Nobody Knew They Were There

by Ed McBain

“I don’t think so, Eugene. Thanks.”

  “It’s not another woman, is it?”

  “Why does everyone think the only motive in the world is another woman?”

  “When a man suddenly leaves without so much as …”

  “Eugene, did you know that in certain primitive cultures, when a man turns forty, he packs up his belongings, picks up his staff, leaves his wife, his family, and his tribe, and goes off into the hills alone? Did you know that?”

  “Sam, did you know that in certain primitive cultures, men shove animal bones through their lips and oysters up their ass? Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Where are you, Sam?”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon, Eugene. Thanks again.”

  It is snowing when I go out for lunch.

  The town is still. The university streets have been covered by the silent fall, and all is still save for the sound of automobiles jingling by on tire chains. There is a sense of false peace. It causes me to wonder for only a moment why I am here to do murder.

  The university students hurry past, their footfalls hushed.

  I am followed to the restaurant, but when I head back for the hotel later, there is no one waiting for me. I am surprised. I check both directions. I scan the hallways across the street. No one. The snow has stopped, and it is, bitter cold now. Perhaps the temperature has driven my tail indoors.

  In the hotel room, everything looks just as I left it. The telephone, a blank pad, and a pencil are on the bedstand. The pillow is propped up against the headboard. I go to the dresser. My socks and handkerchiefs are in the top drawer. My shirts and undershorts are in the middle drawer. The bottom drawer contains the two nightshirts I brought with me. In the closet, my check jacket and my brown suit are hanging side by side, near my raincoat. A pair of brown shoes are on the floor. Four ties and a brown belt are on the door hook. I go into the bathroom. Toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap are on the counter top. Razor, shaving cream, spray deodorant, and comb are in the cabinet. Everything seems in its place, exactly the way I left it. But I cannot shake the certain feeling that someone has been in this room during my absence. I go to the bed and sit on its edge. I lift the telephone receiver and wait until the law student behind the desk answers.

  “This is Mr. Sachs in 506,” I tell him. “Were there any calls for me while I was out?”

  “No, sir,” he answers. “No calls.”

  “Any visitors?”

  “There was a young man asking for you.”

  “Did he leave his name?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He was a tall black man, sir.”

  “Wearing a fleece-lined jacket and a Stetson?”

  “That’s the man.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “He asked whether you were registered, and I told him you were, and he asked me what room you were in, and then went to the house phone.”

  “To call me?”

  “I assume so, yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  I replace the receiver on its cradle. I do not recall having written anything on the telephone pad, and yet there is a faint impression on its blank surface. I take the pencil in my hand and shade the marks with graphite until a number appears white against the gray: WH 3-5598. I recognize the number at once, and feel suddenly violated. I go immediately to my briefcase and open it. There are a small stack of office envelopes and at least a dozen sheets of stationery in the bag. I remove the top sheet and stare at the letterhead.

  Eisler, Barton, Landau and Levine

  66 Pine Street · New York, N. Y. 10005

  Whitehall 3-5598

  Stacked behind these dozen-odd sheets of blank, incriminating pages, typed on the flimsy favored by some investigators, are the reports on each of the persons in the plot. I take one out of the bag. My hand is shaking.

  CORNELIUS AUGUSTUS RAINES

  University Professor. Born Boston, Massachusetts, December 23, 1907. Son of William and Cora Terry (Sears). Graduate Phillips Exeter Academy, 1925. A.B., magna cum laude, Princeton U., 1929; M.A., 1930; Ph.D., Western Methodist U., 1952.

  Married Virginia Riggs, September 11, 1932. Children: Edward. Married 2d Charlotte Merritt, July 14, 1942. Children: Michael and Janice Kay (Mrs. Robert Stark).

  Enlisted U. S. Army, 1933, promoted through grades to colonel, 1945. Flying Cadet, 1933–34; served with 9th Bomb Group, Mitchel Field, N.Y., 1934–38. 5th Bomb Group, Hickam Field, Hawaii, 1938–41. 389th Bomb Group, Norwich, England, 1943–45. Decorated with Silver Star, Purple Heart.

