Nobody Knew They Were There

by Ed McBain

  “I know it isn’t.”

  “What shall I do?”

  “What about your apartment?”

  “What about it?”

  “Is there any stuff there?”

  “Yes. Some pot, that’s all.”

  “Get rid of it.”

  “I will.”

  “And make sure you don’t let anybody in who might …”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow. I want to know what Hank intends doing. And you, too.”

  “Can’t I call you, Pop? I may be in and out …”

  “No, I can’t give you the number here.”

  “What?”

  “I said I can’t give you the number here.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m at a client’s house, and I can’t divulge his name.”

  “Oh,” he says. I know he does not believe me.

  “I’ll get to you tomorrow. Be very careful, son.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says.

  “Good night.”

  “Good night, Pop.”

  I hang up. The tissue I hung over the painting’s eyes has come loose and is dangling from one corner. I pour myself another drink. I suddenly wish the train would arrive tonight. It is getting later and later and later. We are losing them all, we are losing our sons. We are sending them to war, or sending them to jail, or sending them into exile, but we are losing them regardless—and without them there is no future.

  I sit drinking steadily.

  My conversation with David has dissipated the fine good high I was building, but I am soon on the right road again, drinking myself stiff and silly. I feel like calling my mother. I feel like calling her and saying, Guess what little Sammy grew up to be, Mama? An assassin, how do you like them apples? We have assassinated all the good guys in this country, Mama, and now I am about to knock off one of the bad ones, even the score and change a little history into the bargain. What do you think, Mama? Are you proud of me, Mama?

  I am crying when the telephone rings. I am crying, and I do not know why.

  “Arthur?”

  “What do you want, Sara?” I look at my wrist watch. It is two o’clock in the morning.

  “I tried to get you earlier,” she says. “Your line was busy.”

  “So it was. Here I am now. What is it?”

  “Don’t be angry, Arthur,” she says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “You didn’t hurt me.”

  “I’m sorry, anyway.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about.”

  “Roger called me just a little while ago.”

  “Who?”

  “Roger.”

  “Who the hell …? Oh, Roger. How is old Roger? How are all the Indians doing down there in Arizona?”

  “He’ll definitely be here for Thanksgiving.”

  “Good, I’m glad. Give him my regards when he arrives, will you?”

  “Arthur, I am sorry. I am truly sorry. Please believe me.”

  “I believe you, Sara.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I don’t want to have to worry about you.”

  “No, no, no need,” I say. “I’ve got a very important job to do. It’ll require all my time and energy. I’ll be occupied morning, noon, and night. Don’t worry about me, honey. You worry about old Roger, okay? Old Roger’s the one you have to worry about, not me.”

  “Arthur …”

  “Good-bye, Sara darling,” I say, and quietly replace the phone on its cradle.

  (Even fantasies must end.)

  Friday, October 25

  I am being followed.

  My follower is a tall black man wearing black boots, Levi’s, a brown fleece-lined leather jacket, and a white ten-gallon hat. His garb is not unusual. This is a Western town, and cowhands roam the streets together with university students, giving the place the look of a motion picture lot where various costume pictures are being shot simultaneously and the actors are milling about dressed for diversified roles.

  My follower is not Seth Wilson. He is too tall to be Seth. I never get a close look at his face, but he has broad shoulders, a narrow waist, a long rangy stride. He rolls cigarettes with one hand. He is altogether a very frightening mean-looking son of a bitch. I am certain that Seth Wilson has put him on my tail and that he will beat me up in an alley one night for having dared to touch the fair Sara Horne.

  I lead him across town and back again. He is expert at his job, and I cannot shake him. All I gain for my efforts is a working knowledge of the town’s geography and a backache. When I return to the hotel, I take the elevator up to the second floor, get out quickly and look through the large window to the street below. My follower is just entering the lobby. I ring for the elevator again and proceed to the fifth floor and my room. There is a message under the door. Professor Raines has called. I dial his number and he says he would like to meet me, if I am free. I tell him that I am. I do not mention the follower.

  I change into my raincoat and take the steps down to the hotel basement. Chambermaids are carrying clean sheets wrapped in brown paper. A bellhop wheels a serving cart past me and into the elevator. I find a fire door leading to the adjacent hotel garage. I move through lines of parked automobiles and then peek into the street toward the hotel marquee. My follower is nowhere in sight. I hastily leave the garage, turning left away from the hotel. At the corner, I turn left again and hail a taxicab.

  It is difficult to imagine Cornelius Raines as the mastermind of an assassination plot. He is a frail man in his late sixties. He walks with a barely perceptible limp, favoring his right leg. We have agreed to meet at the university’s arboretum, and it is there that I find him pacing anxiously, even though I am five minutes early. He greets me effusively, but his pale blue eyes remain guarded and passive. We walk past trees tagged by the university’s Biology Department. The color here is pleasant, but not as effusive as it had been in the ravine yesterday. The sky, too, has turned an ominous gray. It looks as if it might snow. Raines limps along beside me. He wears a black coat with a small black fur collar, a black Homburg. I keep thinking he should be carrying a cane.

