorway.
“Well, this looks okay,” he said, replacing the plate on a black metal box that was attached to the floorboard. “I’ll check the wiring down here, and then the upstairs phone. I can find my way around, I think.”
“As long as Jill is asleep I don’t have anything very urgent to do.”
“Jill? That’s cute.” He glanced at her, his smile casual and friendly. “You’re Irish, eh?”
“Yes.”
A bit cool, he wondered? Not mixing with the maintenance staff? Or was it just shyness? “My father was Irish,” he said. “He always called me Duke because he used to work for one in Belfast.” Duke shook his head. “He was a great old boy, but he never got used to America. Always said it was too big for one little Irishman.”
Most of this was impromptu invention; but it happened to be true that his father had nicknamed him Duke. And the tag had stuck ever since. Through school, in jail...
Duke talked casually while he made a pretense of checking the wiring in the dining room and kitchen. He was an instinctively good actor because he enjoyed deception for its own sake. Now he played a sincere, obvious, salt-of-the-earth type — and played it well. She relaxed after a bit, and began to smile at his good-natured chatter. Duke also knew how to listen, and she found his impersonal but attentive manner very flattering. Without realizing, she did most of the talking. Her name was Kathleen Reilly, he learned, and she had been with the Bradleys since Jill was born. Kathleen had left Limerick when she was fifteen, emigrating to America with her father. She was twenty-three now, and had decided to go back to school at the end of the summer and complete her training as an X-ray technician. But it would be very hard to leave. Jill was such a funny, dear child...