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.