  He is slow to get to the point. I begin to wonder why he invited me here. At last, he says, “I know you don’t get along with Hester.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Ahh, ahh, Mr. Sachs,” he says. “Please. She is a difficult woman, and her manner is sometimes unpleasant. But she is wholly devoted to the cause, and I would hate to see personality differences endangering our project.”

  “I don’t think they will.”

  “I hope not. Whereas Morris raised most of the money, it was Hester … you did know that Professor Epstein raised the money?”

  “Yes.”

  “From all over the country. It is not easy to raise funds for a project such as ours. One can hardly take out an ad in the New York Times.”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “No, no, hardly,” Raines says, and chuckles. He is a dry old man in a bad year. He may be blown away by the first fierce blast of winter. I suddenly hope it will not snow tonight.

  “But it was Hester who first contacted Mr. Eisler in New York.”

  “Yes, I know that, too.”

  “She had heard of him, of course, he is not precisely unknown. He defended the Baltimore Five, as you know, and his Supreme Court brief for Hoffstadter was brilliant, quite brilliant. But it was Hester’s idea to contact him, it was Hester’s surmise that he might know someone who could help us. It is not simple to ask about assassins, Mr. Sachs. It takes courage. Hester is a courageous woman. She is forthright and arrogant and, I suppose, difficult sometimes. But she is also courageous. You can thank her for this job.”

  “I will thank her personally the next time I see her.”

  “Ahh, ahh, that’s exactly what I mean, Mr. Sachs. That note of sarcasm in your voice. You do not like her, I know. You
are naturally more beguiled by someone like Sara.…” He glances sidelong at me. He knows, I think. They all know. She has told them all. “A very beautiful young girl, to be sure, I can understand your interest.” He hesitates. He is on delicate ground, and he realizes it. “But once, not too long ago, Hester was quite beautiful herself. Quite beautiful. And possessed of the same intensity she now has, the same courage. Do not dismiss her too easily, Mr. Sachs. She is a valuable ally. Perhaps more valuable than your little Sara Horne.”

  “Sara Horne is only a friend,” I say.

  “Of course,” he assures me. “I meant to imply nothing more. But she is very young, Mr. Sachs, so very young. And the young these days are not too readily committed.”

  “She seems committed.”

  “To our plan? Perhaps. Or did you have something else in mind?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I feel that Sara Horne is committed primarily to herself. Insofar as this commitment allows her to be committed to our plan as well, fine. Should the two come into conflict, I’m not quite sure which would triumph. I hope Sara never has to make the choice.”

  “You seem terribly concerned about Sara.”

  “I am concerned about everyone in our little group, Mr. Sachs. Especially you. We are only five people, and we are undertaking an insane endeavor, yes, insane. I am an orderly man by nature, and I do not approve of anarchy. I would never have considered an action such as ours if I believed there was any other way. You are the instrument of our deliverance. If Sara brings you succor …”

  “Sara is only …”

  “Please, Mr. Sachs, we know she spent Wednesday night with you.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “She did not have to tell us. We are none of us children. Do you deny it?”

  “I deny it.”

  “Then you’re a liar.”

  “No, I’m a gentleman.”

  “One does not necessarily exclude the other,” Raines says, and shrugs. “You are sleeping with Sara, all well and good, I have no quarrel with that. Unless, Mr. Sachs, unless it begins to interfere with the job you’re here to do. If that should happen, I think you will find I can become extremely quarrelsome. By the same token, should you and Hester …”

  “Professor Raines,” I interrupt, and pause significantly. “My private life is my own. I hardly think it’s any concern of …”

  “While you’re here, Mr. Sachs, you have no private life.”

  “Don’t make that mistake, Professor Raines. Your money hasn’t bought …”

  “Don’t you make the mistake of underestimating me, Mr. Sachs. I’m an old man, true, but an extremely strong one. I know you’re a killer of some reputation, but I was a killer once myself, and I’ve not forgotten my trade. I am quite capable of strangling you right here and now should the need arise.” He smiles pleasantly, and a shiver runs up my back. “I was about to say …”

  “I don’t frighten easily, Professor Raines.”

  He looks at me skeptically. I know that my face must be pale, my eyes must clearly reveal fear.

  “Yes, well, let’s not play at espionage, eh?” he says in dismissal. “I was about to say that by the same token, should your personality differences with Hester become insupportable, I shall have to take measures to correct that situation as well.”

  “What measures?”

  “Measures.”

  “Like getting rid of Hester?”

  “No. I could never do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Hester is indispensable. You are only necessary.”

  “You’re forgetting that I already have seven thousand dollars of your money.”

  “You’ll return that if we ask for it.”

  “Don’t be too sure.”

  “I am certain,” Raines says.

  “Have we finished talking?”

