Nothing So Strange

by James Hilton

  JAMES HILTON

  NOTHING SO STRANGE

  There is nothing so powerful as truth—and often nothing so strange. —Daniel Webster

  First published by Little, Brown and Company, Boston, 1947

  First UK edition: Macmillan & Co., London, 1948

  * * *

  THE STORY

  This is the story of two modern people—a young American who, both as a scientist and as a man, faced some of the biggest problems of our times; and the girl who gave him all her heart and brain.

  When Jane met Dr. Mark Bradley in London she was only eighteen. She and her mother were both attracted by “Brad,” and the situation thus engendered proved fateful, since it led to Brad’s association with a great Viennese physicist and to his involvement in a tragic drama. But there was another drama, larger and less personal, that drew him into its widening orbit, a drama that became a secret and later an obsession.

  Probing yet protective, Jane’s love makes the strong thread in a pattern of deeply moving and significant events—strange events, too—and yet, to quote Daniel Webster, there is often “nothing so strange” as the truth.

  Although the earlier scenes of Nothing So Strange are laid abroad, its outlook is American and its climax could only have taken place in America. It is as exciting and as human as anything Mr. Hilton has ever written.

  * * *

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  * * *

  PART ONE

  “Yes, I knew him,” I said, “but it was years ago—in England….”

  You can make things sound very simple when you are answering questions on oath and there is a girl at a side table scribbling shorthand and giving little shrugs of appeal if the words come too fast. You don’t know what the questioner is trying to get at, and you almost feel that your answers are cross-examining him; you watch for the extra flicker of interest, the sudden sharpness of the next question. And all the time, behind the facts as you truthfully state them, there’s the real truth that you remember slowly, as when you stretch in bed the morning after a long walk and explore the aches. That, of course, isn’t the kind of truth you’ve promised to tell, but it probably shows in your eyes and makes you look as if you were hiding something. Which, in a sense, you are.

  “Where did you first meet him?”

  “In London. At a party.”

  “When was that?”

  “Nineteen thirty-six. I remember it because of all the Mrs. Simpson talk that was going on.” (The unsolicited detail, to account for an answer that had been perhaps too prompt.)

  “Were you friendly?”

  “Off and on—for a time.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean … well … some weeks I might see him twice or three times, other weeks I wouldn’t see him at all…. I didn’t have an affair with him, if that’s what you mean.”

  Shock tactics, but it failed; the man across the table referred to his notes and said quietly: “You were seventeen.”

  “Eighteen,” I corrected, but he had killed my line. I can’t help it; I act profusely when I’m nervous, and I’m nervous often when I’ve no need to be. It’s the same when I hear a motorcycle overtaking my car along a parkway, even though I know I can’t possibly be guilty of anything; or, perhaps more subtly, because I don’t know I can’t possibly be guilty of anything.

  Not that the man across the table looked like anyone to be afraid of. He had sandy hair, blue eyes, a nose that looked small because the chin and the mouth were set so squarely, a pink healthy complexion, rather pudgy hands. I would not have noticed him in the street or a crowd, but if I had had to sit in a dentist’s waiting room and stare at somebody, it might have been at him for choice. He wore a bow tie, dark blue pin-stripe suit, white shirt, and I couldn’t see what kind of shoes under the table. His name (from the letter he had written me, fixing the appointment to see him) was Henry W. Small. It didn’t particularly suit him, except that it was a good name to go unnoticed by.

  “Bradley was then twenty-four,” he continued, referring again to his notes. Then he looked up. “What was he doing?”

  “Studying at London University. So was I. That’s how we met.”

  “You said it was at a party.”

  “Yes, a dinner party given by a professor. We were fellow guests.”

  “Did you get to know him well at that party?”

  “I didn’t speak to him till afterwards and then only a few words. When I met him again at the college I knew him just about enough to say hello to. Then gradually a bit more than that, but not much more. He wasn’t the kind of person you get to know well.”

  “Did he have other friends?”

  “Very few, I should say.”

  “Did you meet any of them?”

  “Not often.”

  “Did you ever meet anyone called Sanstrom?”

  “Sanstrom?… No, I don’t think I remember the name.”

  “But you’re not certain?”

  “Well, it’s nine years ago. I can’t remember the names of everyone who might have been at some college party.”

  “You lived a rather social life?”

  “Fairly.”

  “More of a social life than Bradley, anyhow?”

  “Yes.”

  “In other words, you knew everybody and he didn’t?”

  “Oh no. He knew them, but they were more acquaintances than friends. He wasn’t easy to be friendly with.”

  “Would you call him unfriendly then?”

  “No, no … not that at all. He was just … well, shy. There was a sort of barrier you had to break down.”

  “Ah, a barrier. And you broke it down?”

  “Perhaps partly.”

  “So that you became his only real friend?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that either…. The fact was, he worked so hard he hadn’t much time for personal contacts of any kind.”

