Nobody Knew They Were There

by Ed McBain

  “I’m the We-Never-Sleep Collection Agency,” I tell her.

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s Room Service.”

  “What are you talking about, Arthur?”

  “A play.”

  “What?”

  “A play. Room Service.”

  “I never heard of it,” she says. “Arthur, please don’t do that.”

  “Please don’t do what?”

  “Whatever you’re doing there. Just quit it.”

  “No.”

  “If you don’t, Arthur, I’ll never forgive you.”

  “Don’t forgive me.”

  “I won’t,” she says.

  “Then don’t,” I say.

  “I’ll never forgive you,” she whispers and rolls in tight against me. She makes love with neither artifice nor skill. Like an idiot savant, she reels off the algebraic formulas of sex with innocent passion, accepting my own fierce ardor with abandon, responding to it with such violence that we seem to climb each other, mountains both, scaling as we cling and hold, as though afraid we will tumble into an abyss, surprised at last by an unexpected summit, gasping for breath in the thin high air.

  “Did you come?” I whisper to her.

  “What do you mean when you say that?” she asks. She is covered with sweat, limp, her arms akimbo, her legs spread.

  “When I say what?”

  “That. What you just said. Do you mean did I get there?”

  “I’ve never heard it said that way before.”

  “It’s what Roger says.”

  “Getting there?”

  “Is half the fun, Roger says.”

  “You know something?”

  “What?”

  “If you mention Roger one more time …”

  “Roger, Roger, Roger,” she says, and giggles, and rolls over and goes to sleep.

  At ten-thirty, we hear a car in the driveway and think it is Gwen returning. As it turns out, it is only one of the medical students. But I am dressed in a wink, and am already putting on my coat. Sara comes into the kitchen in her nightgown and asks if I want some coffee.

  “No, thank you,” I say. “Will I see you tonight?”

  “Maybe,” she says.

  “Sara …”

  “Maybe,” she repeats, and comes down the flight of steps with me and lets me out into the cold morning, and locks the door behind me.

  Sunday, October 27

  There is a message waiting for me at the hotel. It says that Hester Pratt called at eleven-thirty last night and wishes me to call her at once. I do not call her at once. Instead, I order orange juice and coffee, and then I shave and change my clothes, and then I call her. She says it is urgent that she and I meet at her home within the hour. I jot down the address and tell her I will be there in twenty minutes. Then I drink a second cup of coffee, and call Sara’s apartment. The line is busy. I try it again just before I leave the room. This time, there is no answer.

  It is a clear cold day. I feel very good this morning. My follower is not with me. Did I scare him off last night? Or is it simply a matter of too much Lucille? I must get to the bridge today to determine where I shall place my charges. And I must inquire about purchasing explosives. I walk with a good brisk step. A young girl in a Navy pea jacket and a long trailing purple muffler smiles at me, and I smile back and think myself terribly handsome.

  Hester lives about half a mile from the hotel, and I am chilled when I reach her home. It is quite unlike what I expected, a good modern house with a great deal of native stone and heavy wooden beams and large areas of glass. The carved entrance door looks Spanish, the one false note in an otherwise architecturally valid building. Hester answers my ring and leads me into a living room dominated by a huge stone fireplace. Professor Raines sits on a stone ledge set into the fireplace wall. Sara is in a blue chair near a huge brass kettle that serves as a wood scuttle. I am surprised to see her. I realize only now (despite Hester having told me it was urgent) that this meeting is important; else why would our recording secretary be here? Sara looks sleepy. She studies me as I enter the room, but she neither smiles nor acknowledges my presence in any other way. Raines, too, seems preoccupied. I take off my coat and go directly to the fire, holding out my hands for warmth. Behind me, Hester says, “Let’s begin, shall we? Sara, are you ready?”

  I notice for the first time that Hester is wearing slacks. Her voice is harsh, she raps out her words like a dock foreman. It is to be that sort of meeting. I gird my loins.

  “Ready,” Sara says.

  “Mr. Sachs,” Hester says, “we would like to know in detail how you plan to blow up the bridge over Henderson Gap.”

  “I don’t know yet. I haven’t been back to the bridge since the last time we met.”