  Assistant and Fellow in Politics, Princeton U., 1930–32. Assistant Professor Govt., Western Methodist U., 1946–48. Associate Prof., 1948–53. Professor, 1954–56. Chairman Dept. Govt., 1956 to present. Member: American Assn. Univer. Profs. (Nat. Council, 1960–63), American Academy Political and Social Sciences, Lambda Chi Alpha, Phi Beta Kappa.

  Author: The Foundations of American Government, 1948; The Highest Court, 1951; Steps to Equality, 1958; The American Crisis, 1964; Dilemma of the New Politics, 1969; The Constitutional Challenge, 1972.

  Cornelius Raines is sixty-seven years old, lives alone in English Tudor house outskirts of campus. He is a man of fixed habits and routine, perhaps because of years spent in the military. An early riser, he programs his classes (teaches two each day) for mornings, walks to and from Yates Hall rain or shine, despite limp result of war injury.

  Former wife, Virginia, now remarried Brigadier General Richard Unger, U.S.A.F. (Ret.), living Spokane, Washington, reluctant discuss Raines until convinced he candidate for achievement award Citizens Union. Spoke without rancor early days of marriage when Raines thought Army career preferable to low-income job during Depression era. First child Edward (now physician, Boulder, Colorado) already born when Raines enlisted Army, September 1933, after two years fellowship Princeton while beginning doctoral studies—not completed till 1952, Western Methodist. He twenty-seven years old when commissioned second lieutenant in Army Air Corps, left service 1945, rank of colonel. He and Virginia divorced 1939, long before Raines returned mainland from Hickam Field. Virginia knew nothing at all about second wife, though had feeling she was girl Raines met while stationed in England. Subsequent investigation proved her mistaken, Raines met Charlotte Merritt at Western Methodist where he had gone to visit his brother (since deceased) after transfer from Hickam and awaiting new orders. Charlotte, instructor at university, married him 1942, stayed on as assistant professor when he was sent to activated 389th in December.

  Raines flew heavy bombers out of Norwich in raids France 1943 and Germany 1944. His B-24 shot down by “Abbeville Boys,” German FW-190S based that city. Raines led five surviving members his crew south. In encounter with German patrol vicinity Rouen, Raines wounded in left leg, but with radioman-sergeant engaged six of enemy hand-to-hand, both later awarded Silver Star. When contact made with Rouen resistance group and attached American Intelligence Officer, shattered bones in leg had seriously impaired circulation, danger of gangrene imminent. Crew returned safely to England, Raines hidden and nursed two months in cellar of French farmhouse before departure Spanish border August 1944.

  At onset investigation (July), Raines had already left for rented beach house in California, adjacent year-round home of married daughter by second marriage (Mrs. Robert Stark). Raines’s summer activities vigorous and varied. Older man, he is nonetheless athletic, plays tennis every morning at municipal courts, takes son-in-law’s boat out frequently for deep-sea fishing. He holds local record (1972) for largest marlin caught these waters.

  Though exclusively summer resident, he is interested town affairs, attends most town meetings. (Town Board minutes August 1970 record bitter protest from Raines against waterfront pollution from local shore restaurant. Robert Stark, his son-in-law, assured Board measures would be taken to remedy situation.) Stark is an attorney re
presenting many locals, reputed member John Birch Society. Impression in town is no love lost between two men, or for that matter between Raines and own daughter. Neighbor up beach says Raines goes there to visit each year because Janice Kay would not see him otherwise; suggested her animosity due to way Raines treated mother when she was still alive. (Charlotte died cancer August 1971, shortly after Second Pentagon March. Raines’s only daughter was born August 6, 1950, putting Janice Kay’s age at twenty-four. She is a graduate of U.C.L.A., was psychology major there during occupation by military prior to presidential election of 1972.)

