Nobody Knew They Were There

by Ed McBain

  “I have no concept whatever of how kids really behave.”

  “Is that a crack?”

  “It’s a bald statement.”

  “You ought to know how kids behave,” Sara says. “You have sons, don’t you?”

  “I have one son. The other is dead.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …”

  “That’s all right.”

  She snaps off the television set. The room is silent. She still sits with her legs outstretched, her arms folded. She is staring at her toes. “I didn’t mean to be cruel,” she says.

  “I know.”

  “I just …”

  “Yes?”

  “I just keep wondering why you’re here, that’s all.”

  “I’m here …”

  “I think I’d rather not know, Arthur. I think knowing would frighten me terribly.”

  “You do know, Sara.”

  “The train?” She shakes her head. “No. I don’t think that’s why you came here at all.” She looks up suddenly. “Do you know what I think? I think you came here to meet me.”

  “So why should that frighten you?”

  “Because that’s only part of it.”

  “What’s the rest?”

  “The rest is what frightens me.” She gets out of the chair suddenly, rushes to the bed, and gets in beside me. “Hold me, Arthur,” she says. “Just hold me.”

  I hold her.

  (I hold her very close; fantasies are gossamer.)

  Tuesday, October 29

  Sara must leave by eight in the morning. Her exam is at nine o’clock, she tells me as she dresses. She wants to do some last-minute studying, and she also has several telephone calls to make. When I suggest that she make her calls from here, she says she would rather make them at home.

  “Who are you going to call?” I ask.

  “Some friends.”

  “Which friends?”

  “Some friends who said they would be here yesterday. Some very dear friends.”

  “Would be here? What do you mean?”

  “From Los Angeles. Something must have happened. That’s why I have to call them. To find out if and when they’re coming.”

  “Will they be staying with you?”

  “If they come, yes.”

  “That’s not so good.”

  “It’s very good. They’re close friends of mine. I want to see them.”

  “I was thinking of me,” I say.

  “Yes, everyone seems to be thinking only of himself these days.” She kisses me on the cheek. “Call me later,” she says, and hurries off.

  I order coffee and sweet rolls from room service. I am sitting by the window looking down at the street when the knock sounds at the door. I look at my watch. It is only ten minutes to nine. The dynamiter is early. I go to the door and open it.

  Abigail is standing there.

  “Hello, Sam,” she says.

  She looks quite beautiful. She is wearing the ocelot coat I bought her last Christmas. A small black fur hat is angled onto her forehead. Blond hair frames her face. One hand is sheathed in a black fur muff; the other is clutching a small overnight bag. I should be surprised to see her, but somehow I am not. I should be concerned about whether Sara has left any of her personal possessions in the room, but somehow I am not. It is as though my life is rapidly funneling toward a conclusion already vaguely perceived, and nothing matters but that conclusion.

  “Come in, Abigail,” I say calmly, and we embrace, and I kiss her cheek, and I feel nothing.

  “Are you surprised to see me?” she asks. She puts down the bag and looks around the room. “What a dreadful room,” she says. “Is this the best room you could get?”

  “I didn’t ask for the best room, Abby.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you,” she says. She takes off her coat and puts it on a hanger in the closet. She is wearing a simple black suit with a gold pin on the collar. “Are you surprised?” she asks again.

  “Yes,” I answer, but I am thinking there are no surprises left; I am terribly sorry, Abigail, but there are no surprises left.

  “Eugene told me where you were. I thought I’d better come out.”

  “Why?”

  “To see you. To help you.”

  “I don’t need help, Abby.”

  “You’ve needed help as long as I’ve known you.”

  “But not now.” I look at my watch. The dynamiter should be arriving in three or four minutes. “Abby,” I say, “you picked a very bad time for a visit. I’m expecting someone in a few moments.”

  “Oh?” she says, and arches one eyebrow.

  “A man involved with the contract. A Mr. Weglowski.”

