by Ed McBain
She tries to get off the bed, but I seize her arm and hurl her back against the headboard. She crouches there for an instant like a cat ready to spring, eyes narrowed, lips pulled back over her teeth, entirely feral, dangerous, more than a little frightening. I wait for her to pounce, but the anger transforms itself in the crack of an instant to something far more lethal, a contemptuous disdain that covers her face like a frozen mask.
“How’s your wife?” she asks.
“Never mind my wife,” I say. “I want to know …”
“No, let’s talk about your wife. Did she enjoy her little visit?”
“What visit?”
“You son of a bitch!”
She gets off the bed and walks naked to the window. She folds her arms across her breasts, turns to face me, and in the learned manner of a British barrister addressing a hanging jury, says, “At twelve twenty-seven on Tuesday afternoon, one Sara Horne, concerned about her lover—mark you, lover—one Samuel Eisler also known as Arthur Sachs, phoned the hotel to inquire after his health. A woman answered the telephone. Sara Horne, quite taken aback, asked to whom she was speaking, please. The woman, presumably similarly taken aback, asked to whom she was speakings please. Sara Home replied that this was Sara Home, and asked that it be noted she had phoned. Upon information and belief, the woman Sara Home addressed was one Abigail Eisler, spouse of the aforementioned Samuel Eisler, also known as Arthur Sachs.”
“All right, she was here.”
“Damn right, she was here.”
“So?”
“So I went to Seth’s.”
“Why?”
“Because it was just too goddamn grubby for words. Talking to your goddamn wife on the telephone!”
“Is that really why you went to Seth’s?”
“Why?”
“Because you were jealous?”
“Jealous!”
“What then?”
“Disgusted! You disgust me.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Come here, Sara.”
“No.”
I go to her instead, and take her in my arms. She is trembling.
“You louse,” she says.
“I love you, Sara.”
I kiss her tentatively. She does not respond. I kiss her again. She stands woodenly in my arms, and says, “Arthur, Arthur, what am I to do? Oh, dear, dear, what am I to do?”
“About what?”
“I think I love you a little,” she says, and lifts her face to mine.
Weglowski does not call until noon. I arrange to meet him at one of the student lunch joints. Over ninety-nine-cent steaks with baked potatoes, we sit in a quiet corner of the room and whisper about the bridge, while all around us kids are discussing calculus or chemistry.
“We can’t do it tonight,” I tell him. “It’s impossible. They’re here, and they’re checking, and they’re bound to …”
“Who, Sachs?”
“Agents. Federal agents.”
“You saw, Sachs?”
“Yes.”
“They come to you?”
“No. I don’t think they will.”
“Good.” Weglowski nods and spreads butter into his potato. “But you think they walk the track?”
“They may. I don’t know. I’ve heard that they do.”
“What time the train comes?”
“Ten forty-eight. Saturday morning.”
“Okay,” Weglowski says, and spears a piece of steak, and stuffs it into his mouth.
“Okay what?”
“Okay, Sachs, we forget tonight. Do tomorrow night instead. Nobody walking track at night, no? Can’t see nothing,” he says, and chuckles. “If walk, they do tomorrow, during day. So—they finish walk, we start wire. Simple.”
“What about your daughter’s birthday party?”
Weglowski shrugs. “Plenty more birthdays,” he says, and puts another piece of steak into his mouth. “I hope,” he adds.
Her friends are named Gloria and Steve.
We have met for dinner at Reidel’s. It is now eight-thirty, and we are on our second round of drinks. Gloria and Steve are both students at U.C.L.A., and they have been living together for eight months. Steve is twenty-four, a native of Los Angeles. His father is an artists’ representative who handles some very big motion picture stars.
“I had a chance to be in a movie with John Wayne,” he tells me. “My father actually came to me and asked if I wanted to be in this movie with John Wayne. I told him I didn’t want to be in the same room with John Wayne. He said, ‘Why not? What the hell’s the matter with John Wayne?’ I said, ‘If I have to tell you what’s the matter with John Wayne, there’s no sense to our relationship.’ My father looked at me and said, ‘Would you like to be in a movie with Sean Connery?’ I think he missed the point.”
Gloria watches us as we talk. She is Sara’s age, a dark-eyed brunette who grew up with her in Philadelphia. I suspect she knows all about me and is studying me now in an attempt to determine whether I am good enough for her friend. I wonder if she knows Roger Harris of VISTA fame, and I wonder if I am being silently compared to him. My age weighs heavily. Once, when the conversation veers toward an appraisal of rock music as represented by the latest Frank Zappa album (Steve solemnly tells me that Zappa is a musical genius; I do not even know who Zappa is), Sara takes my hand under the table and squeezes it. I am grateful for her support, but somehow the gesture makes me feel even older. Gloria and Steve are now explaining why they are here today, Thursday, instead of Monday as they had first promised Sara.
“I caught the flu Monday,” Gloria says.
“Throwing up all over the place.…”
“Hundred and two fever.…”
“I thought she was going to die.”
“We were supposed to go to Buffalo.”
“Are you all right now?” Sara asks, concerned.
