by Jack Finney
Captain Rihm leaned forward and spat on the patch, 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.
What was so strange about his clothes?
The captain said, Well, did you ever know anyone who wore a pair of pants with big black-and-white checks, cut very narrow, no cuffs, and pressed without a crease?
I had to think for a moment. Yes, I said then, my father, when he was a very young man, before he was married; I've seen old photographs.
Sure, said Captain Rihm, and he probably wore a short sort of cutaway coat with two cloth-covered buttons at the back, a vest with lapels, a tall silk hat, and a big, black oversize bow tie on a turned-up stiff collar, and button shoes.
That's how this man was dressed?
Like seventy-five years ago! And him no more than thirty years old. There was a label in his hat, a Twenty-third Street hat-store that went out of business around the turn of the century. Now, what do you make out of a thing like that?
Well, I said carefully, there's nothing much you can make of it. Apparently someone went to a lot of trouble to dress up in an antique style; the coins and bills, I assume he could buy at a coin dealer's; and then he got himself killed in a traffic accident.
Got himself killed is right. Eleven fifteen at night in Times Square — the theaters letting out; busiest time and place in the world — and this guy shows up in the middle of the street, gawking and looking around at the cars and up at the signs like he'd never seen them before. The cop on duty noticed him, so you can see how he must have been acting. The lights change, the traffic starts up, with him in the middle of the street, and instead of waiting, the damn' fool, he turns and tries to make it back to the sidewalk. A cab got him and he was dead when he hit.
For a moment Captain Rihm sat chewing his tobacco and staring angrily at a young woman pushing a baby carriage, though I'm sure he didn't see her. The young mother looked at him in surprise as she passed, and the captain continued.
Nothing you can make out of a thing like that. We found out nothing. I started checking through our file of old phone books, just as routine, but without much hope because they only go back so far. But in the 1939 summer edition I found a Rudolph Fentz, Jr., somewhere on East Fifty-second Street. He'd moved away in '42, though, the building super told me, and was a man in his sixties besides, retired from business; used to work in a bank a few blocks away, the super thought. I found the bank where he'd worked, and they told me he'd retired in '40, and had been dead for five years; his widow was living in Florida with a sister.
I wrote to the widow, but there was only one thing she could tell us, and that was no good. I never even reported it, not officially, anyway. Her husband's father had disappeared when her husband was a boy maybe two years old. He went out for a walk around ten one night — his wife thought cigar smoke smelled up the curtains, so he used to take a little stroll before he went to bed, and smoke a cigar — and he didn't come back, and was never seen or heard of again. The family spent a good deal of money trying to locate him, but they never did. This was in the middle 1870s sometime; the old lady wasn't sure of the exact date. Her husband hadn't ever said too much about it.
And that's all, said Captain Rihm. Once I put in one of my afternoons off hunting through a bunch of old police records. And I finally found the Missing Persons file for 1876, and Rudolph Fentz was listed, all right. There wasn't much of a description, and no fingerprints, of course. I'd give a year of my life, even now, and maybe sleep better nights, if they'd had his fingerprints. He was listed as twenty-nine years old, wearing full muttonchop whiskers, a tall silk hat, dark coat and checked pants. That's about all it said. Didn't say what kind of tie or vest or if his shoes were the button kind. His name was Rudolph Fentz and he lived at this address on Fifth Avenue; it must have been a residence then. Final disposition of case: not located.
Now, I hate that case, Captain Rihm said quietly. I hate it and I wish I'd never heard of it. What do you think? he demanded suddenly, angrily. You think this guy walked off into thin air in 1876, and showed up again in 1950!
I shrugged noncommittally, and the captain took it to mean no.
No, of course not, he said. Of course not, but — give me some other explanation.
I could go on. I could give you several hundred such cases. A sixteen-year-old girl walked out of her bedroom one morning, carrying her clothes in her hand because they were too big for her, and she was quite obviously eleven years old again. And there are other occurrences too horrible for print. All of them have happened in the New York City area alone, all within the last few years; and I suspect thousands more have occurred, and are occurring, all over the world. I could go on, but the point is this: What is happening and why? I believe that I know.
Haven't you noticed, too, on the part of nearly everyone you know, a growing rebellion against the present? And an increasing longing for the past? I have. Never before in all my long life have I heard so many people wish that they lived at the turn of the century, or when life was simpler, or worth living, or when you could bring children into the world and count on the future, or simply in the good old days. People didn't talk that way when I was young! The present was a glorious time! But they talk that way now.
For the first time in man's history, man is desperate to escape the present. Our newsstands are jammed with escape literature, the very name of which is significant. Entire magazines are devoted to fantastic stories of escape — to other times, past and future, to other worlds and planets — escape to anywhere but here and now. Even our larger magazines, book publishers and Hollywood are beginning to meet the rising demand for this kind of escape. Yes, there is a craving in the world like a thirst, a terrible mass pressure that you can almost feel, of millions of minds struggling against the barriers of time. I am utterly convinced that this terrible mass pressure of millions of minds is already, slightly but definitely, affecting time itself. In the moments when this happens — when the almost universal longing to escape is greatest — my incidents occur. Man is disturbing the clock of time, and I am afraid it will break. When it does, I leave to your imagination the last few hours of madness that will be left to us; all the countless moments that now make up our lives suddenly ripped apart and chaotically tangled in time.
