Evan Hunter: Nobody Knew They Were There

I am here to perform a delicate piece of surgery. I am here to commit a murder. Take your choice.

She is here to assist me, she says. In getting settled, she says. Professor Raines has sent her. She meets me at the airport in a borrowed automobile. She is wearing brown skirt, sweater, and boots. A huge outrageous leather Mexican sombrero is tilted onto her forehead. Long brown hair cascades halfway down her back. She can be no older than twenty-one, and she carries herself like a beauty though she is not one. Her eyes in the sudden glare of sunshine, as we come out of the terminal and walk toward the battered red Volkswagen, are two distinctly different shades of green.

“Are you a witch?” I ask.

“No. Are you?”

“I’m an assassin.”

“So I’ve been told,” she says.

“Does that frighten you?”

“Should it?”

“Perhaps.”

Pretentious dialogue. Beginnings are always bullshit She drives well She has very long legs; the small car seems too confining. She is aware of her profile. She tries to affect a haughty bored look. When the look fails, she discards it without regret, and then tries it on again not a moment later. It is hot in the automobile. October shouts stridently on the hillside, but there is a shimmering hanging heat that diffuses all color, rendering the landscape mute.

“Why did you ask if I was a witch?”

“You have two different colored eyes.”

“Because I’m only wearing one of my contacts.”

“Where’s the other one?”

“I scratched it. I’ve already ordered a new one.”

“Which eye?”

“Guess.”

“Tell me.”

“Witches never tell,” she says, and smiles.

(This is all fantasy. Don’t believe a word of it.)

There are two men and a woman in the room.

I am not quite a fool. In my briefcase back at the hotel, there are reports on all of them, prepared for me by a private investigator. I have read each of those reports at least a dozen times, routinely at first, and then with growing interest, and finally with the breathless eagerness of a hunter tracking his quarry through a dense and tangled wood. And now I am face to face with all of them, and I know at once that the report on Hester Pratt (“a woman who possesses a somewhat unfortunate manner”) is sharp and precise. The antagonism between us is immediate.

“How well do you know your job?” she asks.

“I’m an expert.”

“You’re how old?”

“Forty-two.”

“And an expert?”

“America breeds expert assassins,” I say.

Hester snorts, obviously unimpressed by hindsight. She is wearing a tweed suit, low-heeled walking shoes, black-rimmed spectacles. She studies me with the asexual scrutiny of a professional, defying me to kill someone on the spot if indeed I am as good as has been reported. I am tempted to oblige by murdering her. She unclasps her bag, withdraws a handkerchief, and noisily blows her nose, clearly terrified. Sunlight streams through the long leaded windows of the paneled room. On the campus outside, university students walk with their heads bent, seriously studying their shoes.

“You’re here earlier than we expected,” one of the men says.

“I like to plan far in advance.”

“The train won’t be coming through till November second.”

“Fine. That gives me almost two weeks.”

“How will you do it?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s why I’m here. To find out.”

“But you will do it, of course,”

“Of course. If it can be done safely. I don’t intend to sacrifice myself. Not for you, not for anyone.”

“That’s not what Mr. Eisler told me on the telephone,” Hester says.

“I'm not responsible for what Mr. Eisler told you.”

“He assured us…”

“I’m here to commit homicide, not suicide. As soon as the job is done, I expect to vanish. Safely.” I study them each in turn. They seem to understand. Besides, they need me. “There’s one other matter,” I say. “The contract calls for half the fee on arrival. I have arrived.”

It is always easy to identify the money man, even among college professors. I know who he is before he reaches into his inside jacket pocket. The envelope is white, sealed, made doubly secure with a rubber band. He first removes the rubber band. Then he tears open the flap. He begins counting off hundred-dollar bills. I count silently with him. Seven thousand dollars. When they are spread fanwise on the table before him, I pick up the bills and count them a second time. Slowly.

“All there?” Hester asks.

“All here,” I say. “And seven thousand more due on the morning the train arrives.”

“Before you kill him?” she asks.

“Before I kill him.”

“That sounds presumptuous,” she says.

“It is only realistic,” I answer.

(But then, this is only fantasy.)

I call the girl at the number she gave me on the way from the airport.

“Hello?” a voice says.

“Sara?” I ask.

“No, this is Gwen. Her roommate. Who’s calling, please?”

“Arthur Sachs.”

“I don’t believe I know you, Mr. Sachs.”

“Is that a prerequisite for talking to Sara?”

“Just a moment, please.” She is both intimidated and annoyed. She puts the phone down with an indignant little clatter. I wait. At last, Sara’s voice comes onto the line.

“Yes, hello?”

“It’s me,” I say.

“Yes, I know.”

“Will you really help me get settled?”

“I said I would.”

“I need a liquor store.”

“Two blocks from the hotel,” she says. “Go directly out the front door, turn right, and right again at the pharmacy. Cross Carter and turn left. You can’t miss it”

“Is there a good restaurant in town?”

“Several,” she says.

“Have you had dinner yet?”

“Yes,” she says.

“Which is the best restaurant?”

“Reidel’s. On Twelfth and Driscoll.”

“Thank you,” I say, and hang up.

I carefully establish myself with the desk clerk.

I have registered as Arthur Sachs, but on my way out to dinner, I stop at the desk and take pains to imprint upon his memory the image of a somewhat harried businessman from Los Angeles who is trying to close a big tractor deal. He sees in me only what I choose to show him. My physical appearance can indicate almost anything. I am tall and thin. I affect a gunfighter’s mustache. My hair is the color of burnt toast, my eyes are brown, I dress with quiet good taste, I could be anyone. I show him company brochures I picked up in Los Angeles three days ago. I extol the merits of our product as though he is a prospective purchaser. I impress upon him the importance of taking all telephone messages accurately. I am trying to open the entire West, I tell him. It is an enormous deal. It may take me well over a month. He studies my face, he studies my clothes, he decides I am a failure. But my name and occupation are firmly etched upon his mind.

Before the kill, I will shave my mustache.

I walk over to Reidel’s through streets suddenly cold with the promise of November. The town is ringed with mountains; the desk clerk has informed me that there is excellent skiing during the winter months, less than half an hour away. I have not skied in two years.

The restaurant is very crowded. It is German, there is beer in steins, and Sauerbraten, and wienerschnitzel, all very gemütlich. I have not yet called home. I promise myself I will do that when I return to the hotel