by Anthology
Then, undressing in my bedroom, I remembered that Major Bowes was dead. Years had passed, a decade, since that dry chuckle and familiar, “All right, all right,” had been heard in the nation’s living rooms.
Well, what does one do when the apparently impossible occurs? It simply made a good story to tell friends, and more than once I was asked if I’d recently heard Moran and Mack, a pair of radio comedians popular some thirty years ago, or Floyd Gibbons, an old-time news broadcaster. And there were other joking references to my crystal radio set.
But one man—this was at a lodge meeting the following Thursday—listened to my story with utter seriousness, and when I had finished he told me a queer little story of his own. He is a thoughtful, intelligent man, and as I listened I was not frightened, but puzzled at what seemed to be a connecting link, a common denominator, between this story and the odd behavior of my radio. The following day, since I am retired and have plenty of time, I took the trouble of making a two-hour train trip to Connecticut in order to verify the story at firsthand. I took detailed notes, and the story appears in my files now as follows:
Case 2. Louis Trachnor, coal and wood dealer, R.F.D. I, Danbury, Connecticut, aged fifty-four.
On July 20, 1956, Mr. Trachnor told me, he walked out on the front porch of his house about six o’clock in the morning. Running from the eaves of his house to the floor of the porch was a streak of gray paint, still damp. “It was about the width of an eight-inch brush,” Mr. Trachnor told me, “and it looked like hell, because the house was white. I figured some kids did it in the night for a joke, but if they did, they had to get a ladder up to the eaves and you wouldn’t figure they’d go to that much trouble. It wasn’t smeared, either; it was a careful job, a nice even stripe straight down the front of the house.”
Mr. Trachnor got a ladder and cleaned off the gray paint with turpentine.
In October of that same year, Mr. Trachnor painted his house. “The white hadn’t held up so good, so I painted it gray. I got to the front last and finished about five one Saturday afternoon. Next morning when I came out, I saw a streak of white right down the front of the house. I figured it was the damned kids again, because it was the same place as before. But when I looked close, I saw it wasn’t new paint; it was the old white I’d painted over. Somebody had done a nice careful job of cleaning off the new paint in a long stripe about eight inches wide right down from the eaves! Now, who the hell would go to that trouble? I just can’t figure it out.”
Do you see the link between this story and mine? Suppose for a moment that something had happened, on each occasion, to disturb briefly the orderly progress of time. That seemed to have happened in my case; for a matter of some seconds I apparently heard a radio broadcast that had been made years before. Suppose, then, that no one had touched Mr. Trachnor’s house but himself; that he had painted his house in October, and that through some fantastic mix-up in time, a portion of that paint appeared on his house the previous summer. Since he had cleaned the paint off at that time, a broad stripe of new gray paint was missing after he painted his house in the fall.
I would be lying, however, if I said I really believed this. It was merely an intriguing speculation, and I told both these little stories to friends, simply as curious anecdotes. I am a sociable person, see a good many people, and occasionally I heard other odd stories in response to mine.
Someone would nod and say, “Reminds me of something I heard recently . . .” and I would have one more to add to my collection. A man on Long Island received a telephone call from his sister in New York on Friday evening. She insists that she did not make this call until the following Monday, three days later. At the Forty-fifth Street branch of the Chase National Bank, I was shown a check deposited the day before it was written. A letter was delivered on East Sixty-eighth Street in New York City, just seventeen minutes after it was dropped into a mailbox on the main street of Green River, Wyoming.
And so on, and so on; my stories were now in demand at parties and I told myself that collecting and verifying them was a hobby. But the day I heard Julia Eisenberg’s story, I knew it was no longer that.
Case 17. Julia Eisenberg, office worker, New York, City, aged thirty-one.
Miss Eisenberg lives in a small walk-up apartment in Greenwich Village. I talked to her there after a chess-club friend who lives in her neighborhood had repeated to me a somewhat garbled version of her story, which was told to him by the doorman of the building he lives in.