  Raines campaigned vigorously in that election, touring Western states to make speeches for the Senator at colleges and universities. In Texas, at one such speaking engagement, he was pelted with eggs while voicing personal opposition to the war. Has been outspoken about it since inception, but has made no public comment since Harvard Riots 1973. At Western Methodist University, Raines highly regarded by colleagues and students alike, said to have unique grasp of subject and magnetic classroom personality. (Outside classroom, he is renowned as voluminous teller jokes, and formidable drinker.) He is due for sabbatical 1975, has been making extensive inquiries local travel agencies about possibility renting small inexpensive house Italy next year. One travel agent offered information that now Raines’s wife dead, he free to gallop off with his “doxy.” This, coupled with daughter’s alleged animosity, led to subsequent search possible relationship with woman other than wife. Discreet questioning colleagues indicates Raines devoted to wife until her death, rules out any possibility illicit relationship existing. Suggest that daughter’s alienation due influence her husband, whose politics differ Raines’s drastically.

  Mediator recent panel discussion (September 12, 1974) local television Channel 2 asked Raines define comment he made after Senator conceded in November 1972: “It doesn’t end here; it only begins.”

  Raines replied he had no memory of ever having made such a statement.

  Saturday, October 26

  I cannot visit the bridge again because my follower is constantly behind me, a black shadow stalking me across the university streets. I ask the desk clerk where the good skiing is, and he tells me it’s twenty-five miles north of the town, on Route 17. The area is called Snowclad, and it is mostly intermediate skiing, he says, though there are a few good expert trails.

  “Are you a good skier?” he wants to know.

  “I used to ski a lot,” I tell him.

  “Gave it up, or what?”

  “Gave it up,” I say.

  The clerk at the car rental place knows me by name now. He inquires after my health and the state of my business, and then signs out a snow-tired Mustang to me. He also gives me a local map, and marks the route to Snowclad on it. He tells me that I can rent equipment there, and then asks if this is my first time skiing. I tell him essentially what I had told the desk clerk. Through the plate glass window, I can see my follower waiting outside, clearly perplexed. Is it possible he does not own a car? For a moment, I consider driving out to the bridge again. There is much work to be done, and time is short. But I realize I cannot take that chance. I head north out of town, constantly checking the rearview mirror. I honestly do not know whether I am still being followed or not.

  My son Adam used to dress very casually for skiing. Unlike David, who at that time fancied racing pants and hard helmets, Adam wore dungarees and sweater, a shaggy old raccoon coat he bought on Third Avenue, no hat. I am dressed somewhat the way Adam used to dress. I am wearing a pair of old gray flannels and a woolen sports shirt and a bulky crew-neck sweater. Over that, because I did not think to bring a ski parka with me (one rarely brings a ski parka with him when he is going West to commit murder), I wear my sports jacket. It is colder at Snowclad than it was in town, a good ten degrees colder. I am not wearing thermal underwear, and my gloves are the thin leather ones I usually wear with my brown overcoat. It occurs to me that I am about to freeze my ass off.

  The man in the rental shop fits me out with Head skis and buckle boots. I nag him about the bindings. He keeps telling me if he makes them any looser, I will fall out of the skis executing the simplest turn. But I am not here to break a leg, and I do not intend to do any hard skiing today. I insist on a setting that will guarantee release under the slightest pressure, and he reluctantly makes the adjustments. In the ski shop, I buy a pair of leather mittens with woolen liners. I am still very cold, but now at least my hands will be warm. (“If your hands are warm, Sammy,” my mother used to say, “you’ll be warm all over.”)

  He was, my son Adam, a tall handsome boy with flashing blue eyes and the blackest hair. I took him skiing for the first time when he was six years old, up to Stowe in Vermont. By the time he was eight, he was skiing the top of Mansfield and coming down trails like the International, and the Nose Dive with its famous Seven Turns, the names of which alone struck terror into my heart.

  I think of him a great deal that afternoon at Snowclad. Alone on the double chair, I think of Adam. Coming down the gentlest trails, giant spruces sliding past, I ski effortlessly and think of Adam. The last time I really talked to my oldest son was two years ago come Christmas, shortly after the election. We had gone to Sugarbush for the holidays and he told me in the frost-rimed gondola as we approached the fairy-tale summit of the mountain that he had dropped out of school. And we talked. And our breaths pluming from our mouths added to the accumulated rime on the gondola’s plastic dome, layer after layer of words crusting on the plastic. It was, the last time we talked together. In January, he went back to Washington, D.C., where he shared an apartment with two other boys and a girl named Felice. I shall always love that girl’s name, Felice, though I never met her and never will.