  “That’s all right,” she says. “I’ll keep myself busy till you get back. There seemed to be some very nice little shops in town.”

  “Abby, I may be gone all afternoon.”

  “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  “Abby, I don’t want you here.”

  “You made that apparent when you called. But you see, Sam, I am here.”

  The telephone rings. I answer it at once, and the desk clerk informs me that there is a gentleman in the lobby to see me.

  “Tell him I’ll be right down,” I say, and hang up. “He’s here, Abby. I don’t know what time I’ll be back, but when I do get back, I’d like to find you gone.”

  “It’s impossible to find someone gone,” Abby says.

  “Phrase it however you want. Just go home.”

  “No.”

  “I can’t argue with you now. I’m asking you to leave, Abby. You’re in danger here, believe me.”

  “I’m in bigger danger if I’m not here,” Abby says. “You’d better go. Your Mr. Kowalski is waiting.”

  “It’s Weglowski.” I put on my overcoat and go to the door. Before I step into the corridor, I say, “Abby … go home,” and then close the door behind me and walk to the elevator. The black chambermaid asks if I would like to buy an almond crunch candy bar for the support of the local children’s home. I ask her how much the candy bar is. She says it’s fifty cents, and I tell her I’ll take two, and give her a dollar bill, and ask her to leave the candy in my room. She thanks me profusely and assures me it’s very good candy, and all for a very good cause.

  The dynamiter is a short squat man with a very red face and bright blue eyes. He is hatless, and his hair is iron-gray and straight, with a high part on the right-hand side. It is unusual to meet a man who parts his hair on the right, and I am immediately suspicious of him. He is wearing a blue business suit.

  “Sachs?” he asks.

  “Weglowski?”

  We shake hands briefly. His hands are huge and rough, a workman’s hands. But his grip is gentle, almost like a woman’s. From behind the desk, the clerk is watching us. Weglowski and I leave the hotel. The morning is gray. He leads me to a white pickup truck that seems intentionally camouflaged for the climate. The door is lettered in black paint:

  S. WEGLOWSKI

  General Contractor

  “My truck,” he says, with a note of pride in his voice.

  I climb into the cab beside him. I notice for the first time that he is wearing brown, high-topped workman’s shoes with his blue business suit. His socks are white, like his truck. He starts the engine and begins driving out of town, westward, toward the, bridge. He does not speak again until we are halfway there. Then he says, “We look at bridge first, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “No?”

  “Sure.”

  “To see how much explosion we need.”

  “Whatever you say. This part of it is all yours.”

  “Well, is yours too,” Weglowski says. “You help, no? So is yours, too.” He nods briefly and rams the accelerator to the floor. He is an expert driver, and he knows the road intimately, but he terrifies me nonetheless. On one hairpin turn, we narrowly miss a bus coming from the opposite direction, but the dynamiter only laughs as the bus rolls by not a whiske
r’s breadth away. When we come to the bridge, he seems not to notice it. He does not diminish his speed, the pickup truck is roaring right past Henderson Gap.

  “That’s the bridge,” I say.

  “Yes, but no park. Is better after.”

  He drives perhaps half a mile beyond the bridge, rolls around a curve at fifty miles an hour, abruptly jams on the brakes, and makes a sharp right turn off the road and into a scenic overlook with redwood picnic tables. He parks the truck near a huge white boulder, and says, “Now we walk.” We get out of the truck and start down the road. He walks briskly and swiftly. I have difficulty keeping up with him on the packed and rutted snow.

  “In Poland, walk maybe five, six miles each day,” he says. “Very good for health.” He nods soberly. “Long time. From Poland.”

  “How long have you been here?” I ask. “In this country?”

  “Fifty-one year. From after first war. How old you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Take guess. Go on.”

  “Sixty-five?”