In October, 1954, about eleven at night, Miss Eisenberg left her apartment to walk to the drugstore for toothpaste. On her way back, not far from her apartment, a large black and white dog ran up to her and put his front paws on her chest.
“I made the mistake of petting him,” Miss Eisenberg told me, “and from then on he simply wouldn’t leave. When I went into the lobby of my building, I actually had to push him away to get the door closed. I felt sorry for him, poor hound, and a little guilty, because he was still sitting at the door an hour later when I looked out my front window.”
This dog remained in the neighborhood for three days, discovering and greeting Miss Eisenberg with wild affection each time she appeared on the street. “When I’d get on the bus in the morning to go to work, he’d sit on the curb looking after me in the most mournful way, poor thing. I wanted to take him in, and I wish with all my heart that I had, but I knew he’d never go home then, and I was afraid whoever owned him would be sorry to lose him. No one in the neighborhood knew who he belonged to, and finally he disappeared.”
Two years later a friend gave Miss Eisenberg a three-week-old puppy. “My apartment is really too small for a dog, but he was such a darling I couldn’t resist. Well, he grew up into a nice big dog who ate more than I did.”
Since the neighborhood was quiet, and the dog well behaved, Miss Eisenberg usually unleashed him when she walked him at night, for he never strayed far. “One night—I’d last seen him sniffing around in the dark a few doors down—I called to him and he didn’t come back. And he never did; I never saw him again.
“Now, our street is a solid wall of brownstone buildings on both sides, with locked doors and no areaways. He couldn’t have disappeared like that, he just couldn’t. But he did.”
Miss Eisenberg hunted for her dog for many days afterward, inquired of neighbors, put ads in the papers, but she never found him. “Then one night I was getting ready for bed; I happened to glance out the front window down at the street, and suddenly I remembered something I’d forgotten all about. I remembered the dog I’d chased away over two years before.” Miss Eisenberg looked at me for a moment, then she said flatly. “It was the same dog. If you own a dog you know him, you can’t be mistaken, and I tell you it was the same dog. Whether it makes sense or not, my dog was lost—I chased him away—two years before he was born.”
She began to cry silently, the tears running down her face. “Maybe you think I’m crazy, or a little lonely and overly sentimental about a dog. But you’re wrong.” She brushed at her tears with a handkerchief. “I’m a well-balanced person, as much as anyone is these days, at least, and I tell you I know what happened.”
It was in that moment, sitting in Miss Eisenberg’s neat, shabby living room, that I realized fully that the consequences of these odd little incidents could be something more than merely intriguing; that they might, quite possibly, be tragic. It was in that moment that I began to be afraid.
I have spent the last eleven months discovering and tracking down these strange occurrences, and I am astonished and frightened at how many there are. I am astonished and frightened at how much more frequently they are happening now, and—I hardly know how to express this—at their increasing power to tear human lives tragically apart. This is an example, selected almost at random, of the increasing strength of—whatever it is that is happening in the world.
Case 34. Paul V. Kerch, accountant, the Bronx, aged thirty-one.
On a bright, clear, Sunday afternoon, I met an unsmi
ling family of three at their Bronx apartment: Mr. Kerch, a chunky, darkly good-looking young man; his wife, a pleasant-faced dark-haired woman in her late twenties, whose attractiveness was marred by circles under her eyes; and their son, a nice-looking boy of six or seven. After introductions, the boy was sent to his room at the back of the house to play.
“All right,” Mr. Kerch said wearily then, and walked toward a bookcase, “let’s get at it. You said on the phone that you know the story in general.” It was half a question, half a statement.
“Yes,” I said.
He took a book from the top shelf and removed some photographs from it. “There are the pictures.” He sat down on the davenport beside me, with the photographs in his hand. “I own a pretty good camera, I’m a fair amateur photographer, and I have a darkroom setup in the kitchen; do my own developing. Two weeks ago, we went down to Central Park.” His voice was a tired monotone as though this were a story he’d repeated many times, aloud and in his own mind. “It was nice, like today, and the kid’s grandmothers have been pestering us for pictures, so I took a whole roll of films, pictures of all of us. My camera can be set up and focused and it will snap the picture automatically a few seconds later, giving me time to get around in front of it and get in the picture myself.”
