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...