Nobody Knew They Were There

by Ed McBain

  “I see.”

  “In fact, it was she who suggested I give you a call, ask if you’d like to come.”

  “I see.”

  “So I’m asking,” he says. There is a definite shrug in his voice. “Do you think you can make it?”

  “Maybe. What time will it be?”

  “Oh, nine o’clock or thereabouts. Or whenever you want to come over. People’ll be dropping in and out all night long.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “720 North Harrington. It’s about seven blocks from your hotel. Nice brisk little walk.”

  “I’ll try to get there.”

  “It’s B.Y.O., Mr. Sachs.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well then, I hope to see you,” he says.

  “Right, thank you.”

  I hang up, and then look at the newspaper again.

  The article appears at first to be only another tired story about the train. It has been labeled “the Peace Train,” the article reiterates, and the avowed purpose of its journey from Los Angeles to New York is “to unite men of good will.” It has occurred to me long before now that the organizers of this hand-shaking, slogan-spouting, cross-country tour have confused their catch phrases somewhat, since the trek is to begin shortly after All Hallows’ Eve rather than Christmas Eve, when the “Silent Night” theme might have been more appropriate. It has also occurred to me that the train itself might have been more accurately, if less cynically, named since the purpose of this jaunt is really to justify the war, rather than to end it.

  In fact, the contradictions inherent in the journey are manifold. They have claimed to the world that we are unified in our determination, and yet the trip has unification as its goal. They have supposedly convinced the people of the United States that their duly-elected representatives desire only world peace, and yet they now feel it necessary to travel three thousand miles across the nation to sell the idea all over again. There is schizophrenia in the air. They have squashed rebellion but now they fear it festers in the silence where their voices echo. All their tired reassurances cannot disguise the true purpose of this journey: to promote peace, yes, but only peace of mind; to still the doubts as effectively as they have stilled the clamor. Fear is the motivating force here, it can be sensed, it can be sniffed, the fear of embryo tyrants who suspect they may have gone too far, or perhaps not far enough. To disinfect this certain stench emanating from the top and seeping down to where it may once again stir the population into action, they have now made an announcement (and this is the only new and exciting thing about the newspaper article) designed to demonstrate their own sense of security.

  The current news item clearly states for the first time that both of them will be on the train, prior commitments notwithstanding. From the beginning, of course, it was apparent that the notion of a whistle-stop train trip was politically archaic, clearly motivated only by a sure sense of showmanship. But they have now added daring to their theatricality. What better vote of self-confidence than to announce that they will both be on the train? No longer will merely one of them face the nation unafraid, oh no. So certain are they of those “men of good will” out there, so positive of unanimous approval that they will risk the trip together. The importance of this tour will take all precedence, they have solemnly announced. In Los Angeles, they will board the train in tandem on the evening of November 1, ride side by side like driver and shotgun on a hunnerd-per cent American stagecoach as it wends its way (amid waving American flags, no doubt) to arrive in New York sometime during—I have forgotten to call Eugene in New York.

  I look at my watch. It is almost six o’clock—eight in the East. I place the call to Eugene’s apartment in Manhattan. He tells me that he is on his way out to dinner, in fact has his hat and coat on.

  “Is it snowing there?” he asks.

  “It snowed yesterday.”

  “It’s snowing here now,” he says. “Cold as hell, too.”

  “It’s sixteen above here,” I tell him. “Did you reach David?”

  “Yes. But not at his apartment.”

  “Where then?”

  “He’s home. With Abby.” Eugene hesitates. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Sam, that’s where you should be, too.”

  “Yes, well, thank you for your advice. What did David say?”

  “He’s planning to leave for Denmark with his friend.”

  “When?”

  “Before the case comes up.”

  “Has a date been set for the trial?”

  “November fifth.”

  “Is his friend definitely jumping bail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has he got a passport?”

  “He was in Europe last summer with his parents. He’s got a passport.”

  “Did you try to talk David out of it?”