“Oh, sure. But the thing is, these kids in Buffalo were expecting us Tuesday, you know, so we thought we’d stop here to see you Monday, stay over at the apartment if you had room.…”
“Plenty of room,” Sara assures her.
“Great, and then split on Tuesday, you know, but instead I got the damn flu.”
“I thought she was going to die,” Steve says again.
“I wanted to leave on Monday, anyway,” Gloria says. “I hate changing plans. Don’t you hate changing plans?”
“Yes,” Sara says.
“You were too sick to travel Monday,” Steve says.
“Sic transit gloria mundi,” Sara says, and Gloria bursts out laughing, and the two girls exchange affectionate glances.
“Anyway, here we are,” Gloria says.
“I wanted to go straight on to Buffalo,” Steve says, “but no, had to stop off and see old Sara first.”
“Damn right, you had to,” Sara says.
“Sara tells us you’re from New York,” Gloria says.
“That’s right.”
“What do you do?”
I hesitate. I do not know how much Sara has told her, and I am frankly weary of the tractor salesman lie. Sara looks at me, and then says, “Arthur is a lawyer. A brilliant lawyer.”
“What brings you here?” Steve asks.
“Case I’m working on.”
“Arthur defended the Baltimore Five,” Sara says. There is no mistaking the quiet pride in her voice. She says this directly to Gloria, who weighs the information and studies me with renewed interest.
“Did you?” Steve asks.
“Yes.”
“Good for you,” he says.
“Are you married?” Gloria asks.
“Yes.”
“The reason I ask is because I guess that’s a wedding ring.”
“Yes, that’s what it is.”
“Then you are married.”
“Yes.”
“Are you separated or anything?”
“No.”
Gloria nods. She looks at Sara. Sara stares back at her.
“How old are you?” Gloria asks.
“Forty-two.”
“Has a son almost my age,” Sara says.
“What are you doing?” Steve suddenly demands.
Gloria looks startled. “What?” she says. “Who?”
“You, you, what are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Then leave the guy alone, will you?” Steve says.
“I didn’t mean anything,” Gloria says. She lowers her dark eyes.
“You see,” Sara says, slowly and gently, “he’ll be here only a little while.” Gloria raises her eyes. The two girls stare at each other across the table. “The rest doesn’t matter,” Sara says, and pauses, “Okay?”
“Okay,” Gloria says.
“Shall we order then?”
“Unless Arthur wants another drink,” Gloria says, and turns to look at me. It is her apology, and I accept it at once.
“Yes,” I say, “let’s all have another drink.”
At eleven-thirty, I take Sara back to the hotel, and then phone for a taxi. The legend on the door reads VETERANS CAB COMPANY. The driver is a man in his late forties. I give him Hester’s address, and he sets the car in motion.
“Going to be here Saturday?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer.
“Big doings,” he says.
“Yes.”
“I admire that man,” the driver says.
“So do I.”
“Bringing it to the people, that’s what he’s doing.”
“Yes.”
“Good for the country. Too much bullshit in this country nowadays.”
“Yes.”
“Straighten it out. Once and for all.”
“I hope so.”
We are silent for the rest of the short ride to Hester’s house. I pay the cabby, watch him drive off, and then walk up the flagstone path leading to the front door. There is a light burning in the living room. It is only two minutes to midnight, it is still Halloween. I press the doorbell. I fully intend to say, “Trick or treat!” when Hester answers my ring. The carved Spanish door opens.
Professor Cornelius Augustus Raines stands there with a surprised look on his face. We are both speechless for several seconds. He nods briefly then, says, “Come in, Mr. Eisler,” and adds, over his shoulder, “Hester, we have a visitor.”
Hester joins us in the entrance hall. She is wearing a quilted robe. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. I can believe for the first time that she was once a beautiful woman, as Raines assured me during our arboretum talk. She, too, is startled to see me, but the surprise does nothing to improve her “unfortunate manner.” I am convinced that nothing can improve that.
“It’s rather late, Mr. Eisler,” she says, annoyed.
“Yes, I know. I had an idea during dinner, though, and I …”
“Can’t it wait till morning?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Very well,” she says curtly, and turns, and walks into the living room. Raines and I follow her. He takes his preferred seat on the fireplace ledge, perching there like a gargoyle. Hester sits in the blue chair near the brass kettle. I remain standing.
“What is so urgent, Mr. Eisler?” Hester asks.
“I want to have a party,” I tell her.
“A what?” she says.
“A party. Tomorrow night.”
“Are you drunk?” she asks.
“He is not drunk,” Raines says.
“You want to have a party,” Hester repeats.
“Yes.”
“In celebration?” she asks drily. “Before the event?”
“No. Weglowski and I will be wiring the bridge tomorrow night. I want to be someplace else at the time.”
“You’re asking Weglowski to do it alone?”
“No. But I want an alibi for where I was while it was being done.”
“We’ll be happy to alibi you personally,” Raines says.
“Not good enough, Professor. If Harold and Bob come around asking questions after the event …”
“Who?”
“The agents who were looking for your friend Hollis.”
“Our friend Hollis is on his way to Chicago. No one will be talking to him, either before or after the event.”
