Evan Hunter: Nobody Knew They Were There

I sit drinking steadily.

My conversation with David has dissipated the fine good high I was building, but I am soon on the right road again, drinking myself stiff and silly. I feel like calling my mother. I feel like calling her and saying, Guess what little Sammy grew up to be, Mama? An assassin, how do you like them apples? We have assassinated all the good guys in this country, Mama, and now I am about to knock off one of the bad ones, even the score and change a little history into the bargain. What do you think, Mama? Are you proud of me, Mama?

I am crying when the telephone rings. I am crying, and I do not know why.

“Arthur?”

“What do you want, Sara?” I look at my wrist watch. It is two o’clock in the morning.

“I tried to get you earlier,” she says. “Your line was busy.”

“So it was. Here I am now, What is it?”

“Don’t be angry, Arthur,” she says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me.”

“I’m sorry, anyway.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

“Roger called me just a little while ago.”

“Who?”

“Roger.”

“Who the hell…? Oh, Roger. How is old Roger? How are all the Indians doing down there in Arizona?”

“He’ll definitely be here for Thanksgiving.”

“Good, I’m glad. Give him my regards when he arrives, will you?”

“Arthur, I am sorry. I am truly sorry. Please believe me.”

“I believe you, Sara.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t want to have to worry about you.”

“No, no, no need,” I say. “I’ve got a very important job to do. It’ll require all my time and energy. I.ll be occupied morning, noon, and night. Don’t worry about me, honey. You worry about old Roger, okay? Old Roger’s the one you have to worry about, not me.”

“Arthur…”

“Good-bye, Sara darling,” I say, and quietly replace the phone on its cradle.

(Even fantasies must end.)

I am being followed.

My follower is a tall black man wearing black boots, Levi’s, a brown fleece-lined leather jacket, and a white ten-gallon hat. His garb is not unusual. This is a Western town, and cowhands roam the streets together with university students, giving the place the look of a motion picture lot where various costume pictures are being shot simultaneously and the actors are milling about dressed for diversified roles.

My follower is not Seth Wilson. He is too tall to be Seth. I never get a close look at his face, but he has broad shoulders, a narrow waist, a long rangy stride. He rolls cigarettes with one hand. He is altogether a very frightening mean-looking son of a bitch. I am certain that Seth Wilson has put him on my tail and that he will beat me up in an alley one night for having dared to touch the fair Sara Horne.

I lead him across town and back again. He is expert at his job, and I cannot shake him. All I gain for my efforts is a working knowledge of the town’s geography and a backache. When I return to the hotel, I take the elevator up to the second floor, get out quickly and look through the large window to the street below. My follower is just entering the lobby. I ring for the elevator again and proceed to the fifth floor and my room. There is a message under the door. Professor Raines has called. I dial his number and he says he would like to meet me, if I am free. I tell him that I am. I do not mention the follower.

I change into my raincoat and take the steps down to the hotel basement. Chambermaids are carrying clean sheets wrapped in brown paper. A bellhop wheels a serving cart past me and into the elevator. I find a fire door leading to the adjacent hotel garage. I move through lines of parked automobiles and then peek into the street toward the hotel marquee. My follower is nowhere in sight. I hastily leave the garage, turning left away from the hotel At the corner, I turn left again and hail a taxicab.

It is difficult to imagine Cornelius Raines as the mastermind of an assassination plot. He is a frail man in his late sixties. He walks with a barely perceptible limp, favoring his right leg. We have agreed to meet at the university’s arboretum, and it is there that I find him pacing anxiously, even though I am five minutes early. He greets me effusively, but his pale blue eyes remain guarded and passive. We walk past trees tagged by the university’s Biology Department. The color here is pleasant, but not as effusive as it had been in the ravine yesterday. The sky, too, has turned an ominous gray. It looks as if it might snow. Raines limps along beside me. He wears a black coat with a small black fur collar, a black Homburg. I keep thinking he should be carrying a cane.

He is slow to get to the point I begin to wonder why he invited me here. At last, he says, “I know you don’t get along with Hester.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Ahh, ahh, Mr. Sachs,” he says. “Please. She is a difficult woman, and her manner is sometimes unpleasant. But she is wholly devoted to the cause, and I would hate to see personality differences endangering our project”

“I don’t think they will.”

“I hope not Whereas Morris raised most of the money, it was Hester… you did know that Professor Epstein raised the money?”

“Yes.”

“From all over the country. It is not easy to raise funds for a project such as ours. One can hardly take out an ad in the New York Times.”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“No, no, hardly,” Raines says, and chuckles. He is a dry old man in a bad year. He may be blown away by the first fierce blast of winter. I suddenly hope it will not snow tonight.

“But it was Hester who first contacted Mr. Eisler in New York.”

“Yes, I know that, too.”

“She had heard of him, of course, he is not precisely unknown. He defended the Baltimore Five, as you know, and his Supreme Court brief for Hoffstadter was brilliant, quite brilliant. But it was Hester’s idea to contact him, it was Hester’s surmise that he might know someone who could help us. It is not simple to ask about assassins, Mr. Sachs. It takes courage. Hester is a courageous woman. She is forthright and arrogant and, I suppose, difficult sometimes. But she is also courageous. You can thank her for this job.”

“I will thank her personally the next time I see her.”

“Ahh, ahh, that’s exactly what I mean, Mr. Sachs. That note of sarcasm in your voice. You do not like her, I know. You are naturally more beguiled by someone like Sara…” He glances sidelong at me. He knows, I think. They all know. She has told them all. “A very beautiful young girl, to be sure, I can understand your interest.” He hesitates. He is on delicate ground, and he realizes it. “But once, not too long ago, Hester was quite beautiful herself. Quite beautiful. And possessed of the same intensity she now has, the same courage. Do not dismiss her too easily, Mr. Sachs. She is a valuable ally. Perhaps more valuable than your little Sara Horne.”

“Sara Horne is only a friend,” I say.

“Of course,” he assures me. “I meant to imply nothing more. But she is very young, Mr. Sachs, so very young. And the young these days are not too readily committed.”

“She seems committed.”

“To our plan? Perhaps. Or did you have something else in mind?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I feel that Sara Horne is committed primarily to herself. Insofar as this commitment allows her to be committed to our plan as well, fine. Should the two come into conflict, I'm not quite sure which would triumph. I hope Sara never has to make the choice.”

“You seem terribly concerned about Sara.”