  “Where was he living?”

  “In furnished rooms.”

  “Did you ever visit him there?”

  “Once—but only for a few minutes.”

  “Would you say—from that one visit—that his style of life fitted with the job he had?”

  “Oh sure. He didn’t earn much money and everything about him looked like it.”

  “Where were you living then?”

  “With my parents. They had a house in Hampstead. They usually went over for the summer.”

  “Were Bradley’s rooms also in Hampstead?”

  “No. In Belsize Park. Or Chalk Farm. Just a few miles away.”

  “What do you mean—Belsize Park or Chalk Farm? Don’t you know which?”

  “Belsize Park if you wanted a good address, Chalk Farm if you didn’t care. He didn’t care.”

  He looked puzzled, but he made a note of Belsize Park or Chalk Farm. “Now on these occasions when you met him, Miss Waring, what did you usually talk about?”

  “Everyday things. Sometimes my work.”

  “Did you ever discuss his work?”

  “I couldn’t have—it was far out of my range. I was taking history. His stuff was mathematics, physics, and that sort of thing.”

  “So he could discuss history although it wasn’t his subject?”

  “Anybody can discuss history whether it’s their subject or not. But try talking about mathematics with an expert when you’ve never got beyond quadratic equations.”

  “All right…. Did you ever discuss America?”

  “Sometimes he spoke of his boyhood on a farm. Dakota, I think. Early struggles … all that.”

  “Politics?”

  “Not much.
Just news in the paper. The Wally Simpson business, if you call that politics. We didn’t agree about it—I was against the marriage, he was all for it.”

  “Did he like living in London?”

  “I think so. Most Americans do.”

  “You mean you did yourself?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Did he ever say whether he preferred England or America … or perhaps some other country?”

  “Goodness, no. It wasn’t what he preferred, it was where he could work. London University gave him a research fellowship.”

  “And American universities wouldn’t?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they hadn’t any—of the kind he wanted.”

  “So he might have had a grudge against them—or perhaps against American life in general?”

  “A grudge? That man never had a grudge even when he ought to have had.”

  As soon as I said it I regretted the emphasis; I knew it would lead to questions I wouldn’t answer at all. They came.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Just that he wasn’t the type for harboring grudges. He lived for his work and nothing else mattered.”

  “You don’t think he could ever be actuated by a motive to get even with somebody?”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “You can’t recall any incident of such a kind?”

  “No. Never.”

  “In fact you never saw anything wrong with him at all, did you, Miss Waring?”

  I caught a faint smile on his face and answered it with a big one of my own. “Of course I did—he was far too tied to his work for any girl to think him faultless.”

  “So he didn’t take you out enough?”

  I laughed. “No, not nearly enough.” I felt we were establishing the right mood and it would all be plain sailing if I stuck to it.

  “Did he have other girl-friends?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about his love life. I never asked him questions about it. And incidentally, Mr. Small, why are youasking all this about him now? How did you find out I ever knew him?”

  “Just let me put the questions, Miss Waring.” There was nothing brusque or unkindly in that, just a carefully measured firmness.

  “But I don’t see why you shouldn’t tell me. If he’s in any trouble I’d want to help him.”

  “Why?” The question shot out at me like the fang of a non-poisonous snake.

  “Because—well, because I like him.”

  “Still?”

  “In a sense. I don’t forget people I’ve once liked, and I did like him. Is that extraordinary of me? Well, as I said, I’d want to help him if … if I could, that is. Maybe I couldn’t. I suppose it depends on the kind of trouble he’s in….”

  I stopped, realizing he was just letting me talk. When he could see I didn’t intend to go on, he said: “Why should you expect him to be in any trouble?”

  “I didn’t say I expected it. I said if he is.”

  “What put such a possibility in your mind?”

  “Because you’re questioning me about him as if he’d done something wrong. Or aren’t you? Isn’t this a branch of the F.B.I, or something?”

  He took out a cigarette case and pushed it across the table towards me. “Smoke?”

  I said no thanks, because I thought my hand might tremble while I held a cigarette for him to light.

  He went on: “How long since you had any communication with Bradley?”

  “Oh years. Not since before the war. The English war—1939.”

  “Nineteen thirty-six being the year you knew him in London?”

  “That’s right.” I thought: Now it’s coming; and was inspired to add quickly: “My parents and I returned to America the following year.”

  “Did he return to America?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “At any rate you didn’t see him in America?”

  “No, never.”

  “Didn’t he write you any letters?”

  “Only a few—for a while. Then we lost touch. I wish you’d give me his present address if you have it.”

  “So that you could renew your friendship?”

  “Perhaps not that, but I’d write to him—for old time’s sake.”

  “And offer your help?”

  “Yes—if he needed any.”

