Time After Time (18 page)
Authors: Karl Alexander
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Stephenson found an English pub and restaurant several blocks away from his apartment. The place was not crowded. It looked like an establishment that catered more to a drinking clientele than a dining one. That was good to know, for if he ever got nostalgic, he could come in here some evening, sit at the bar and swap lies with the rest of the British expatriates.
Since he was famished, he ordered the most expensive item on the menu. Soon he was brought a rib-eye steak, three fried eggs, a basket of chips, a plate of fried bread and a pot of hot tea. The main part of the meal was decidedly American, but after several bites, he
wholeheartedly approved. When he finished eating, he pushed his plate away, then saw a morning newspaper on a chair several tables away. He opened it up While sipping his tea he looked for a story that recounted last night's escapade but was disappointed that he hadn't made page one. That would come in due time. Besides, page three wasn't all that obscure, and he was particularly satisfied with the use of his infamous sobriquet, “Jack the Ripper.” He loved the accurate reportage of what he had done to the petite Chinese courtesan. It had been a pity that he hadn't had more time to work, but the blood had started to seep under the partition into the next cubicle. He had departed prematurely.
wholeheartedly approved. When he finished eating, he pushed his plate away, then saw a morning newspaper on a chair several tables away. He opened it up While sipping his tea he looked for a story that recounted last night's escapade but was disappointed that he hadn't made page one. That would come in due time. Besides, page three wasn't all that obscure, and he was particularly satisfied with the use of his infamous sobriquet, “Jack the Ripper.” He loved the accurate reportage of what he had done to the petite Chinese courtesan. It had been a pity that he hadn't had more time to work, but the blood had started to seep under the partition into the next cubicle. He had departed prematurely.
He chuckled at the story's last sentence. “Police spokesmen refused to speculate about the murder, commenting only that âno suspects exist at this time.'” He dropped the paper, leaned back in his chair and thought. According to hospital authorities, he was dead. Since he was currently a visitor in 1979, he didn't exist, either! Smiling, he couldn't ever recall feeling so secure. He felt an omnipotent sense of well-being. Not only was he dead, he did not exist, he repeated to himself. Yet, he had never been in better health and he could render evil anytime he wanted to. The choice was his. Whoever struck his whimsical fancy.
He was about to leave when he overheard several customers speaking about crime. He listened.
“Did you read the story about Manson in the paper this morning?”
“Yeah.”
“Think they'll let him out?”
“Not a chance.”
“You know what really gets me? It costs the taxpayers twenty grand a year to keep that son of a bitch alive.”
“Yeah,” said the other. “And did you read about the other psycho that's running around out there?”
“No.”
“Somebody killed one of them oriental massage-parlor girls.”
“Boy, when the hookers ain't even safe, you know something's wrong.”
“You better believe.”
“Give us two more, bartender.”
Who was this chap, Manson, that they were discussing? Stephenson wondered. He picked up the paper again and turned to the front page. The banner was “MANSON UP FOR PAROLE SOON.” He avidly read the article, gleaning that “Charlie” was responsible for a whole string of brutal slayings.
What annoyed Stephenson, however, was the suggestion that Manson was the worst killer of all time. He didn't know who was (although it was an interesting question), but he certainly didn't think that the crown should rest on Charlie's head. What about Jack the Ripper's reputation? So, Charlie's the worst of them all, is he? Well, then, maybe we should show the people of San Francisco who really is the greatest. Seventy-three stab wounds in someone's back is easy, Charlie. Wait until you read about what my little lancets can do.
When he paid the bill, he noticed that he was getting short of American currency. He stepped out onto the sidewalk, squinted into the sun, then looked around to get his bearings. He wasn't that far from the Bank of England. Hadn't the delectable young lady said that he could exchange money anytime between the hours of ten and three? He had plenty of time.
