Nothing So Strange

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

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.

• Part One
  
• Part Two
  
• Part Three
  
• Part Four
  
• Part Five
  

“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
un
friendly 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
you
asking
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?”