“They still won’t believe a word any of you tell them. If I know you were once involved with someone they consider a known troublemaker, so do they. I want a tighter alibi. Competent witnesses. Plenty of them. I want them all to be able to swear that I was here.”
“Here?” Hester says.
“I can’t very well give a big party in my hotel room.”
“Perhaps you’d care to tell us,” Hester asked drily, “how you expect to be in two places at the same time? We realize you’re a man of many accomplishments, Mr. Eisler, but …”
“I want a Halloween party.”
Hester looks at her wrist watch. “You’re a bit late. Halloween has come and gone.”
“On a Thursday. There’ll be Halloween parties all over town tomorrow night.”
“Mr. Eisler …”
“I want a masquerade party.”
“Ah,” Raines says, and nods.
“I see,” Hester says. She is silent for only a moment. She turns to Raines then and says, “Whom can we get, Connie? To stand in for Mr. Eisler until he gets here. That is your idea, isn’t it?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“All right, who?”
“Epstein,” I say immediately. “He’s about my height and weight. He’ll do fine.”
“I see you’ve given this some thought,” Raines says.
“All through dinner,” I tell him. He is smiling. I cannot resist smiling back at him.
“How many people will you want here?” Hester asks. She is all business now. She has accepted the idea and has already begun planning its execution. Perhaps she is, as Raines once said, indispensable to the plot.
“Two dozen at least. Students, faculty members, whoever.” My smile widens. “If you can arrange to get Bob and Harold here, that would be perfect.”
“Please, Mr. Eisler,” Hester says, but I can tell by the flicker in her eye that she gives at least momentary consideration to the idea before rejecting it. “Will you meet with Epstein tomorrow to work out the details?”
“I will.”
“When and where? I’ll arrange it from here.”
“Tell him to pick me up at the hotel early in the morning. Nine o’clock, let’s say.”
“He’ll be there.”
“Fine. In that case …”
“Before you go …” Hester says.
“Yes?”
“Have you determined how you’ll get to the bridge Saturday morning?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Sara may wish to drive you.”
“That’s up to Sara, isn’t it?”
“Suggest it to her.”
“I think I’d rather she suggested it to me.”
“Mr. Eisler, you’ll need transportation to the bridge.…”
“And from it, I hope.”
“In any event, if Sara doesn’t choose to drive you, we must make other arrangements. Discuss it with her and let me know.”
“I’ll discuss it with her.”
They walk me into the entrance hall. Raines opens the door for me.
“Mr. Eisler?” Hester says.
“Yes?”
“I think you’re a foolhardy man,” she says, “but I think you’re doing a splendidly courageous thing. I have nothing but admiration for you.”
Her words surprise me. I am, in fact, speechless.
“Good night, Mr. Eisler,” she says.
“Good night,” I say again. As the door closes gently behind me, I murmur; “Thank you.”
Sara is in the bathroom brushing her teeth.
“Hester wants to know if you’ll drive me to the bridge Saturday morning,” I tell her.
“I will,” Sara says, and spits into the sink.
“Do
you want to?”
“Of course.”
“You don’t have to. They can arrange …”
“I want to. I’ll drive you there, and I’ll wait for you.”
“We’ll see about waiting for me.”
“How else will you get back?”
“I don’t know. I suppose …”
“I’ll wait for you,” she says. “Now get out of here, please, I want to shower.”
I go back into the bedroom, take off my clothes, put on my blue nightshirt, and crawl under the covers. In the bathroom, Sara is singing in the shower again.
“Oh, dear, what can the matter be?
“Seven old ladies locked in the lavat’ry.
“They were there from Monday till Saturd’y.
“Nobody knew they were there.”
She stops singing only when she finishes showering. “Whooo!” she shouts, and throws open the bathroom door. A cloud of steam escapes into the bedroom. I hear her grunting as she briskly towels herself.
“Hester’s giving a party tomorrow night,” I yell from the bed.
“What?” She pokes her head around the doorjamb.
“Hester. A party tomorrow night.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says in dismissal, and goes back into the bathroom. She is in there for perhaps another five minutes, humming, brushing out her hair. She comes into the bedroom naked, turns out the lights, and gets into bed beside me. In the darkness, in each others’ arms, we whisper like the conspirators we are.
“Do you want to go to the party?” she asks.
“It was my idea.”
“Then I guess we’ll be going.”
“Well, you’ll be going with Professor Epstein.”
“Oh, lovely,” Sara says.
“But I’ll join you before midnight.”
“Where will you be till then?”
“At the bridge.”
Sara nods. She is silent for a long time. Then she asks, “Are you nervous about Saturday, Arthur?”
“I’m petrified.”
“So am I.”
“You don’t have to drive me, Sara. In fact, I’d prefer …”
“I want to. I want to be with you.”
She is silent again. She smells of soap, she feels soft and smooth and wonderfully warm. “What time must we leave Saturday morning?” she whispers.
“I’d like to be at the bridge by ten-thirty.”
“That means …”
“We’ll have to leave here by ten. No later. That’s if the road’s good. If it snows …”