Well, I have lived most of my life; I can be robbed of only a few more years. But it seems too bad — this universal craving to escape what could be a rich, productive, happy world. We live on a planet well able to provide a decent life for every soul on it, which is all ninety-nine of a hundred human beings ask. Why in the world can't we
have it?
Collier's, September 15, 1951, 128(11):24-25, 78-81
Sounds in the Night
Moving very cautiously and in utter silence, Timberlake Ryan slid an arm out from under the covers toward the bed table, wondering if he had left his cigarettes there. His hand found the top of the table and he paused, motionless, listening to Eve's quiet, regular breathing beside him. Then, as he was about to resume his search, Eve spoke.
You asleep? she said quietly.
He neither moved nor answered. Slowly, regularly, he inhaled and exhaled several times. Then he sighed and muttered an unintelligible sound; his voice thick, and low in his throat, he said something that sounded like Cataleeb.
For a moment the bedroom was silent; then, very softly, Eve whispered, What?
Timberlake Ryan didn't answer. For two full breaths he lay motionless; then he moaned softly, twisting his head on the pillow. No, he said distinctly, protestingly. Then, his voice a deep growl, his lips slack, forming the sounds with his tongue only, he repeated, Cataleeb.
Tim, Eve whispered. She paused, listening; then, her voice a little worried, she said, You all right?
Drawing a deep breath, the sound sighing through his throat, Tim arched his back, his legs stirring restlessly. I can't, he moaned, and now the sound he had been muttering became intelligible as words: Can't tell Eve, he muttered. Again he lay silent, his breathing becoming deeper, as though he were drifting back into sound sleep.
Tim. Her voice was louder now. What's the matter, Tim?
He answered immediately, still muttering, his voice was a dead monotone, but the words were clear and distinct. Can't. Can't tell Eve. Never understand. Should never gotten mixed up with you. He paused, then added, Eve wonderful wife to me. Never want hurt her. Shouldn't got mixed up with you. Grinning in the darkness, he waited for Eve to respond.
But she did not answer, and as the moments passed, her breathing gradually became deep and regular.
Very carefully, Tim propped himself up on an elbow. Moving slowly and cautiously, he leaned over Eve, listening, his ear close to her lips.
Big slob, she muttered. Wish he'd get mixed up somebody else. Get rid of him. Best years my life.
Tim slipped a hand under the light blanket and pinched Eve, suddenly, sharply. Ow! she cried, scrambling out of reach, and Tim snapped on his bedside light and lay grinning at her. He was a spare, black-haired man with a lean, tan face. Just had a terrible nightmare, he said. A beautiful gorgeous show girl, utterly repulsive to me in every way, was trying —
What's the matter? Eve sat up, tossing her head to distribute her yellow hair over her neck and shoulders. Can't you sleep, either? She frowned, rubbing the spot where he'd pinched her. Damn it, I'll bet you raised a blister.
It was the coffee; we never learn. Eve sat forward to prop her pillow against the head of the bed, then she glanced at the clock on the bureau, and frowned. Far off, in the East River, a boat whistle growled, deep and mournful, and Eve shivered, hunching her shoulders. Whenever I hear that sound late at night, I always think it's foggy out — thick, yellow, London fog.
It's a nice clear night, practically balmy.
I know, but it sounds foggy. Dark, lonely. Mysterious figures skulking in doorways.
They smoked quietly, then, and the street and city outside were utterly silent except for the occasional click of the traffic light five stories below. Perhaps a minute passed, then suddenly, shockingly — from directly under their windows, it seemed — a voice bellowed, astonishingly loud in the still night air. Drawing the words out in a long, hoarse shout, a man cried, Hey-y-y, Nick! The deep-throated roar had a vacant, mindless quality, which Tim identified. A drunk, he said.
Shaking her head in annoyance, Eve said, See what I mean? Now, what in the world is he yelling about?
Smiling, Tim shook his head. You'll never know. It's like all the shouts, screams, shots and explosions you hear late at night in a city. You never find out what caused them or what happened afterward, and if you look out the window there's never anything there. It's part of the mystery, charm and frustration of New York.
Once again, but down the street now, farther away, the hoarse, empty shout sounded: Hey-y-y, Nick!
I'm glad we're in here, Eve said.
What's the least amount of money — Tim's dark eyebrows raised in sudden interest — that you'd take to get dressed and walk down to the river?
Right now?
Yeah.
All alone? Eve frowned.
Yep.
A million dollars.
