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.
Twenty-five
Inspector West had used the office of Sheriff Davis as his headquarters during the tense, exhausting day. Now it was almost dark and he was relaxing for a few moments at the sheriff’s desk. In the square below him groups of people stood talking in the gathering dusk; he could hear the faint murmur of their voices, see the flare of their cigarettes in the deep gloom. They were discussing the kidnaping, he knew; no one in Williamsboro had talked about anything else that day. The village had been swamped by newspapermen, photographers, television crews; the wire services and big dailies had flown in reporters, and mobile TV units had been cruising through the streets all day long, covering every detail they could get a camera on. Anyone who had been in contact with the kidnapers had become exciting and newsworthy; the druggist, the grocery clerk, friends and relatives of the dead Adam Wilson — they had been interviewed, quoted, photographed, their likenesses and comments preserved forever on tapes and film.
West had held two press conferences, and had faced TV cameras every time he stepped from his office into the corridors of the courthouse. These were chores, irksome but necessary; the public had first rights to the story now. But there was also a vast amount of work to be done — fingerprints, photographs, personal inventories — the routine but exhaustive processing of the prisoners. And their stories had to be checked and rechecked, the contradictions examined from every possible perspective. Leads had to be run down, fast; this morning West hadn’t been able to assume that he had caught all the kidnap mob in one bag. There might be a lookout, a courier, a pickup man, still free, and he didn’t intend to give anyone a chance to run for cover.
This work had gone on at a furious, orderly pace, but now, at last, things were blessedly quiet for a few minutes. The clerks had gone home, his agents were out for dinner, and even the reporters and TV crews had drifted away from their posts in the corridor. The sheriff s second floor suite was calm and peaceful, and West sighed as he lit a cigarette and shifted into a comfortable position in the swivel chair. But the door to the inner office opened a moment or so later, and Hank Farrel walked into the room.