Nobody Knew They Were There

by Ed McBain

“It’s not necessary for a person to confide everything to another person, Sara. I think you’ll find …”

  “If you give me another lecture, Sam, I swear to God I’ll …”

  “You called me Sam.”

  “Yes, and I’ll crown you with this goddamn sugar bowl if you get on your soapbox again.”

  “It’s a habit. Even in court. I’m always lecturing juries. Bad mistake.”

  “Ahh, at last he admits it,” she says, and sighs.

  “But I still don’t want to hear about Seth.”

  “I didn’t plan to tell you about Seth. I wanted to tell you why. I went to Seth’s. That’s an entirely different thing.”

  “It sounds the same to me.”

  “Well, it isn’t. I went to Seth’s because, first of all, I felt awful about having double-crossed you. I wanted to call you to apologize, but I realized that was the wrong thing to do.”

  “Naturally. The right thing to do was to go to bed with Seth.”

  “No. But I couldn’t call you, could I?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because then you’d have thought the only time I went to bed with you was after I’d done something horrible to you. Like arranging for Ralph to listen in on your phone calls Saturday, and then asking Seth to invite you to the party, and then feeling terrible because of what I’d done, and sorry for you, and all that, and telling you to come over to my place afterward. Like that, Arthur—Sam. Would you mind terribly if I continued calling you Arthur?”

  “Why can’t you call me Sam?”

  “Suppose I suddenly told you my name was Alice? Could you call me Alice?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I’ll bet you couldn’t. Anyway, that’s not important. Do you see what I mean about not being able to phone you?”

  “Yes. But I don’t see why you phoned Seth instead.”

  “Arthur … why did you pick up that leaf at Seth’s party? I thought that was terribly sad and touching, the way you picked up that leaf and put it in your pocket.”

  “That’s exactly why I picked it up. I was being dramatic. The way you were.”

  “I wasn’t!”

  “Sara, you are the phoniest human being on the face of the earth.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t agree with you. When I picked up the leaf, it was a beautiful tender thing. Because I happen to love leafs. But you only did it for effect, when I thought you were honestly responding to …”

  “Sara,” I say, warningly.

  “I’m sorry, but it was beautiful. To me, it was beautiful.”

  “To me, you are beautiful.”

  “Yes, well I am beautiful,” she says.

  “No, you’re not really.”

  “I’m not? What do you mean I’m not?”

  “You’re simply not.”

  “That’s great, you know? You’re either lecturing me, or yelling at me, or putting me down. Some people think I’m quite beautiful. A lot of people, in fact.”

  “So do I. That has nothing to do with it. You’re not beautiful.”

  “Here we go with his goddamn riddles,” Sara says, and rolls her eyes.

  “You were telling me why you called Seth instead.”

  “Because he thinks I’m beautiful.”

  “That’s probably true. But it isn’t why you called him.”

  “I called him to punish myself.”

  “How?”

  “Because he’s only a friend, and I had no desire at all to go to bed with him or anything, so I thought I would. Instead of calling you and going to bed with you.”

  “Why did you have to go to bed with anyone?”

  “I didn’t have to go to bed with anyone, Arthur. I had to go to bed with you. Which is why I left Seth’s at God knows what hour of the morning and walked all the way to the hotel without a coat. To be with you.”

  “So here we are.”

  “Yes, isn’t that nice?” Sara says, and reaches across the table to cover my hand with her own. “I think I’m growing fond of you, Arthur.”

  “Well, that’s …”

  “Hurry,” she says, “finish your coffee. We have a million things to do.”

  We go first to Seth’s place. He comes to the door in his pajamas, surprised to see us. Sara says she wants her coat and her contacts. Seth keeps watching me in guilty embarrassment. Sara puts in her lenses and then blinks and looks around as though discovering a universe. I help her on with her coat, we politely decline Seth’s offer of coffee, and then we leave.

  At the bicycle rental shop, quite by accident (or is it?), we run into Epstein. The money man looks different without his houndstooth jacket and gray flannel slacks. He is wearing blue corduroy trousers and a red and white reindeer sweater, the type that went out of vogue in the late forties. His accessories are a navy blue muffler, a watch cap in a lighter shade of blue, and brown fleece-lined gloves.

  “Hello,” he says, “what a surprise! Plan to do a little cycling?”

  “It’s a beautiful day for a little cycling,” Sara says.

  “Which way are you going?”

  “I thought out past the arboretum,” Sara says.

  “I would have thought you’d head for the Gap,” Epstein says, and winks at me, with the shop attendant standing not two inches from my elbow. I remind myself that this man worked with Army Intelligence during World War II, that he was possibly responsible for saving the lives of God knew how many Americans lost behind German lines. But putting Intelligence aside (and he seems to have done just that), I find his lack of discretion overwhelming. I suddenly feel that I am in enormous danger, that I have entrusted my safety to a band of amateurs who have had the gall, into the bargain, to inform me that I am the amateur. Look, he worked with Das Fräulein, I tell myself. He knew what he was doing then, he cannot have forgotten it all. Then why does he need me? I ask. And I recognize that this is what troubles me most of all. Why do these men, former Colonel Cornelius Augustus Raines and former Major Morris Emmanuel Epstein, both trained in the art of destruction and deception, need me to blow up their goddamn bridge? Good question, Eisler. Ask Hester next time you see her. She seems to have all the answers lately.

