Nobody Knew They Were There

Friday, October 25

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.”

“I am concerned about everyone in our little group, Mr. Sachs. Especially you. We are only five people, and we are undertaking an insane endeavor, yes, insane. I am an orderly man by nature, and I do not approve of anarchy. I would never have considered an action such as ours if I believed there was any other way. You are the instrument of our deliverance. If Sara brings you succor…”

“Sara is only…”

“Please, Mr. Sachs, we know she spent Wednesday night with you.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“She did not have to tell us. We are none of us children. Do you deny it?”

“I deny it”

“Then you’re a liar.”

“No, I'm a gentleman.”

“One does not necessarily exclude the other,” Raines says, and shrugs. “You are sleeping with Sara, all well and good, I have no quarrel with that Unless, Mr. Sachs, unless it begins to interfere with the job you’re here to do. If that should happen, I think you will find I can become extremely quarrelsome. By the same token, should you and Hester..

“Professor Raines,” I interrupt, and pause significantly. “My private life is my own. I hardly think it’s any concern of…”

“While you’re here, Mr. Sachs, you have no private life.”

“Don’t make that mistake, Professor Raines. Your money hasn’t bought…”

“Don’t you make the mistake of underestimating me, Mr. Sachs. I’m an old man, true, but an extremely strong one. I know you’re a killer of some reputation, but I was a killer once myself, and I’ve not forgotten my trade. I am quite capable of strangling you right here and now should the need arise.” He smiles pleasantly, and a shiver runs up my back “I was about to say…”

“I don’t frighten easily, Professor Raines.”

He looks at me skeptically. I know that my face must be pale, my eyes must clearly reveal fear.

“Yes, well, let’s not play at espionage, eh?” he says in dismissal. “I was about to say that by the same token, should your personality differences with Hester become insupportable, I shall have to take measures to correct that situation as well.”

“What measures?”

“Measures.”

“Like getting rid of Hester?”

“No. I could never do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because Hester is indispensable. You are only necessary.”

“You’re forgetting that I already have seven thousand dollars of your money.”

“You’ll return that if we ask for it.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

“I am certain,” Raines says.

“Have we finished talking?”

“Not quite. I want to make my position absolutely clear, Mr. Sachs. It was not easy for me to decide upon this present course of action. I’m a political scientist, I believe in government. But ever since the trouble at Harvard, attempts at any sort of meaningful dialogue have been met only with bland assurances that such dialogues would take place sometime in the future, when the country might not be quite as polarized as it is today. Mr. Sachs, the country is no longer polarized, that is a simple fact of life. The country has been brought to heel like a giant dumb beast, and that to me is the final affront, the ultimate indignity. It’s wrong to assume that all opposing ideas are necessarily evil. But it’s evil to assume that all opposing ideas are necessarily wrong. If a nation has been forbidden to think, it has been instructed to act. Assassination is abhorrent to me. I chose it only in desperation.”

“Why?”

“Because I felt it less sinful than aborting a million ideas.”

“You sound doubtful.”

“Of course I am. Aren’t you?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Then I’ve misjudged you, Mr. Sachs. You ore a ruthless man.”

“Let’s say dedicated.”

“Or perhaps obsessed,” Raines says, and regards me coolly. “In any case, doubtful or not, I’m wholly committed to the plan, and will allow nothing to stand in its way. Not even…” (and here he smiles and bows his head in deference to my definition) “… not even a ‘dedicated’ man. There’s far too much at stake here, Mr. Sachs. Before allowing you to jeopardize something that was decided upon after months and months of agonizing, I would kill you first”

“The plan is in no jeopardy.”

“Your assurance is appreciated, but not solicited. I will know if and when it’s in jeopardy, believe me.”

“How? Is the black man yours?”

“What black man?”

“The one who’s been following me.”

“I have engaged no one to follow you,” Raines says. His eyes are suddenly troubled. “This alarms me, Mr. Sachs. I would hate to think you’re already suspected.”

“You have no idea who he is, huh?”

“None whatever.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You can believe me. If I am nothing else, I am utterly honest.”

“The very young and the very old, both so utterly honest. How do you come by it so easily? It’s taken me half a lifetime, and I still haven’t managed it.”

“Perhaps because you think it’s come by so easily, Mr. Sachs.”

“Do you know what I think? I think everyone in this grubby little town is full of shit. What do you think of that, Professor Raines?”

“I think I dislike profanity.”

“Fuck you, Professor Raines.”

He seizes the collar of my coat abruptly, and twists it in his left hand. At the same time, his right hand comes up and he strikes me harshly and repeatedly across the face. He hurls me away from him like a broken twig. I am tempted to whimper. It is as though my father has administered a severe whipping.

“Don’t ever talk to me that way again, Mr. Sachs,” he whispers. “Ever.” He hesitates. “Do you understand me?”

I am angry enough to kill him. I do not answer him.

“Do you understand me?” he repeats.

Sara is not here in this silent wood to see me or to hear me, to lend support or give approval. But I find the courage, or the foolhardiness, nonetheless. I clench my fists and look directly into Raines’s eyes.

“Fuck you, Professor Raines,” I repeat.