  “Seventy-eight year old!” he shouts, and laughs. “Good, no? I look seventy-eight?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Damn right! Healthy like a horse, Sygmunt Weglowski. How many children you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Eight!” he shouts, and bursts into laughter. “That’s good screwing, no?”

  “Yes, very good,” I say.

  “Very good, damn right!” He is still walking quite rapidly, and I am beginning to get a stitch under my heart. “Too fast?” he asks.

  “A little.”

  “We slow down. Have all day, no? Look at bridge, pick spots, figure out. Nice and slow. Is Polish proverb, ‘Slow better, fast worse.’ I cannot say in English. But we go slow, is better.” He is walking more slowly now. He looks at me solicitously. “Is better?”

  “Much better.”

  “Good.” We walk silently for perhaps another hundred yards. Then, abruptly, he asks, “You kill him?”

  I debate answering him at first, and then I decide to play it straight. “Yes, I hope to.”

  “Good.”

  “Why?”

  “Bad man,” he says, and spits into the snow. “Better dead. Alive is worse, no? Worse for you, me, everybody. Worse for country. You kill him, is better.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Oh, yes!” he says, and spreads his hands wide. “Of course. Weglowski think so.”

  The air is bitterly cold here on the mountain. I am looking ahead to the morning the train arrives. I am chilled even in my heavy overcoat, and I am beginning to think I’ll need clothing more suited to the task. Weglowski, wearing only his business suit over a white shirt, seems warm as toast. I must ask him his secret.

  “Was time,” he says, “two, three years ago, was hope. No more. No hope. Is either kill him, or leave America. But come from Poland to escape, no? So now must leave again?” He shakes his head. “No. Is better kill him. You do good thing, Sachs.”

  “Would you do it?” I ask.

  “I am do it, no? I wire bridge for you. We partners, Sachs. General contractors,” he says, and bursts out laughing again. “I wire, you push, boom! Is happy days again.”

  When we reach the bridge, he becomes immediately serious. He studies it from the road, walking back and forth to view it from various vantage points. He is entirely without grace, a short squat brisk little man whose motions are jerky and rapid. When I explain my needs to him, he listens carefully, nodding and saying, “Good” as I go over each point. I tell him that I want all of the bridge to fall into the ravine, not just any one section of it. Moreover, I want it all to collapse at the same time. I cannot risk, for example, the western end of the bridge standing after the eastern end falls; this would present the possibility of our man escaping before his car plunged into the ravine. The demolition, then, must be complete and simultaneous. Weglowski seems to understand. He nods seriously, and then climbs over the highway guard rail and starts down into the ravine.

  He seems to know what he is about. In his broken English, he explains that this is a fixed arch or hingeless-type bridge, with both ends of the arch rigidly anchored at the abutments on either side of the ravine. It is the arch that supports the tracks above it. The arch, in turn, is held in place by the concrete piers embedded in the eastern and western slopes of the Gap. Weglowski plans to set two charges at these opposite points where steel joins concrete, plus a third charge at the very center of the arch—where the keystone would be if the bridge were built of stone. I listen, barely understanding. What is more, I do not have to understand, I do not have to know. The only thing I must know is how to detonate the explosives. The rest means nothing. So I listen, but I do not care.

  I do not care.

  She looks, my Abigail, weary around the eyes. She has looked this way ever since the afternoon we received word that Adam had been killed in action. When I come into the hotel room, she is sitting by the window, staring out at the bell tower. She turns to me, and I see her eyes first, and the weariness there. I long to go to her in that moment, to hold her close. I do not. And I wonder why.

  “I’m still here,” she says.

  “I see that.”

  Her face looks clean-scrubbed and fresh, the way it did when she was a young girl, except for the weary lines of sadness around her eyes. Again, I feel the impulse to kiss her eyes, to kiss away the lingering grief, to transform her again into the Abigail I knew when she was seventeen, to make of her that spirited girl again. But I do not. And again, I wonder why.

  “Sam,” she says, “there are things to talk about.”