  “Because you were being followed, is that correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “It would seem to us that someone of your expertise should be able to elude a follower.”

  “This particular follower was very persistent.”

  “Did he trail you here this morning, Mr. Sachs?”

  “No, he did not.”

  “Would you like to know why he did not, Mr. Sachs?” She pauses. I blink at her. I am suddenly apprehensive. “He did not follow you this morning, Mr. Sachs, because I asked him not to.” She pauses again. “David Hollis is working for us, Mr. Sachs.”

  I glance at Sara. Did she know this? She must have known this. And what about Raines? In the arboretum two days ago, he professed having no knowledge of my follower. Was he lying then? Or has he only recently been let in on Hester’s plans?

  The silence lengthens.

  “Nothing to say, Mr. Sachs?” Hester asks.

  “You seem to be doing all the talking, Hester.”

  “Yes, and now it’s your turn. I am going to ask you some direct questions, Mr. Sachs, and I would like some direct answers. Are you ready?”

  “Why’d you have me followed, Hester?”

  “We shall come to that.”

  “Let’s come to it right now.”

  “I would prefer not.”

  “That’s too damn …”

  “Mr. Sachs,” Raines interrupts. His voice is mild and deadly. “Let Hester proceed in her own way, if you don’t mind.”

  “Are you ready, Mr. Sachs?” Hester asks again. I do not answer. “First question: Have you ever killed a man?”

  “Yes,” I answer. I look at Sara. Her eyes are full upon me. She is writing steadily, but she is not watching the pad.

  “When and where?” Hester asks.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “On the contrary, it is very much our business,” Hester says. “Please tell us when and where you killed a man. If ever.”

  “I killed a man in Macy’s window on Easter morning in 1959 at …”

  “Please don’t be facetious,” Raines says.

  “I don’t have to answer any questions that may put me in future jeopardy,” I say. “I don’t know any of you that well.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to tell us whether or not you have ever destroyed a bridge, Mr. Sachs?” Hester says.

  “I have.”

  “When and where?”

  “Again …”

  “Again, you refuse to answer.”

  “Do you refuse to answer?” Raines asks.

  “I do.”

  “You see,” Hester says mildly, “it is our contention that you have never killed a man, never destroyed a bridge, never in fact committed any such acts of violence in your life. That is our contention, Mr. Sachs.”

  The room is silent again.

  I am thinking desperately and furiously. Sara is watching me. The fire crackles and sputters. Outside one of the sliding glass doors, a snow-laden branch falls silently to the ground.

  “I don’t have to produce credentials,” I say at last. “If you have any doubts, call Mr. Eisler.”

  “We already called Mr. Eisler,” Hester says. “Late Friday after
noon.”

  “I’m sure he vouched for me.”

  “He did no such thing. It seems that Mr. Eisler is out of town. We spoke to a girl named Bernice.” She pauses. “Bernice informed us that Mr. Eisler is in Salt Lake City. I left a message for him to call me here. He has not yet called.”

  “Then call him in Salt Lake City.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Mr. Eisler is not in Salt Lake City.”

  “You just said …”

  “He’s here.”

  “Here? In this town?”

  “In this room,” Hester says.

  The room is suddenly very still. I look from one face to the next, searching. They are watching me expectantly. Idiotically, I can think of nothing to say.

  “You are Samuel Eisler, are you not?” Raines asks.

  I say nothing. I keep staring at them. For the first time in my life, my mind is a complete blank. White. Like a field of snow.

  “I thought I recognized your voice the moment we met,” Hester says, “but I couldn’t be sure, I had only heard it on the telephone before then. When Davey found those reports.…”

  And now I speak, now I am galvanized into tardy reaction, alibi and excuse, now the words come tumbling from my mouth, too late. “Mr. Eisler gave me those reports. I wouldn’t take the job unless I knew all there was to …”

  “Did Mr. Eisler also give you a sheaf of his stationery?”

  “Yes. I was to use it if it became necessary to contact him. He told me …”

  “Please!” Hester says sharply. “We monitored your last phone call to New York.”

  “What?”

  “Sara knows the desk clerk at your hotel quite well.”

