Evan Hunter - Nobody Knew They Were There

Epstein plays violin, is member of amateur campus quartet. Fellow musicians are Professor Frank Bencher (cello). Miss Isabel Langley (viola), and Professor Cornelius Raines (harpsichord). When asked at benefit for scholars what kind of music he preferred. Epstein replied, “Music to suit the times. Minuets, gavottes, and so forth.”

In my hotel room, I sit reading and drinking scotch. I have not had lunch. I have not heard from Sara since leaving her at Hester’s house, and though I have called her apartment several times, there has been no answer. When the telephone rings, I am certain it is she. I put down the report. Eagerly, I lift the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Sam?”

I recognize the voice at once. I am speechless. I stare at the receiver in disbelief.

“Sam, this is Eugene. Are you there?”

I am tempted to hang up. Eugene? That’s impossible! And yet it is Eugene, I would know his voice anywhere, and he is on the telephone, he has called me here in this town at this hotel in this room, it is Eugene and he knows where I am, he has found me. This is a day for people finding me.

“Yes, Eugene,” I say. “I'm here.”

“Surprised?” he asks. He is positively gloating.

“I am surprised, Eugene. That I am.”

“Want to know how I found you?”

“Not particularly,” I say. The truth is I am dying to know. And he is dying to tell me. We have been partners and friends for a very long time, Eugene and I. We know each other too well. I know what he is going to say next, even before he says it

“Okay then, I won’t tell you. How’ve you been, Sam?”

“How'd you find me, you bastard?”

“I have to admit I’m very clever,” Eugene says, and chuckles. “Would you really like to know, Sam? Okay, here’s how. When I spoke to you last night, three important things happened. One: You told me it had snowed the day before, Friday. Two: You told me the temperature was sixteen above zero. Three: The bell tower tegan chiming.”

“So?”

“So… the bell tower bonged six times. That meant it was six o’clock wherever you were, whereas it was already eight in New York. Which further meant that you were two hours behind us and therefore somewhere in the Mountain time zone. Salt Lake City still is a possibility, though barely.”

“All right, how’d you…?”

“Patience, patience. I then checked Friday’s New York Times for the summary of weather reports and indicated areas of precipitation, and deduced that it had snowed that day in Montana, Minnesota, and Colorado. I eliminated Utah — no snow — and also Minnesota — Central time zone — and was left with Montana and Colorado. So this morning I checked the Times for yesterday’s temperature reading for the twenty-four hour period ending at seven P.M. …”

“Get to it, Eugene…”

“And discovered that Great Falls had recorded a high of forty-one and a low of twenty-six, whereas Denver had recorded a high of twenty-four and a low of fourteen. Which seemed to indicate that Colorado was my best bet Then just a few hours ago, I called Bernice at home to ask how the typing on the Mulholland brief was coming along, and she told me there'd been a long-distance call for you late Friday afternoon. From a lady named Hester Pratt, who left a number where she could be reached. That pinpointed the town for me, Sam. All I had to do then was find the hotel. The first one I called was a dud. But I asked the clerk which hotel was closest to the bell tower” He pauses. He is positively gleeful by now. “Elementary, my dear Watson,” he says, and chuckles. “Just one question, Sam? How come you didn’t register under a phony name?”

“I did.”

“You did? That’s funny. I asked for Sam Eisler, and they put me right through.”

“Well,” I say, “I’ve achieved a certain amount of notoriety since I got here. Eugene, I'm very busy. What is it you want?”

“I want you to come home.”

“I can't come home right now. I'll be home in a few days, Eugene.”

“When?”

“November second.”

“That isn't a few days, Sam. And it may be too late by then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I've been talking to Abby. Your son’s serious about running off with this pusher friend of his…”

“He's not a pusher, Eugene. David says the stuff was planted….”

“Pusher or not, I don’t care,” Eugene says. “ My father made bootleg whiskey.”

“ Your father?”

“Yes, my father. What’s the matter with that?”

“Nothing, Eugene. Nothing.”

“The important thing is that they’re planning to run damn soon. Like before the week’s out, Sam.”

“Ask him to wait.”

“Until when?”

“Tell him I’ll be home on the second, and we can talk about it then. Maybe the situation will seem different to him then. Would you do that for me, Eugene?”

“I don’t think he’ll wait”

“Ask him to trust me.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“And, Eugene, please don’t tell Abby where I am,” I say, but he has already hung up.

I have tried on too many occasions to reconstruct Adam’s death, and can never visualize its particulars. Here, in the labyrinth of nightmare, he dies at first in a plunge to the snow below when the cable on the gondola snaps. He tumbles violently in the air, and I reach out for him and try to grasp him, but our outstretched hands never touch. He dies the instant he slams into the frozen ground. Miraculously, I am saved. And then, in the instant change of scene that is commonplace in nightmares, he is trapped in a railroad car that plunges into Henderson Gap, the same agonized silent scream frozen on his mouth as the car tumbles through space and lands in a slow motion crash, crumbling, crumbling. Never in my nightmare does he die on a rotted jungle floor.

I awaken.

I am fully clothed and lying on my bed. Across the room, Rembrandt’s man, the tissue having fallen loose from his eyes, glares at me. The bell tower is striking nine. It will strike the hour only once again tonight, as it does every night, at ten. And then it will be silent until eight in the morning.

I stumble to my feet, and rub my eyes.

In a little while, I try Sara's number again. There is no answer. I try it for the next hour, and then I walk to the corner pharmacy where I order a vanilla malted and a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich on toast. There is one other person at the pharmacy counter, a young man with a Fu Manchu mustache, who sits poring over an open chemistry textbook I am in bed by eleven o'clock, watching the news on television. I try Sara again before turning out the light There is still no answer.

I have forgotten to draw the drapes, and sunlight is streaming into the room. Someone is knocking on the door. I look at my watch. It is seven o’clock.

“Who is it?” I ask.

“Me,” she says.

I get out of bed and move through dust motes climbing long golden shafts of sunlight (the gondola moving up the steep face of Sugarbush into the glaring sun, Adam saying, “I expect a religious miracle,” the twisted, silvered branches of the trees at the summit). I open the door. Sara is wearing blue jeans, boots, and a shawl-collared cardigan sweater. The collar is pulled up around her ears. Her hands are thrust deep into her pockets. She looks wind-raw and cold; her nose is running.

“May I come in?” she asks.

“Please.” I step back into the room. I am wearing my blue cotton nightshirt, one of the two I brought here with me.

“I'm freezing,” she says.

I go to my closet, take my coat from a hanger, and help her into it

“Thank you,” she mutters, and sits on the edge of the bed. “Were you trying to get me?” she asks.