  “I know.”

  “Here or where?”

  “Let’s walk,” I say.

  “All right.” She goes to the closet and removes from it the ocelot coat. She does not bother with the hat or the muff. Instead, she ties a black kerchief around her head, and pulls on a pair of leather gloves. As we are going out of the room, she says, “There were two telephone calls for you. While you were gone.”

  “Oh?”

  “A woman named Hester and a woman named Sara.”

  “Did they leave messages?”

  “They said to tell you they’d called.” We are in the corridor now, walking toward the elevators. “Aren’t you going to call them back?”

  “Later.”

  “Sara sounded very young.”

  “She is very young.”

  “How young, Sam?”

  I do not answer.

  It is bitter cold in the street outside. The afternoon sun is waning, and the mountain air is sweeping in over the town. I think ahead to the morning of the bridge. I hope it will not be cold. I hope it will not snow. I hope it will all go just as Weglowski and I planned it today.

  “Why are you here?” Abby asks.

  “To blow up a bridge,” I tell her.

  “Be serious.”

  “To kill a man.”

  “Sam …”

  “Yes, Abby?”

  “Do you know that David is in trouble? Do you know that he plans to run off to Denmark with his drug addict friend?”

  “His friend is not a drug addict.”

  “His friend is a drug addict and a pusher besides. He’s been shooting heroin. And selling it. That’s what they found in the apartment.”

  “David said there was no hard stuff in the …”

  “David is a liar.”

  “He does not lie to me.”

  “He lies to everyone. He lies to you, he lies to me, he lies.…” Abby takes a deep breath. “The only person he ever told the truth to in his life was Adam. And Adam’s dead. And David’s about to run off to Denmark with a drug addict.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “No? What are you doing to stop him?”

  “I’m blowing up a bridge on November second.”

  This time she stops, and turns and looks at me. There is a familiar expression on her face. I have seen it there a thousa
nd times in the past, whenever I tried to explain to her a course of action I had already decided to pursue. She wore this same expression when I told her I was defending the Baltimore Five; she wore it when I told her I was writing the brief for the Hoffstadter case. She wears it now. It is bewildered, it is concerned, it is utterly feminine. I love this woman very much, I realize. I love her very much, and I have been unable to talk to her since last April.

  The wind sweeps in off the mountains. We are walking again. She is silent, my wife, and I am silent beside her.

  “Which bridge?” she asks at last.

  “A railroad bridge.”

  “Which man?”

  “The man who killed Adam.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” she asks.

  “I am serious, Abby.”

  “Don’t do it, Sam.”

  “I’ve already contracted for the job.”

  “What do you know about bridges? About killing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t do it. Please.”

  “I have to.”

  “I’ll stop you. I’ll call the police. I’ll …”

  “Abby, I told you because I trust you. Don’t betray me now.”

  “We’ve done nothing but betray each other for as long as I can remember,” she says, and suddenly she is weeping. I put my arm around her. The sidewalk is somewhat slippery here, and we walk slowly and clumsily, edging our way across the ice. To the casual passersby, to the college students in their long flowing mufflers and their striding boots, we must appear at first (from a distance, or perhaps even closer, perhaps even passing a hairsbreadth away on this bitter afternoon) to be a doddering couple abroad in a treacherous world, unable to cope, the old woman weeping, the old man shuffling across the icy sidewalk, his arm around her for support.

  “There’s a poem,” I tell her. “Do you know it?”

  “What poem?”

  “The others would come/ More often than John/ Now they are gone/ I’m alone.”

  “What poem?” she repeats, sobbing. “What poem?”

  “I just recited it.”

  “That isn’t a poem.”

  “It’s a poem. A very sad one.”

  She is still weeping, snuffling her tears into a tissue. I offer her my handkerchief and she takes it with a small nod and blows her nose, turning her head away as though embarrassed to have me witness this intimate act.