He does nothing. He merely nods. Perhaps he is frightened. Or perhaps he is only waiting for another time. He turns abruptly on his heel and limps away from me. The leaves are falling softly everywhere around him, and the sky is still leaden with the promise of snow.

I keep calling Boston.

There is no answer at my son’s apartment. I begin to worry. Have the police broken in on him? Has he been foolish enough to hold onto his cache of marijuana, despite what happened to his friends? It is one o’clock on the Eastern seaboard. I may just catch Eugene before he goes out to lunch. I place the call with the switchboard downstairs, and then hear Bernice’s voice answering on the other end of the long-distance line. She is surprised to hear that I am in Salt Lake City. I tell her that I want to talk to Mr. Levine, and she asks me to wait just one moment His voice explodes onto the line.

“Sam? Where the hell are you?”

“Salt Lake City.”

“That’s pure crap, Sam. Where are you?”

“Crap or not, it’ll have to do, Eugene.”

“Why? What’s going on? Abby's been calling here every hour on the hour. Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What are you doing in Salt Lake City? Or wherever you are.”

“That’s not important. Eugene, I need your help.”

“I think you need a doctor’s help, is what you need.”

“I’ve been trying to reach David at his apartment in Boston, and I can’t get an answer. Some of his friends were arrested on narcotics charges. One of them is thinking of jumping bail David’s considering the idea of going with him if he leaves the country. I’m very worried about it.”

“If you’re so goddamn worried, come on home and take care of it yourself.”

“I can’t Eugene. Will you keep trying him in Boston?”

“Yes, I’ll keep trying him in Boston.” Eugene hesitates. “Where can I reach you, Sam?”

“Ah-ah, counselor. Transparent ploy. I’ll call you at home tomorrow morning.”

“I'll be out tomorrow morning. It’ll have to be tomorrow afternoon. What do you want me to ask David?”

“Find out what his friend is planning to do. And ask him if he got rid of that stuff in his apartment”

“What stuff?”

“He’s got marijuana in his apartment. I’m afraid the Boston police may come around with a search warrant.”

“Dumb bastards,” Eugene says. “Why don’t they leave the kids alone?”

“Yeah, why don’t they? Eugene?”

“Yes, Sam.”

“Will you call him?”

“Of course I will.” He pauses. “Have you talked to Abby?”

“Yes.”

“Sam… is this something I can… I can offer personal advice on?”

“I don’t think so, Eugene. Thanks.”

“It’s not another woman, is it?”

“Why does everyone think the only motive in the world is another woman?”

“When a man suddenly leaves without so much as…”

“Eugene, did you know that in certain primitive cultures, when a man turns forty, he packs up his belongings, picks up his staff, leaves his wife, his family, and his tribe, and goes off into the hills alone? Did you know that?”

“Sam, did you know that in certain primitive cultures, men shove animal bones through their lips and oysters up their ass? Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Where are you, Sam?”

“I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon, Eugene. Thanks again.”

It is snowing when I go out for lunch.

The town is still. The university streets have been covered by the silent fall, and all is still save for the sound of automobiles jingling by on tire chains. There is a sense of false peace. It causes me to wonder for only a moment why I am here to do murder.

The university students hurry past, their footfalls hushed.

I am followed to the restaurant, but when I head back for the hotel later, there is no one waiting for me. I am surprised. I check both directions. I scan the hallways across the street. No one. The snow has stopped, and it is bitter cold now. Perhaps the temperature has driven my tail indoors.

In the hotel room, everything looks just as I left it. The telephone, a blank pad, and a pencil are on the bedstand. The pillow is propped up against the headboard. I go to the dresser. My socks and handkerchiefs are in the top drawer. My shirts and undershorts are in the middle drawer. The bottom drawer contains the two nightshirts I brought with me. In the closet, my check jacket and my brown suit are hanging side by side, near my raincoat A pair of brown shoes are on the floor. Four ties and a brown belt are on the door hook. I go into the bathroom. Toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap are on the counter top. Razor, shaving cream, spray deodorant, and comb are in the cabinet. Everything seems in its place, exactly the way I left it. But I cannot shake the certain feeling that someone has been in this room during my absence. I go to the bed and sit on its edge. I lift the telephone receiver and wait until the law student behind the desk answers.

“This is Mr. Sachs in 506,” I tell him. “Were there any calls for me while I was out?”

“No, sir,” he answers. “No calls.”

“Any visitors?”

“There was a young man asking for you.”

“Did he leave his name?”

“No, sir.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was a tall black man, sir.”

“Wearing a fleece-lined jacket and a Stetson?”

“That’s the man.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“He asked whether you were registered, and I told him you were, and he asked me what room you were in, and then went to the house phone.”

“To call me?”

“I assume so, yes, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all, sir.”

I replace the receiver on its cradle. I do not recall having written anything on the telephone pad, and yet there is a faint impression on its blank surface. I take the pencil in my hand and shade the marks with graphite until a number appears white against the gray: WH 3-5598. I recognize the number at once, and feel suddenly violated. I go immediately to my briefcase and open it. There are a small stack of office envelopes and at least a dozen sheets of stationery in the bag. I remove the top sheet and stare at the letterhead,

Stacked behind these dozen-odd sheets of blank, incriminating pages, typed on the flimsy favored by some investigators, are the reports on each of the persons in the plot I take one out of the bag. My hand is shaking.