  I look at Sara and she turns away.

  “At five minutes to six last night, you called Mr. Eugene Levine at his home. He is, as you know, a partner in the law firm of Eisler, Barton, Landau and Levine. During the conversation, he constantly called you ‘Sam,’ and references were made to a son named David and a wife named Abby. There were oblique references to another son as well.” Hester pauses. “You are Samuel Eisler, attorney at law.…”

  “I am Arthur Sachs, hired …”

  “Please, Mr. Eisler. As an attorney, I’m sure you’ve never asked a question in court without being reasonably certain of the answer beforehand. We’re certain now. You are Samuel Eisler, and we know it.”

  “What do I have to do to convince …?”

  “Did Eugene Levine call you ‘Sam’ or did he not?”

  “He did. But that was prearranged, too. In case the need arose to contact each other, we …”

  “Do you have a son named David?”

  “Of course not. That’s all part of the cover. We …”

  “Or a wife named Abigail?”

  “Again …”

  “Again, you’re lying. We have a transcript of the entire conversation, Mr. Eisler! Who was the other son you referred to?”

  “That was a code. It meant …”

  “Was it a boy named Adam Gregory Eisler who was killed in the war last spring?”

  I turn away from her and look into the fire.

  “Was it?”

  “Yes,” I answer. My voice is inaudible, I realize.

  “Yes or no?” Raines says.

  “Yes. It was Adam. Yes.”

  “And do you admit you’re Samuel Eisler?” Raines asks.

  “Yes.”

  The room is silent.

  “You have done us a great disservice, Mr. Eisler.”

  “You’ve done me a greater one.”

  “Oh?”

  “By letting me in on your plot. I would never have come here on my own, would never have dreamt of doing this. The responsibility …”

  “We hired an assassin. Instead, you’ve given us …”

  “I’ve given you an assassin. I’m here to kill him, and I will.”

  “Please, please,” Hester says. “You’re worthless.”

  “Not quite. I’m willing to risk my life.”

  “Your life is of no concern to us.”

  “That would seem apparent,” I tell her. “How many other people have you let in on your damn plot? You’ve got one boy following me and another one listening to my phone calls! Who else is involved, can you tell me that?”

  “You’re the one with all the dossiers,” Hester says. “You tell us.”

  “I’ll tell you this, Hester! You’d better yank that boy off the switchboard right now. So far he only knows I’m Sam Eisler. That’s all I want him to know.”

  “There’s no further need for monitoring your calls. Perhaps you don’t quite understand, Mr. Eisler. We want you to leave, we no longer require your services. When we contacted you in New York, you promised us a skilled assassin. As it turns out …”

  “A skilled assassin is only someone with murder in his heart. I have that, Hester. I have that in abundance.”

  “The train comes through on the second,” Raines says.

  “You’ve made our position impossible,” Hester says.

  “We’ll never find another person in time.”

  “You don’t have to. I’m here, I’ll do the job.”

  “How? Do you know anything at all about explosives?”

  “No, but …”

  “Then how do you plan to blow the bridge?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll find out. There must be books.…”

  “Books!”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “Do you know how to use a gun?”

  “No.”

  “No? Weren’t you in the Army?”

  “I was 4-F.”

  “Impossible,” Hester says.

  “But I’ll kill him if I have to strangle him with my bare hands!”

  “Don’t be melodramatic, Mr. Eisler,” Raines says quietly. “You’d never get close to him with your bare hands. He’ll be surrounded by agents all the while he’s here.”

  “I’ll figure out something.”

  “Do we know anyone else?” Hester asks. She is pacing the room now, biting her fingernails. Sara, on the blue chair, is studiously bent over her pad. She has not looked at me since I admitted I was Eisler. I wonder what she is thinking. It must be confusing to go to bed with Arthur Sachs and wake up with Samuel Eisler. Or did she know who I was last night?

  “I can’t think of a soul,” Raines answers.

  “There must be someone else!”

  “Who?”

  Hester whirls on me suddenly. “Why did you lie to me?” she shouts. “Why did you tell me you knew a man who could handle the job?”

  “I did know one. I do know one.”