  “I did. But I’m not his father. I think you’d better call him yourself.”

  “I don’t want to get into another long conversation with Abby.”

  “She’s your wife, you’ve got to talk to her. Do you want your son running all over Europe with a kid who’s wanted by the police?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then take my advice, Sam …” he begins, and says something else but I cannot hear him clearly because the bells start again at that moment, tolling the hour.

  “What did you say?

  “What the hell was that?” Eugene asks.

  “The bell tower.”

  “Sounds like it’s right in your room.”

  “Yeah. What were you saying, Eugene?”

  “I was saying take my advice and come home.” He hesitates. “You lost one son, Sam. Don’t lose another.”

  I do not answer for a moment.

  “Sam?” he says.

  “I’m here.”

  “Will you come home?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I lost one son, and I don’t want to lose another.”

  “You’re not making sense, Sam.”

  “I’m making a lot of sense, Eugene.”

  “Will you call Abby?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say, and hang up.

  It is a much brisker walk than Seth promised, these seven blocks from the hotel to his apartment. The sidewalks have been shoveled clear and spread with ashes in many spots, but the walking is for the most part slippery and treacherous and there is a cruel biting wind that relentlessly attacks the face. I clutch against my chest a brown paper bag containing the fresh bottle of scotch I bought, my other hand in the pocket of my coat, my head ducked, my eyes tearing. I am hoping it will not be this cold on the morning the train arrives. I am beginning to realize that November second is only a week away, and I have not even begun inquiries yet as to how I can get the explosives I will need.

  The building is a small two-story clapboard structure with a shoveled path leading to a tiny roofed front porch. A curtainless picture window fills almost the entire front side of the lower story, illuminating the snow-covered front yard and revealing a roomful of people inside. I do not see Sara among them. I am suddenly tempted to go back to the hotel and drink myself into a solitary stupor.

  There are leaves on the front porch, huddled in the corners as though protecting themselves from the bitter cold. I search for a bell or a knocker, but there is none. The upper half of the front door consists of a pane of glass set into the wood and curtained from within. I try the knob and the door opens. A narrow flight of steps leads to the second story of the building. The steps are dark and seem as steep as my ravine. To the right of the steps, there is another door. I knock on it, and wait, and then knock again, and then enter.

  The first person I see is my follower.

  He is wearing blue jeans and boots and a tan shirt with pointed pocket flaps. He is sitting on the piano bench and smiling. A blond girl is sitting beside him, one slender hand on the keyboard of the old upright. My follower looks me directly in the eye, but he does not stop smiling. There i
s music coming from the record player, and the blonde says, “Here, listen, it’s coming up, right here,” her head cocked toward the record player as she strikes a chord, and my follower chuckles and nods, and says, “Yes, indeed, that’s it,” and he does not take his eyes from my face. Seth Wilson appears at my elbow.

  “Hello, Mr. Sachs,” he says, “I’m glad you could make it.”

  “I brought scotch,” I say stupidly, and exhibit the brown paper bag.

  “Oh, that’s fine,” Seth says. “Why don’t you just put it in the kitchen, Mr. Sachs?”

  I nod. There are perhaps a dozen people in the room, but I am aware only of my follower. Seth gently takes my elbow and leads me through the doorway into the kitchen.

  “Can I take your coat, Mr. Sachs?” he says.

  “Yes. Thank you. Yes.”

  I put the bottle on the kitchen table. It is crowded with beer bottles, I notice, and I begin to think I’ve committed a social error by bringing hard whiskey. The truth is, being forty-two years old, I am not invited to very many B.Y.O. parties. I take off my coat and hand it to Seth. He moves perhaps three steps to his left, and throws the coat through an open doorway, hopefully onto a bed. There are six or seven people in the small kitchen, most of them young, one of them a man slightly older than I, with a middle-aged paunch and a Chinaman’s beard. He is in deep conversation with a tall brunette in a short red dress and a floppy pink hat. Sara is not in the kitchen. The clock on the wall reads nine-thirty.