Leaning over the edge of the bed, Tim brought up one of his slippers from the floor. Oh, come on, now, you'd do it for less than that. Setting his slipper on the table beside him, he tapped ashes into it. You'd certainly do it for a hundred thousand dollars. One hundred thousand crisp dollar bills. Even wilted bills. Why, the interest, alone —
Okay, a hundred thousand, but not a cent less. It's dark and late, and it's foggy, no matter what you say. Honestly, I'd be scared stiff. Leaning across Tim, she tapped ashes into his slipper.
He kissed her shoulder. Well, you'll never get it; not in today's market. Too many competent people around who'd beat your price. I'd do it for five hundred. Or less. Clear to the Battery. Hopping on one leg. Barefooted.
You would? Really?
Certainly. It'd only take an hour. And it'd buy you a mink stole.
Fine; get dressed. Eve smiled, inhaling on her cigarette.
Or we could take a trip; go to the World's Fair, or something.
Is there a World's Fair on now?
No, but there's no five hundred dollars either, so don't let that spoil your plans.
I'm just as glad. I'd be worried sick till you got home again.
Why? Tim turned his head to look questioningly at Eve.
I don't know; I just would.
He shrugged. True, the night is filled with a thousand dangers, but for a jujitsu expert—
You couldn't even. spell it.
Well, that hardly matters to a former heavyweight champion of the U.S. Nav—
You wouldn't be a likely contender in the Sea Scouts.
Say, what the hell's going on here? Tim sat up suddenly, and his voice was astonished. Why, all of a sudden, in the middle off the night, am I subjected to this torrent of abuse and slander?
Eve grinned sardonically, her lower lip outthrust to exhale a jet of cigarette smoke.
Tim threw back the covers and swung his feet to the floor. Okay. Just for that I'm going to get dressed and make my way to the vilest of New York's water-front dens. Elbowing my way to the bar, I will deliberately order a sloe gin fizz. He turned to look at Eve.
So?
With his feet, he found a slipper on the floor and put it on. I'll also wear pince-nez, and carry a volume of Shelley's poems. Bound in limp leather. Taking his other slipper from the bed table, Tim shook the ashes down into the toe, and leaned forward to put it on. Tasting my drink critically, I'll draw a snowy handkerchief from a sleeve, touch it gracefully to my lips, open my book, and begin to read. Tim stood up and walked toward the bedroom door.
Then what? Eve said interestedly, watching him. You clean out the joint singlehanded?
Of course not. Weeks later my battered body will be washed up on the mud flats of New Jersey, and it'll serve you right. He snapped on the hall light and started out the door. Come on. You going to lie around in bed all night?
A few minutes later, her hair quickly combed and gathered up at the back with a narrow ribbon, Eve walked into the living room. All the lamps were lighted, and the room — with the windows shiny-black against the night — had a snug, enclosed, comfortable feeling. The radio was on, tuned pleasantly low to an all-night program of dance music, and Tim sat back in a corner of the davenport, one foot up on the coffee table. He gestured at the table, and Eve saw two freshly mixed highballs side by side. Happy Guy Fawkes Day, Tim said.
Tim, what in the world? You've got to work tomorrow.
He grinned, leaning forward to pick up his drink. We can't sleep, so why not make the best of it? He sat back comfortably, lifting both feet to the coffee table, and ashes sifted down from one slipper onto his bare ankle. He kicked off the slippers. Matter of fact, I'm thinking of giving up sleep entirely. Life is too short, a few brief years, hardly a moment in the life of a giant redwood tree. So obviously, to waste a third of your brief life in sleep is just rank stupidity.
Eve smiled. You won't think so in the morning. She sat down on the edge of the davenport, her back straight, her posture a refusal to admit that they would be there for more than a moment.
Maybe, but meanwhile the night is ours. He saluted her with his glass.
Eve pursed her mouth disapprovingly, but she picked up her drink and sat back. A good orchestra was playing Stardust, slowly and lovingly, with a steady pulsing beat, and after a few moments Eve dropped her head to the back of the davenport. Nice, she murmured approvingly.
They sat sipping their drinks till the record ended; then there was a humming silence from the radio which grew into a lengthy pause. Radio as it should be, Tim said. Leisurely nighttime radio with no big sponsor paying hundreds of dollars for every minute and insisting that each second be crammed with sound. These are relaxed, easygoing, nighttime seconds, just wandering along smoking big fat cigars. The guy at the station is a disciple, like us, of the New Leisure so easily obtained by forgoing old-fashioned sleep. Right now he's finishing a sandwich or a cup of coffee. Or reading a newspaper, leaning back on the legs of his chair. No hurry about the next record; everyone's got plenty of time. Oh, I tell you, he said, glancing at Eve, we've been blind fools ever to sleep.
For several more seconds the pause continued; then the radio announcer spoke. Well, stay-ups, he said, and Eve smiled because his voice was so utterly relaxed and unhurried, as though he actually might have been finishing a cup of coffee or reading a paper. What's keeping you up? Why aren't you in bed like decent, law-abiding, tax-paying citizens?