  He is dead, my son Adam.

  I am here because he is dead.

  The ticket seller at the railroad depot seems not at all suspicious of me. I have come here because I am fairly certain now that my follower is not with me. I tell the ticket seller that I am thinking of catching the train east, but that I’m worried about all that snow on the tracks.

  “What snow on the tracks?” he asks. “We get them tracks cleared the minute there’s any snow. You didn’t see no snow on the tracks.”

  “I thought I saw some.”

  “Where? You saw snow? Where’d you see snow?”

  “Out by the railroad bridge.”

  “Over Henderson Gap?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No snow on that bridge, nossir. Clear those tracks first thing. Clear all the tracks first thing. Got this special locomotive comes through to clear the tracks. You didn’t see no snow on that bridge, mister. Nossir.”

  “I thought if there was snow, it might delay the train. Be better off taking a plane, in that case.”

  “Well, you want to take an airplane, that’s your business. But I can tell you right now we don’t get no trains delayed by snow.”

  “But there could be a delay if there was snow on the tracks, isn’t that right?”

  “Sure, but there ain’t never no snow on the tracks.”

  “How long does it take a train to get from that bridge, anyway?”

  “Which bridge? The one over the Gap?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thirty-two minutes from the eastern signal light to the station here.”

  “But that’s only when there’s no snow on the tracks.”

  “I’m telling you there’s no need to worry about snow on the goddamn tracks. Thirty-two minutes, rain or shine, that’s it. You want a ticket, or don’t you?”

  “No, I think I’ll take an airplane.”

  “Suit yourself,” he says.

  I return the automobile, and then walk slowly back toward the hotel. I am bone weary from my day on the slopes, and cold besides. But I now know that the California train will be crossing the bridge at precisely 10:48 on November second, thirty-two minutes before it reaches the depot. The knowledge is reassuring. It gives me an exact time, it
pinpoints the event, defines it, gives it reality and dimension. I cannot yet visualize myself depressing a plunger or lighting a fuse, those acts are yet beyond my ken. But I can visualize the eastbound express rattling across that bridge, and I can conjure a sudden explosion that sends cars hurtling to the ravine below, toppling in slow motion, car after car in endless succession. I walk slowly through the town. I am growing fond of this place. With my own death a distinct possibility, it is as though I have lived here all my life and am now idly passing my waning days in a familiar place. I think fleetingly of Sara. The streets are covered with yesterday’s snow. The bell tower begins tolling again. It is only five o’clock, but the tolling seems incessant. I quicken my pace. It is very cold, and I have begun to shiver.

  In my room, I am reading the newspaper without enthusiasm when the telephone rings. I pick up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Sachs?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Seth Wilson.”

  “Hello, Seth.”

  “Do you remember me? Sara’s friend?”

  “I remember you.”

  “The spade writer,” he says.

  I make no comment.

  “How are you, Mr. Sachs?”

  “Fine, thank you. What’s on your mind, Seth?” My manner is brusque and abrupt. I am still halfway convinced that he is in league with my follower—or is that only because they are both black? The question raises some interesting possibilities for internal dialogues, but I am too busy wondering why Seth is calling me now. Is it to check on whether or not I’m in? So that his partner can come over to shake the place down again? But if he’d wanted to search the room, he’d had ample opportunity to do so this afternoon while I was at Snowclad. I wait for Seth’s explanation. My attention is momentarily caught by a news item on page seven of the paper. It is the first good news I have read all day.

  “Mr. Sachs,” Seth says, “I’m having a little get-together at my place tonight, and I was wondering if you’d like to join us. Just some of the kids, and some faculty people, it should be fun.” He pauses. “I thought you might like to stop by.” He pauses again. “Sara’s coming,” he says.