  He nodded slowly. Then he lit a cigarette for himself and leaned back in the swivel chair. “Tell me, Miss Waring—and please remember I’m not trying to trap you into anything you don’t want to say—all I’d like is a personal opinion, just between ourselves….” He made a finger gesture to the girl taking shorthand. “Miss Sutton, don’t put this down—it’s off the record….”

  My father always said that when anyone ever tells you something is off the record you should be doubly on your guard; so I was, instantly, and concentrated on trying not to show it. I smiled, pretending to relax. He went on: “You’re a very loyal person—I can see that. Loyal to friends, just as you’d be loyal to your country. When you first got to know Bradley and found yourself beginning to like him, naturally you’d hope to find in him the same kind of loyalties. Did you?… Or were you ever a little disappointed in some ways?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I liked him. When you like people you don’t weigh them up like that. At least I don’t.”

  “You never felt there might be things he was keeping from you?”

  “We weren’t close enough friends for me even to think about it. He wasn’t a very talkative person, anyway.”

  “You mean that if he’d had any secrets he’d probably not have shared them with you?”

  “Maybe not. And I might not have shared mine with him. We were neither of us the tell-everything type.”

  He looked at me till I thought I was going to blush, so of course I did blush. As if satisfied, he pressed down the clasp of his briefcase and stood up. I saw then that he wore black shoes.

  “Well, Miss Waring, I guess that’s about all. Thank you for coming over…. And if by any chance we should need to bother you again….”

  “It’s no bother at all to me, but I have an idea something must be bothering you. Can’t you let me in on it?”

  “No,” he said, smiling completely for the first time. He had good strong teeth and the smile made rather babyish dimples. I took off ten years from my first guess of his age; perhaps he was thirty-five.

  “A secret?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Top secret?” (They like you to use their jargon.)

  “Just a secret.” (Perhaps it wasn’t their jargon.)

  “I see.”

  I smiled back and walked towards the door. He overtook me, yet somehow without hurry, before I reached it; turning the handle, he put himself with me in the doorway. “Nice of you to come so promptly. I hope you didn’t make a special trip—any time within a few days would have been all right.”

  “Oh, I go downtown quite a lot.”

  “Your father’s office?”

  “Oftener the Village. More in my line than Wall Street.”

  “Ah yes, of course. Writers and artists.” He cupped my elbow with his hand. “I’ll have to think over your request for Brad’s address. Might be able to oblige you, though of course we’re not a bureau of missing persons…. Well, thanks again…. Good-by.”

  “But he isn’t exactly missing if you know his address, is he?… Good-by, Mr. Small.”

  In the elevator going down I thought I had done rather well. Or had I?… Suddenly I realized that he had called him Brad. Was that to test me? But of course I would have admitted readily enough that I used to call him Brad. Nothing significant about that. It was probably their technique—to leave you with a feeling that they know more than you think they know, so that you can chew it all over and work up a fine state of nerves afterwards.

  * * * * *

  I took a taxi uptown and had early dinner alone at the house. There were plenty of friends I could have called up, but I didn’t fee
l like making a date with anyone, or even going to a movie later on by myself. The weather was probably the last cold spell of the winter; a bitter wind swept in from the north, and ice crackled where there had been any water in the gutters. Even after a couple of cocktails the dining room looked so big and dreary I was glad to have coffee upstairs and turn on all the lights in my personal rooms. It’s a cheerful suite on the fifth floor—bedroom, bathroom, dressing room, and den; I was allotted them as a child, and have never wanted anything bigger, even when the rest of the house was free for me to choose from. The furniture is good solid stuff from either New or Old England; my mother probably bought it at the auctions she liked to frequent. And the heating vents are built in the window sills, so that you lean on them and burn your elbows if you want to look down and see what’s going on in the street. Nothing much, as a rule; those middle sixties between Park and Fifth keep pretty quiet. That evening, as I looked down, I saw the familiar steam curling out of the manholes, and from the look of it as it scurried I knew the temperature had dropped a good deal since I left the downtown office. The low sky held captive the glow of the city; anglewise across Park Avenue I could see the Rockefeller buildings lost in clouds about the thirtieth floor. John came in to pull the blinds; I told him not to bother, I would do it myself later.

  “There’s still supposed to be some rule about lights,” he said.

  “All right, then, pull them down.” At that stage of the war New York didn’t bother much about the partial blackout, but John’s a stickler about such things. We’ve been real friends from my childhood. My father enticed him from a duke about twenty years ago, since when he’s become naturalized, but he still calls himself English except when English visitors ask him if he is, then he says he’s American or, if further pressed, a Scot.

  “Are you going out again, Miss Jane?”

  “Not me, I’m off to bed soon with a good book.”

  “Not Forever Amber, I hope?” He has a corny humor, unchanged from the time I was young enough to appreciate nothing else.

  “No. I take my history straight. Always did, ever since I studied it in London.”