  “Fix yourself a drink, why don’t you?” Seth says. “Then I’ll introduce you around.”

  “Thank you.” I put two ice cubes into a large water glass, and fill it with scotch. I take a deep swallow. Then I take another one. From where I am standing near the kitchen table, I can see into the other room, but not to where the piano is. Seth is watching me. He is wearing the smile he wore the day Sara introduced us. Stupidly, I look at my watch.

  “She’ll be here,” he says, “don’t worry.”

  He takes me into the other room. There is a momentary silence as we enter, and I feel awkward and uncomfortable, but only until a new record drops into place, and there is music again, the rock-and-roll stuff Adam used to play day and night, the stuff David still plays constantly. The blonde laughs. In a lumpy easy chair near the front window, I see Epstein sitting, still wearing the houndstooth jacket and gray slacks he wore at Professor Raines’s house. Seth has my elbow. He is leading me toward the piano. The blonde stops laughing.

  “Lucille,” Seth says, “this is Arthur Sachs.”

  “Hello, Arthur,” she says. She is perhaps twenty years old. She is wearing a tan suede skirt, and her long legs are sheathed in dark brown tights.

  “And this is Davey,” Seth says, and my follower grins and extends his hand to me.

  “That’s my son’s name,” I tell him. I have not yet taken his hand.

  “Small world,” he says. His hand is still extended. It is a huge black hand with a pinkish palm.

  “Small world,” I repeat, and I take his hand, and our eyes meet, and he is still smiling, and I am beginning to think I have made a mistake; perhaps he is not my follower, after all.

  “I want another beer,” Lucille says, and rises abruptly. “Do you want a beer, Davey?”

  “No, thank you, honey,” he says. We have terminated the handshake, but our eyes are still searching. The girl goes off into the kitchen where someone greets her in a loud voice. Seth goes across the room to talk to a black girl in a turtleneck shirt and faded jeans. Epstein is watching me from his easy chair, his hands folded across his chest. The window, backed by the blackness of the night outside, has become a large reflecting mirror. The room reverberates with voices.

  “Why are you following me, Davey?” I ask.

  “What’d you say?”

  “I said why are you following me?”

  “I don’t think I get you.”

  “You get me, all right, Davey.”

  “Arthur … it is Arthur, isn’t it?”

  “It’s Arthur.”

  “Arthur, this’s a nice Saturday night party, chance to rap a little with my friends, relax a little after a long hard week, you dig? Now I don’t want any trouble, do you? I hardly know you, man.”

  “I don’t want any trouble, Davey.”

  “Then don’t make any.”

  “I’m going to make plenty if you don’t quit following me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” he says, and gets off the piano bench and walks through the crowd to where a studio couch is against the wall near the record player. A bearded young man with his right leg in a cast is sitting on the couch, his leg extended before him, his head back against the cushions as he listens to the music. There are two posters on the wall behind him, one of W. C. Fields peering over a handful of cards, the other of Lyndon Baines Johnson on a motorcycle. Davey sits down beside the boy with the broken leg, and the two immediately strike up an animated conversation. Lucille comes back from the kitchen with a bottle of beer in her hand. She looks around, smiles at me, and then goes to sit with Davey and the boy.

  There are oil paintings on the wall, all of them unframed canvases, all of them very bad. A mobile made of pieces of glass wrapped in copper wire dangles from the ceiling near the window. There is a scattering of leaves on the floor, blown or dragged in from the porch outside. A Feiffer cartoon is tacked over the record player. There are books piled on top of the upright piano. A vase of pussy willows is on an end table near the easy chair in which Epstein still sits wearing the gloomy look of a Polish villager awaiting a pogrom. The voices rise in uneasy cadence. The music pierces the conversation like an electric stiletto. It is time to join the party.