  “Not quite. I want to make my position absolutely clear, Mr. Sachs. It was not easy for me to decide upon this present course of action. I’m a political scientist, I believe in government. But ever since the trouble at Harvard, attempts at any sort of meaningful dialogue have been met only with bland assurances that such dialogues would take place sometime in the future, when the country might not be quite as polarized as it is today. Mr. Sachs, the country is no longer polarized, that is a simple fact of life. The country has been brought to heel like a giant dumb beast, and that to me is the final affront, the ultimate indignity. It’s wrong to assume that all opposing ideas are necessarily evil. But it’s evil to assume that all opposing ideas are necessarily wrong. If a nation has been forbidden to think, it has been instructed to act. Assassination is abhorrent to me. I chose it only in desperation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I felt it less sinful than aborting a million ideas.”

  “You sound doubtful.”

  “Of course I am. Aren’t you?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Then I’ve misjudged you, Mr. Sachs. You are a ruthless man.”

  “Let’s say dedicated.”

  “Or perhaps obsessed,” Raines says, and regards me coolly. “In any case, doubtful or not, I’m wholly committed to the plan, and will allow nothing to stand in its way. Not even …” (and here he smiles and bows his head in deference to my definition) “… not even a ‘dedicated’ man. There’s far too much at stake here, Mr. Sachs. Before allowing you to jeopardize something that was decided upon after months and months of agonizing, I would kill you first.”

  “The plan is in no jeopardy.”

  “Your assurance is appreciated, but not solicited. I will know if and when it’s in jeopardy, believe me.”

  “How? Is the black man yours?”

  “What black man?”

  “The one who’s been following me.”

  “I have engaged no one to follow you,” Raines says. His eyes are suddenly troubled. “This alarms me, Mr. Sachs. I would hate to think you’re already suspected.”

  “You have no idea who he is, huh?”

  “None whatever.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You can believe me. If I am nothing else, I am utterly honest.”

  “The very young and the very old, both so utterly honest. How do you come by it so easily? It’s taken me half a lifetime, and I still haven’t managed it.”

  “Perhaps because you think it’s come by so easily, Mr. Sachs.”

  “Do you know what I think? I think everyone in this grubby little town is full of shit. What do you think of that, Professor Raines?”

  “I think I dislike profanity.”

  “Fuck you, Professor Raines.”

  He seizes the collar of my coat abruptly, and twists it in his left hand. At the same time, his right hand comes up and he strikes me harshly and repeatedly across the face. He hurls me away from him like a broken twig. I am tempted to whimper. It is as though my father has administered a severe whipping.

  “Don’t ever talk to me that way again, Mr. Sachs,” he whispers. “Ever.” He hesitates. “Do you understand me?”

  I am angry enough to kill him. I do not answer him.

  “Do you understand me?” he repeats.

  Sara is not here in this silent wood to see me or to hear me, to lend support or give approval. But I find the courage, or the foolhardiness, nonetheless. I clench my fists and look directly into Raines’s eyes.

  “Fuck you, Professor Raines,” I repeat.

  He does nothing. He merely nods. Perhaps he is frightened. Or perhaps he is only waiting for another time. He turns abruptly on his heel and limps away from me. The leaves are falling softly everywhere around him, and the sky is still leaden with the promise of snow.

  I keep calling Boston.

  There is no answer at my son’s apartment. I begin to worry. Have the police broken in on him? Has he been foolish enough to hold onto his cache of marijuana, despite what happened to his friends? It is one o’clock on the Eastern seaboard. I ma
y just catch Eugene before he goes out to lunch. I place the call with the switchboard downstairs, and then hear Bernice’s voice answering on the other end of the long-distance line. She is surprised to hear that I am in Salt Lake City. I tell her that I want to talk to Mr. Levine, and she asks me to wait just one moment. His voice explodes onto the line.

  “Sam? Where the hell are you?”

  “Salt Lake City.”

  “That’s pure crap, Sam. Where are you?”

  “Crap or not, it’ll have to do, Eugene.”

  “Why? What’s going on? Abby’s been calling here every hour on the hour. Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What are you doing in Salt Lake City? Or wherever you are.”

  “That’s not important. Eugene, I need your help.”

  “I think you need a doctor’s help, is what you need.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach David at his apartment in Boston, and I can’t get an answer. Some of his friends were arrested on narcotics charges. One of them is thinking of jumping bail. David’s considering the idea of going with him if he leaves the country. I’m very worried about it.”

  “If you’re so goddamn worried, come on home and take care of it yourself.”

  “I can’t, Eugene. Will you keep trying him in Boston?”

  “Yes, I’ll keep trying him in Boston.” Eugene hesitates. “Where can I reach you, Sam?”

  “Ah-ah, counselor. Transparent ploy. I’ll call you at home tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll be out tomorrow morning. It’ll have to be tomorrow afternoon. What do you want me to ask David?”

  “Find out what his friend is planning to do. And ask him if he got rid of that stuff in his apartment.”

  “What stuff?”

  “He’s got marijuana in his apartment. I’m afraid the Boston police may come around with a search warrant.”

  “Dumb bastards,” Eugene says. “Why don’t they leave the kids alone?”

  “Yeah, why don’t they? Eugene?”

  “Yes, Sam.”

  “Will you call him?”

  “Of course I will.” He pauses. “Have you talked to Abby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sam … is this something I can … I can offer personal advice on?”