There was a tired, hopeless look in his eyes as he handed me all but one of the photographs. “These are the first ones I took,” he said. The photographs were all fairly large, perhaps 5 X 7”, and I examined them closely.
They were ordinary enough, very sharp and detailed, and each showed the family of three in various smiling poses. Mr. Kerch wore a light business suit, his wife had on a dark dress and a cloth coat, and the boy wore a dark suit with knee-length pants. In the background stood a tree with bare branches. I glanced up at Mr. Kerch, signifying that I had finished my study of the photographs.
“The last picture,” he said, holding it in his hand ready to give to me, “I took exactly like the others. We agreed on the pose, I set the camera, walked around in front, and joined my family. Monday night I developed the whole roll. This is what came out on the last negative.” He handed me the photograph.
For an instant it seemed to me like merely one more photograph in the group; then I saw the diffrence. Mr. Kerch looked much the same, bare-headed and grinning broadly, but he wore an entirely different suit. The boy, standing beside him, wore long pants, was a good three inches taller, obviously older, but equally obviously the same boy. The woman was an entirely different person. Dressed smartly, her light hair catching the sun, she was very pretty and attractive, and she was smiling into the camera, holding Mr. Kerch’s hand.
I looked up at him. “Who is this?”
Wearily, Mr. Kerch shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said sullenly, then suddenly exploded: “I don’t know! I’ve never seen her in my life!” He turned to look at his wife, but she would not return his glance, and he turned back to me, shrugging. “Well, there you have it,” he said. “The whole story.” And he stood up, thrusting both hands into his trouser pockets, and began to pace about the room, glancing often at his wife, talking to her actually, though he addressed his words to me. “So who is she? How could the camera have snapped that picture? I’ve never seen that woman in my life!”
I glanced at the photograph again, then bent closer. “The trees here are in full bloom,” I said. Behind the solemn-faced boy, the grinning man and smiling woman, the trees of Central Park were in full summer leaf.
Mr. Kerch nodded. “I know,” he said bitterly. “And you know what she says?” he burst out, glaring at his wife. “She says that is my wife in the photograph, my new wife a couple of years from now! God!” He slapped both hands down on his head. “The ideas a woman can get!”
“What do you mean?” I glanced at Mrs. Kerch, but she ignored me, remaining silent, her lips tight.
Kerch shrugged hopelessly. “She says that photograph shows how things will be a couple of years from now. She’ll be dead or”—he hesitated, then said the word bitterly—“divorced, and I’ll have our son and be married to the woman in the picture.”
We both looked at Mrs. Kerch, waiting until she was obliged to speak.
“Well, if it isn’t so,” she said, shrugging a shoulder, “then tell me what that picture does mean.”
Neither of us could answer that, and a few minutes later I left. There was nothing much I could say to the Kerches; certainly I couldn’t mention my conviction that, whatever the explanation of the last photograph, their married life was over . . .
Case 72. Lieutenant Alfred Eichler, New York Police Department, aged thirty-three.
In the late evening of January 9,1956, two policemen found a revolver lying just off a gravel path near an East Side entrance to Central Park. The gun was examined for fingerprints at the police laboratory and several were found. One bullet had been fired from the revolver and the police fired another which was studied and classified by a ballistics expert. The fingerprints were checked and found in police files; they were those of a minor hoodlum with a record of assault.
A routine order to pick him up was sent out. A detective called at the rooming house where he was known to live, but he was out, and since no unsolved shootings had occurred recently, no intensive search for him was made that night.
The following evening a man was shot and killed in Central Park with the same gun. This was proved ballistically past all question of error. It was soon learned that the murdered man had been quarreling with a friend in a nearby tavern. The two men, both drunk, had left the tavern together. And the second man was the hoodlum whose gun had been found the previous night, and which was still locked in a police safe.