He eyed the men that passed, appreciated their casual and debonair attire. He scowled as he recalled that the bloodstains had not quite come out of his only other outfit of clothes, now drip-drying over the tub in his Nob Hill flat. He must go shopping. He did not have nearly enough clothes for this time and this city. He had always prided himself on his dapper appearance and saw no reason why he shouldn't continue that standard in 1979. He must appear as the most ultramodern and exotic gentleman ever to strut down The
Broadway. He turnedâhis half boots flashing in the sunâand triumphantly started off toward the bank.
Broadway. He turnedâhis half boots flashing in the sunâand triumphantly started off toward the bank.
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When Amy Robbins rapped on one of the bank's glass doors with her car keys and was let inside by the security guard, she was embarrassed and hoped no one would notice that she was twenty-three minutes late. Eyes down, she hurried for her desk. She sat down and had begun sorting through a stack of credit-card applications when she saw someone lean against her desk. She looked up, face hot with guilt.
“You look great,” said Carole Thomas, a buxom, keen-eyed woman who had just recently risen from the ranks of the tellers to become the bank's only other female officer.
“Oh hi, Carole.”
“Something happened, didn't it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You're almost a half hour late.”
“Traffic.”
Carole laughed and nodded. “Where? Going in or coming out of the bedroom?”
“Carole!”
“Okay, okay, I won't pry. I'll just say congratulations. It's about time you met someone worth meeting.” She started away.
Amy smiled and felt a surge of joy. “Carole?”
She turned. “What?”
“He's like a little boy and a grandfather all rolled into one.”
“Interesting. Do I know him?”
“You've never met. I promise.”
“Well, then, does he have a brother?”
“How should I know?”
Carole laughed. “A cousin, maybe? Look, I've got to run. Coffee later?”
“Sure. Heyâwhy don't you come over for dinner Friday night? You can meet Herbert.”
“Herbert?” She rolled her eyes. “Are you sure you got the name right?”
Amy laughed. “Around six-thirty?”
“I'll be there. I wouldn't miss a look at a Herbert for anything in the world.”
Amy daydreamed about the night before. She felt warm and had no self-doubts. Her time with Herbert had been one of those momentous occasions when she knew that the feelings had been reciprocal. Even the mysterious scene with him this morning had not diminished her sense of well-being. Except just who was Mr. Herbert Wells from London? She sensed that when she did find out, she ultimately would be pleasantly surprised. She leaned back, placed her hands behind her head and let her mind drift back into her bedroom. She smiled.
Suddenly, she bolted straight up in the chair and stared at the clock across the room. What was she doing? The doors would be open in less than an hour, and she hadn't accomplished a thing! She grabbed all the papers out of her “In” basket and placed them in front of her, as if that would make them go away faster. Then she read a loan application from a Ms. Alexis Lynd who wanted to renovate a town house on Twin Peaks. The woman was an account executive for an advertising agency and had liquid assets in the sixty-thousand-dollar range. (Amy wished she did.) Application approved. And so it went.
When the security guards unlocked the doors for the patrons of the bank, she was concentrating on a report about fluctuations in world currencies, imagining the wails of Italian financiers as the lira continued to plunge, conjuring up the grins of sultans as the dinar tripled in value. She felt a presence. She dropped her pen and looked up.
“Yes, may Iâ” She gasped and almost put her hand to her mouth, but had the presence of mind to hang on to the arms of her chair. Herbert was right! Standing before her in a poised slouch was Dr. Stephenson, the lean and dark Englishman who was supposed to be dead. He loomed larger than life, his deep-set eyes instinctively searching her face for weakness. She forced a smile and felt some color return to her face.
“Good morning, Miss ⦔
“Robbins,” she replied automatically.
“Oh, yes. Miss Robbins. I hope I didn't startle you.” He smiled thinly. “I would like to exchange more currency.”
“Certainly.”
He handed her a stack of pound notes.
She stared at them dumbly for a moment, thoughts racing through her mind. She opened and closed her desk drawer, then smiled again. “If you'll excuse me, sir. I'll check this morning's rate. It'll only take a minute.”