  Epstein wants to talk only of Paris. He is a dour man, but his pale blue eyes light up when he tells me of a lunch he had at the Pré Catelan, describing in detail each course of the meal, and then going on to tell me what his young lady had been wearing that day, referring to her as The Mademoiselle—The Mademoiselle had on yellow gloves, and she wore topaz earrings that caught the sunshine and held it trapped at each perfectly sculpted ear-lobe—The Mademoiselle this, The Mademoiselle that, he is something of a poet, this Epstein. Except for his wartime experience, I find it difficult to associate him with our plot. More and more, I am beginning to believe that all of it, not only Sara, is a fantasy. She is not here, is she? The fantasy ended two days ago, and she has not yet rematerialized, broken clouds cannot be reassembled. Epstein is telling me now of the afternoon he fell asleep with The Mademoiselle in the Bois, bees buzzing in the flower bed behind them, and The Mademoiselle’s hair spread on the grass, sunlight dappling her face, a true poet this Epstein. He makes me sad as hell.

  I move from him into the kitchen where the man slightly older than I is still chatting with the young brunette in the floppy pink hat. There are seven or eight brown bags of garbage stacked against the wall near the refrigerator, and the man slightly older than I says to Seth Wilson, who has come into the kitchen and is helping himself to some of my scotch, I notice, calls to him where he pours liberally at the oilcloth-covered kitchen table, “Seth, what is this, a hobby or something? Collecting garbage?”

  “Been too busy to take it out,” Seth says, and pours more of my scotch into a second glass, and then carries both glasses back into the living room with him.

  The girl in the floppy pink hat, in a stage whisper that can be heard in Pittsburgh, says, “Who’s that over there?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest notion,” the man says, and approaches me with his hand outstretched. “I’m Victor Koblenz,” he says.

  “How do you do?” I answer. “I’m Arthur Sachs.”

  “He’s Arthur, Sachs,” Koblenz says over his shoulder to the girl, and then strokes his straggly Chinaman’s beard. “This is Jean Trench,” he informs me.

  “Hello, Jean,” I say.

  “Hello, Arthur,” she says, and lifts her glass in greeting.

  “Are you with the u
niversity?” Koblenz asks.

  “No. I sell tractors. And bulldozers. Heavy machinery.”

  “How fascinating,” Jean says.

  “We move the earth,” I say, and smile.

  “I lecture,” Koblenz says.

  “On what?”

  “On a platform behind a lectern,” Jean says, and smiles.

  “That is very comical,” Koblenz says drily, and then goes on to tell me that he lectures on the two most important influences of the century, and when I ask him what those two influences might be, he says seriously, “The Beatles and Playboy magazine.”

  “Victor is a trifle nuts,” Jean says.

  “Victor is totally sane,” Koblenz says, and strokes his beard again. “I am sure if we had been asked to name the most important influences—oh, let us say twenty years ago, as short a time ago as that—we would unhesitatingly have named the three Jews. However …”

  “Victor is also a trifle anti-Semitic,” Jean says.

  “That’s a pity,” I say, “because it happens I’m Jewish.”

  “I am not in the slightest anti-Semitic,” Koblenz says. “Jean is what is known in the trade as a dumb twat. I’m trying to be serious here, Jean.”

  “You’re a serious old drag,” Jean says.

  “I’m serious and a drag, yes, but I’m not old,” Koblenz answers. “I’m forty-seven. That’s not old.”

  “That’s ancient,” Jean says.

  “Ignore her for the moment,” Koblenz says, and pats her on the behind. “The three Jews—Einstein, Marx, and Freud—would most certainly have been considered the most important influences on our century had it not …”

  “I had three other Jews in mind,” Jean says.

  “Who?”

  “Roth, Bellow, and Malamud.”

  “Besides being a dumb twat,” Koblenz says, “Jean is also illiterate.”

  “I happen to be an English Literature graduate student,” Jean says.

  “Which proves my point,” Koblenz says.

  “Are you Jewish?” I ask her.

  “I’m Scottish,” she says. “Which reminds me,” she adds, and lifts my scotch bottle to replenish her drink.