As Lieutenant Eichler said to me, “It’s impossible that the dead man was killed with that same gun, but he was. Don’t ask me how, though, and if anybody thinks we’d go into court with a case like that, they’re crazy.”
Case III. Captain Hubert V. Rihm, New York Police Department, retired, aged sixty-six.
I met Captain Rihm by appointment one morning in Stuyvesant Park, a patch of greenery, wood benches and asphalt surrounded by the city, on lower Second Avenue. “You want to hear about the Fentz case, do you?” he said, after we had introduced ourselves and found an empty bench. “All right, I’ll tell you. I don’t like to talk about it—it bothers me—but I’d like to see what you think.” He was a big, rather heavy man, with a red, tough face, and he wore an old police jacket and uniform cap with the insigne removed.
“I was up at City Mortuary,” he began, as I took out my notebook and pencil, “at Bellevue, about twelve one night, drinking coffee with one of the interns. This was in June, 1955, just before I retired, and I was in Missing Persons. They brought this guy in and he was a funny-looking character. Had a beard. A young guy, maybe thirty, but he wore regular muttonchop whiskers, and his clothes were funny-looking. Now, I was thirty years on the force and I’ve seen a lot of queer guys killed on the streets. We found an Arab once, in full regalia, and it took us a week to find out who he was. So it wasn’t just the way the guy looked that bothered me; it was the stuff we found in his pockets.”
Captain Rihm turned on the bench to see if he’d caught my interest, then continued. “There was about a dollar in change in the dead guy’s pocket, and one of the boys picked up a nickel and showed it to me. Now, you’ve seen plenty of nickels, the news ones with Jefferson’s picture, the buffalo nickels they made before that, and once in a while you still see even the old Liberty-head nickels; they quit making them before the First World War. But this one was even older than that. It had a shield on the front, a U.S. shield, and a big five on the back; I used to see that kind when I was a boy. And the funny thing was, that old nickel looked new; what coin dealers call ‘mint condition,’ like it was made the day before yesterday. The date on that nickel was 1876, and there wasn’t a coin in his pocket dated any later.”
Captain Rihm looked at me questioningly. “Well,” I said, glancing up from my notebo
ok, “that could happen.”
“Sure, it could,” he answered in a satisfied tone, “but all the pennies he had were Indian-head pennies. Now, when did you see one of them last? There was even a silver three-cent piece; looked like an old-style dime, only smaller. And the bills in his wallet, every one of them, were old-time bills, the big kind.”
Captain Rihm leaned forward and spat on the path, a needle-jet of tobacco juice, and an expression of a policeman’s annoyed contempt for anything deviating from an orderly norm.
“Over seventy bucks in cash, and not a Federal reserve note in the lot. There were two yellow-back tens. Remember them? They were payable in gold. The rest were old national-bank notes; you remember them, too. Issued direct by local banks, personally signed by the bank president; that kind used to be counterfeited a lot.
“Well,” Captain Rihm continued, leaning back on the bench and crossing his knees, “there was a bill in his pocket from a livery stable on Lexington Avenue: three dollars for feeding and stabling his horse and washing a carriage. There was a brass slug in his pocket good for a five-cent beer at some saloon. There was a letter postmarked Philadelphia, June, 1876, with an old-style two-cent stamp; and a bunch of cards in his wallet. The cards had his name and address on them, and so did the letter.”
“Oh,” I said, a little surprised, “you identified him right away, then?”
“Sure. Rudolph Fentz, some address on Fifth Avenue—I forget the exact number—in New York City. No problem at all.” Captain Rihm leaned forward and spat again. “Only that address wasn’t a residence. It’s a store, and it has been for years, and nobody there ever heard of any Rudolph Fentz, and there’s no such name in the phone book, either. Nobody ever called or made any inquiries about the guy, and Washington didn’t have his prints. There was a tailor’s name in his coat, a lower Broadway address, but nobody there ever heard of this tailor.”