“Take your time.” He nodded imperceptibly and sat down.
She crossed the room, desperately hoping that her voice hadn't quavered. She went behind a row of teller windows, furtively grabbed a telephone and dialed her apartment. The five rings were maddening, but finally she got an answer.
“Herbert!”
“Oh, hello, Amy, dear, how nice that you shouldâ”
“Herbert, he's here!”
A long, static-filled pause.
“For God's sake, did you hear me?”
“Keep him in the bank as long as you possibly can. I'll be there straightaway.”
“But what if I can't?”
“Try.” He hung up.
With a trembling hand, she hung up, too, then glanced back at
her desk and saw that he was still sitting there. What she hadn't seen was that he had watched her make the telephone call.
her desk and saw that he was still sitting there. What she hadn't seen was that he had watched her make the telephone call.
She returned to her desk, chin held high, and forced a smile. She made a show of sitting down and arranging her clothes, as if movement would keep him occupied.
“One-point-seven-eight this morning, sir,” she reported. “That's better than when you first came in.”
“Smashing,” he replied in low, rich tones, continuing to lounge in the chair. His head was back and his eyes almost closed so that he appeared half asleep. Actually, he was brooding, his fingers twitching compulsively as he ran them back and forth over his lips.
She calculated the amount of money due him, then opened her drawer and slowly began counting out the dollars. She desperately tried to think of a ploy. She couldn't have a security guard detain him because there was no cause. Finally, she handed him the cash.
“There you go, sir.”
“Thank you.” He folded the money, pocketed it, rose and smiled at her.
She stood up, too. If she could just get him to talk. Something. “Are you enjoying your stay in San Francisco?”
“Yes. Very much. Thank you.”
“How did you like the Jack Tar Hotel?”
He frowned darkly; his eyes narrowed and glittered at her. Then he laughed derisively.
She realized her slip and placed her hand to her mouth.
“Miss Robbins, you wouldn't just happen to know a gentleman named Wells, would you?”
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H.G. arrived at the bank five minutes too late and had to calm a visibly shaken Amy Robbins by tightly holding her hand across the
desk and whispering reassurances. She was on the verge of tears, but controlled herself lest she call attention to herself.
desk and whispering reassurances. She was on the verge of tears, but controlled herself lest she call attention to herself.
“I'm sorry,” she uttered. “I'm really sorry.”
“It's quite all right, Amy. Really. I'll find Leslie John Stephenson. After all, he is only human.”
She managed a smile. “You're so damned nice.”
“Come on, then.”
Amy made a quick phone call and learned that Stephenson had checked out of the Jack Tar Hotel yesterday, paid cash and hadn't left a forwarding address.
He might as well be dead, H.G. thought wryly as he flagged down a taxi outside the bank. He asked the driver to take him to the police station, then sat back and blankly stared out the window. He took no pleasure in his ride through the city.
He was, however, quite simply amazed when he saw the size of the San Francisco Police Department. It was almost as large and forbidding as the hospital, although at least it was clean and freshly painted on the outside.
Uniformed policemen left the building in fours and fives, casually checked their weapons and other paraphernalia, then climbed into black and white vehicles waiting like cavalry horses and sped away. H.G. watched in awe. Never before had he seen so many police. And every one of them carried sidearms. Were most San Franciscans criminally inclined, as Stephenson had opined in the Jack Tar Hotel suite? Was that why a city (even now) one fourth the size of greater London needed regiments of police to maintain the status quo? Or was the enemy the citizenry itself? And if that were the case, then America had indeed become a totalitarian state. He frowned and pondered. If the land of the free had succumbed to some form of oppression, it certainly wasn't visible. He had detected no chains, no slavery, no one functioning against their will. No, no, he said to
himself, there was no dictatorship here. Still, why the vast numbers of men in blue?
himself, there was no dictatorship here. Still, why the vast numbers of men in blue?
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