  “Mind if I ride a ways with you?” Epstein asks.

  “Not at all,” Sara replies.”

  I am adjusting the bicycle clip to my trousers leg when she answers, and I look up at her sharply. She smiles and shrugs. We ride away from the shop three abreast, Sara in the middle, Epstein and I on either side of her. The air is sharp and cold. We pedal over hard snow-packed streets, past the arboretum and onto a back road banked high with snow at the curbs. Everything is white. Even the sky is white, heavy with the promise of more snow. The town is surrounded by mountains, and every road leading out of it eventually becomes steeper. Epstein is beginning to huff and puff a bit. I suddenly know what they need from me. They need my youth. The notion is darkly humorous. They need from me the very thing I need from Sara. As if to confirm this, Epstein breathlessly says, “Bicycles are an anachronism. A man of my age and temperament should not be forced to endure them.”

  “Then why do you?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Hester suggested that I talk to you.”

  “Why didn’t you simply telephone?”

  “Your telephone is bugged,” Epstein says. “That’s how I knew where to find you. Miss Horne’s call to the rental shop was monitored.”

  “I thought Hester agreed to have that stopped.”

  “Did she?” Epstein shrugs. “Hester changes her mind quite frequently. Your phone is still monitored, believe me.” He shrugs again. “It’s all so very complicated today, isn’t it? Do you know what I believe, Mr. Eisler? I believe we have not yet caught up with the science-fiction age that is already upon us. We are, in a very real sense, as primitive as the cave man. Within our own confounding environment, we are as ignorant as he was. Certainly, the mysteries surrounding us are more impenetrable than any he might have encountered. But in much the same way that he accepted fir
e, we have accepted telephone taps and journeys to the moon—neither of us truly understanding.” Epstein sighs and says, “It all goes by too quickly, Mr. Eisler. The people living in any given age are rarely its beneficiaries. They merely endure it. The way I am enduring this damned bicycle.”

  “What did Hester want us to talk about?”

  “I understand we need a dynamiter.”

  “That’s right.”

  “She asked me if I might know one.”

  “Do you?”

  “I suggested some possibilities. It’s easy enough to find a man who knows how to handle dynamite, you understand. It’s another matter to find someone who’s willing to get involved in this sort of thing.”

  “Even for seven thousand dollars?”

  Epstein shrugs. “Assassination may have become an American way of life,” he says, “but it’s still frowned upon. I honestly don’t know what success we’ll have. I suggest that you begin doing a little research, Mr. Eisler, in case you have to blow the bridge alone. Have you found out yet how long the train will be?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Don’t you think you should?”

  “Yes. But there isn’t a car barn in town, and the only trains available for measure are the ones pulling into the station. I can’t very well go up to a train sitting on the tracks there.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you can,” Epstein says thoughtfully. “Wasn’t there something in Time about this Peace Train? Number of cars, and so on?”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  “I’m sure there was. Let me look through my back magazines. I’ll contact you if I locate it.”

  “Do you know where I’m staying?”

  “We all know where you’re staying,” Epstein says. “Well, this is getting a bit steep for me. If you don’t mind, I’ll turn back. I enjoyed your company. Good day.”

  He wheels his bicycle around and starts coasting back toward town. Sara and I continue pedaling uphill. In a little while, we get off the bicycles and walk them.

  “Did you know he’d be at the bicycle shop?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “You can trust me.”

  “Now.”

  “Yes. Now.”

  We stop for lunch at a tiny restaurant some five miles outside of town. There is an open hearth with a roaring fire. Westerns ladies in pretty hats sit drinking Manhattans. We scan the menu, realize the food will be anything but exceptional, and decide to drink the afternoon away. After her fourth drink, I find myself becoming, fiercely protective. It occurs to me for the first time that Sara has parents someplace, and that they might not approve of her drinking this way. It also occurs to me that they might not approve of her going to bed with a married man twice her age, but I conveniently put this out of my mind. When at last we order, it is close to three P.M., and the ladies in their hats have all departed. The waitress, a blowzy blonde with the look of an habitual drinker, impressed by our capacity for booze, has adopted us as her very own. She fusses around the table as we order, recommending one house specialty after another.

  “How’s the spaghetti?” I ask.

  “Oh, very good, sir.”

  “Are you Italian?”

  “No,” she says.

  “What are you?”

  “American,” she says, and laughs. “I’m so American it hurts.”

  “You’re an Indian?”

  “No, no,” she says, still laughing. “But my people practically came over on the Mayflower. Do you want the spaghetti?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sara says.

  “Shall we try the London broil?”

  “Yes,” Sara says.

  “Two London broil,” I say.

  “How would you like those, sir?”

  “Medium rare,” Sara says.

  “Medium rare,” I say.

  “French fries, baked, or mashed?”

  “French fries,” Sara says.