  “You!” she shouts, and begins pacing again. “This isn’t a courtroom, Mr. Eisler, we’re not interested in brilliant legal maneuvers. There’s a man to be killed here!”

  “The man who killed my son,” I say.

  Hester stops pacing. Sara looks up at me. Raines, too, is watching from his perch on the fireplace ledge.

  “I want him dead,” I say. “I want to kill him. I want to be the one who kills him.”

  There is something in my voice that commands their complete attention. They are convinced, I know, that at least I have sufficient motive for doing murder. They are convinced, I know, that I am at least capable of killing this man who is responsible for my son’s death, of sending his so-called “Peace Train” tumbling into Henderson Gap the way he sent Adam tumbling dead and bleeding to a jungle floor. This they can tell from my voice and my stance and from what must surely be in my eyes. I have convinced them of at least this much.

  “Get me an explosives expert,” I say.

  “Where are we going to find an explosives expert?” Hester asks.

  “I don’t know. But if you can …”

  “The train arrives in six days,” Raines says.

  “You’re asking us to find someone willing to risk his life.…”

  “I’m asking no such t
hing.”

  “You said you wanted …”

  “I said I wanted an explosives expert. But only to wire the bridge. He doesn’t have to be anywhere near it when the train arrives.”

  “Will you know how to detonate the charges?”

  “He can show me.”

  “It will still be difficult to find someone.”

  “Not if you offer him seven thousand dollars.”

  “Where are we going to get …?”

  “The money that’s due me. Give it to him instead.”

  Hester looks at Raines. Raines shrugs and says, “It’s possible.”

  “Do you know someone?” Hester asks.

  “No, but Morris might.”

  “I’ll need him right away,” I say.

  “How soon?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “And if we can’t get him?”

  I do not answer her.

  She sighs heavily and says, “We’ll talk to Epstein.”

  MORRIS EMMANUEL EPSTEIN

  University professor. Born Werder, Germany, August 11, 1913. Son of Leopold and Esther (Goldfeder). A.B., Harvard University, 1932. Certificat de Litérature Française, U. Paris, 1935; MA, Brown, 1936. Student Sorbonne, École des Hautes Études, Coll. de France, 1936–38. Ph.D., Brown, 1941.

  Instructor French to Associate Prof. French, Columbia, 1947–52. Guggenheim Fellow and Fulbright research U. Paris, 1953–54. Professor French, Chmn. Dept. Fgn. Langs. Western Methodist U., 1954 to present.

  Member Modern Lang. Assn., American Assn. U. Profs., Assn. Internat. des Études Françaises, Alpha Sigma Phi, Phi Beta Kappa. Served to Major, U. S. Army, 1942–46.

  Author: Nineteenth Century French Romanticism, 1956; Charles Fourier and the Phalansterians, 1958; The Disciple, a Study of Victor Considérant, 1961; Une Grammaire Française, 1962; Notes on Le Bien Public, 1965. Translator: Essays of Montaigne, Génie du Christianisme.

  Epstein is sixty-one years old, a bachelor who lives alone in an apartment close to university campus. Parents, both in their eighties, make residence in Larchmont, New York. There is one sister, Bertha, married to a realtor, Denver, Colorado. Epstein’s father retired stockbroker, learned profession Die Berliner Börse before emigrating America 1926 (Epstein thirteen years old, naturalized eight years later). Father apparently quite wealthy, recently contributed five thousand dollars to fund drive Israeli Aid Committee sponsored by Epstein. Goal of drive $25,000, but believed at date of this report Epstein had raised only vicinity $10–15,000. (Check with United Jewish Appeal and various other agencies New York revealed no knowledge Epstein’s fund drive, but explained interested benefactors often make appeals independently, later contribute funds when quota met.) Epstein’s interest Israeli affairs nonetheless seemingly new. He contributed only twenty-five dollars to Arms Appeal December 1972, following Soviet air attacks Israeli “sanctuaries.” Rabbi Goldman, Temple Beth Sholom, states Epstein has not set foot there since arrival university twenty years ago. Also maintains Epstein not socially involved with small Jewish community in town. Fund drive is, therefore, something of contradiction.