  “French fries,” I say.

  “Green beans, peas, or succotash?”

  “No vegetable,” I say.

  “No vegetable,” Sara says.

  “French, Russian, or Roquefort on your salad?”

  “Roquefort,” Sara says.

  “Roquefort,” I say.

  “Would you care to see the wine list, sir?”

  “I’d prefer beer, but perhaps …”

  “Beer,” Sara says.

  “We have Ballantine’s, Schaefer’s, Michelob, and Miller’s. Or if you prefer imported beer, we have Heineken’s, Löwenbräu, Amstel and …”

  “Amstel,” I say.

  “Amstel,” Sara says.

  “Thank you, sir,” the waitress says, and leaves.

  Sara is smiling. She is looking at her hands on the tablecloth and smiling.

  “What is it?” I say.

  “Nothing,” she answers, “nothing.”

  But she is still smiling.

  Later that night, Hester arrives at the hotel unannounced.

  “I thought it best not to telephone,” she says. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” She says this with a sidelong glance at Sara, who is naked in bed with the covers pulled to her throat. Since I have not thought to bring a robe with me, I am standing in the doorway with my coat on over my nightshirt. The whole scene is entirely embarrassing. My one fear of burglars has always been that they will enter the house while I am in bed and find me with my hairy legs hanging out.

  “What is it, Hester?” I ask.

  “May we close the door, please? Hello, Sara,” she says.

  “Hullo.”

  I close the door and lock it. Hester walks in and takes the chair alongside the television set. In bed, Sara is looking up at the ceiling, perhaps visualizing paper stars pasted to it. Hester is wearing a short car coat over a tweed skirt. A long blue-and-white striped muffler is wrapped around her throat. She looks like an aging sophomore. “I think we’ve found a dynamiter for you,” she says.

  “Good.”

  “His name is Sygmunt Weglowski. He’s a Pole.”

  “Fine.”

  “Actually, we were very lucky to get hold of him. Did you know that you need a permit to buy explosives in this state?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, you do. Weglowski has one because he’s a building contractor and does blasting in his normal line of work. He’ll pick you up here at nine tomorrow morning.” Hester pauses. “Do you think you’ll be awake by then?”

  “I’ll be awake.”

  “Good.”

  “How much have you told him about the plan?”

  “Only what he needs to know.”

  “He understands I’m going to kill a man?”

  “He understands he’s to wire a bridge.”

  “And the rest?”

  “The rest is no concern of his. He’s not a fool. He knows if it’s wired to explode, someone will undoubtedly detonate the explosives.”

  “Did you tell him who that ‘someone’ might be?”

  “No.”

  “But since he’s not a fool, he’ll undoubtedly realize it’s me.”

  “I can’t be held responsible for whatever conclusions he may draw. You asked us to secure a dynamiter, and we’ve done so. Quite frankly, Mr. Eisler, your personal safety no longer interests me. You forfeited all rights to immunity the moment you began lying to us.”

  “I began lying to you at the very start.”

  “Exactly,” she says. She glances at the bottle of scotch on the dresser. “Are you going to offer me a drink?”

  “No.”

  “In that case, good night.” She rises and walks to the door. “Good night, Sara.”

  “Good night,” Sara answers.

  “Nine tomorrow,” Hester says to me. “Be ready.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “Good night,” she says again, and leaves.

  The moment she is
gone, Sara gets out of bed, walks to the chair Hester just vacated, sits in it, stretches her legs, folds her arms across her chest and says, “This is sordid. Jesus, this is really sordid.”

  “Sara …”

  “It is sordid, Arthur. Even you have to admit that.”

  I am still wearing my overcoat, my legs are still hanging out. I feel very foolish, but I do not feel particularly sordid. I am thinking, in fact, that tomorrow morning at nine o’clock a man named Weglowski will be coming to the hotel, and we will begin discussing the somewhat delicate subject of how to blow up a bridge.

  “You’ve got a wife, for Christ’s sake,” Sara says.

  “That’s true.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “If I’m going to be involved in a goddamn sordid affair, I guess I ought to at least know your wife’s name.”

  “Abigail.”

  “Abigail,” Sara says, and then tries the name again. “Abigail. Do you call her Abby?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does she call you?”

  “Sam.”

  “I am at least unique in that respect,” Sara says.

  “What?”

  “I call you Arthur.”

  “Yes. You call me Arthur.”

  “Go to sleep, Arthur,” she says. “I want to think a little.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to decide whether I’ll stay here or not.”

  “I thought we already decided.…”

  “I have to decide, Arthur. There’s no we involved here. You’ve already got a little closed corporation back in New York, so don’t give me any of that we stuff.”

  “Okay, Sara, you decide.”

  “I will.”

  In as dignified a manner as I can muster, I go to the closet, remove the overcoat, hang it up, and then go back to the bed and get under the covers. Sara turns on the television set. They are showing a five-year-old movie about four affluent teen-agers summering on a vacation island. “Did you see this picture?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think kids really behave like that?”

  “I never thought it was about kids.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought it was about adults.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Sara says. “Everyone knows it was about kids. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question.”