“Maybe you should call the police. But I suppose he hasn’t really done anything.”
“That’s just the trouble, Linda. He hasn’t done a single thing. It’s just that he’s always around. The damned thing is driving me crazy.”
“What—what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do! The next time I see him I’m going to grab him and beat the truth out of him. I’ll get to the bottom of this….”
The next night, the tall Englishman was back, walking just ahead of him on the train platform. Ray ran toward him, but the Englishman disappeared in the crowd.
Perhaps the whole thing was just a coincidence, and yet….
Later that night Ray ran out of cigarettes, and when he left the apartment and headed for the corner drugstore, he knew the tall Englishman would be waiting for him along the route.
And as he came under the pale red glow of the flickering neon, he saw the man, walking slowly across the street from the railroad tracks.
Ray knew that this must be the final encounter.
“Say there!”
The Englishman paused and looked at him distastefully, then turned and walked away from Ray.
“Wait a minute, you! We’re going to settle this once and for all!”
But the Englishman kept walking.
Ray cursed and started after him through the darkness. He called out, “Come back here!” But now the Englishman was almost running.
Ray broke into a trot, following him down the narrow street that led along the railroad tracks. “Damn you, come back! I want to talk to you!”
But the Englishman ran on, faster and faster. Finally Ray paused, out of breath.
And ahead, the Englishman had paused too.
Ray could see the gleaming glow of his wristwatch as he raised his hand in a gesture. And Ray saw that he was beckoning him to follow….
Ray broke into a run again.
The Englishman waited only a moment and then he too ran, keeping close to the edge of the railroad wall, where only a few inches separated him from a twenty-foot drop to the tracks below.
In the distance, Ray heard the low whistle of the Stamford Express, tearing through the night.
Ahead, the Englishman rounded a brick wall that jutted out almost to the edge of the embankment. He was out of sight around the corner for a moment, but Ray was now almost upon him. He rounded the wall himself and saw, too late, that the Englishman was waiting for him there.
The man’s big hands came at him, and all at once Ray was pushed and falling sideways, over the edge of the railroad wall, clawing helplessly at the air.
And as he hit the tracks, he saw that the Stamford Express was almost upon him, filling all space with its terrible sound….
Some time later, the tall Englishman peered through a cloud of blue cigarette smoke at the graceful figure of Linda Bankcroft and said, “As I remarked at the beginning of all this, my darling, a proper murder is the ultimate game of skill….”
The Passionate Phantom
“YOU MEAN YOU’VE NEVER met Ida Spain?” Hastings asked with an incredulity that was rare for him. “Man, she’s slept with everybody in town. How did you get left out?”
Crandell sipped his drink and smiled. “I’m a happily married man, Foster. I’d have no reason to know Ida Spain.”
Foster Hastings shook his head sadly. “I thought everybody knew her. I can’t understand it. You really mean you’ve never even heard the name before?”
Jim Crandell’s smile broadened. “I told you, Foster. That stuff isn’t for me.”
“Not even when you’re away, man? I’ve heard stories about traveling salesmen.”
“And farmer’s daughters, I know. I guess I’m just different.”
“Well, you come around to one of our parties and meet her, anyway. It’ll make you feel young again.”
Jim Crandell chuckled. “I’ve got someone at home who makes me feel young every weekend. I’ll be seeing you, Foster.”
“So long, Jim….”
Home was a little ranch house in the suburbs, with roses in the yard and good food in the kitchen. And Doris waiting there by the door as she always was.
“How was the trip, dear?”
He kissed her lightly on the cheek and peeled off his topcoat. “Good trip, but the weather was terrible up there. I’ll swear it must have been down to forty in Toronto.”
“I’ve got supper all ready.”
“Good.” He glanced at the evening newspaper briefly and then for some reason his mind returned to the conversation with Foster Hastings.
“Doris?”
She stuck her head around the kitchen door. “Yes dear?”
“Did you ever hear of a girl called Ida Spain?”
“Ida Spain?”
“Yeah. I met Foster Hastings—you know, the fellow from the bank. He happened to tell me about her.” Jim answered.
“Ida Spain … Gosh, dear, that name is familiar. I think I did meet her once or twice. Seems to me she was quite a beautiful woman. What did Foster say about her?”
“Well, I guess she really gets around. I was just surprised I’d never met her.”
“Why be surprised when you’re out of town three or four nights a week? We don’t exactly enter into the social whirl, you know.”
It was an old argument between them, and he didn’t want to go into it now. “Well, it’s not really important. She’s probably not my type anyway. Foster just happened to mention her.”
The food was smelling good, and he put down the paper and followed her into the kitchen, forgetting for the time about the girl named Ida Spain….
It was many days later, and he’d just gotten back from a trip to Washington. The desk in his office was cluttered with two days’ accumulation of mail, and as he prowled through the pile in search of any unexpected orders that might lurk there, the telephone gave a shrill nagging peal.
“Crandell?”
“Jim, I’m glad I caught you. This is Foster Hastings.”
“I just got in from Washington, Foster.”
“Look, you’ve been saying that you never met this Ida Spain….
“Ida Spain?” And then he remembered. “Oh, yes.”
“Well, I’m at a little cocktail party at the Clinton Hotel, and she’s here. Why don’t you come over?”
“Oh, I don’t think….”
“Come on. The little woman will never miss you for an hour or so.”
“Well….”
“She’s worth seeing, believe me.”
“Okay, Foster. You talked me into it. Where are you, in the cocktail lounge?”
“That’s right. At the Clinton.”
Jim Crandell smiled to himself as he gathered up the mail and stuffed it into his desk drawer. He never thought he’d be going out of his way to see a girl who’d slept with everybody in town, but the thing had his curiosity aroused. Of course he’d only been in this city a few years, but it seemed odd that his path had never crossed that of Ida Spain before.
He reached the Clinton Hotel ten minutes later, and walked into the bubbling maze of people milling about the bar with drinks in their hands and smiles on their faces. Jim didn’t know any of them really well, though one or two faces were familiar. His gaze settled on the women, and he found himself wondering which was the elusive Ida Spain. There was a striking blonde with a long cigarette holder, and a dignified business girl in a tweed suit, and a redhead in a tight sweater.
Then he spotted Foster Hastings, lounging against the bar with an older man. “I made it, Foster. How are you?”
“Swell, Jim, but I’m afraid your trip was for nothing. She left not five minutes ago. I tried to get her to stay, but it was hopeless.”
“Oh, come on now, Foster. I think you’ve been kidding me all along.”
“Honest,” he held up his hand, “ask Pinky here. He knows her.”
The man named Pinky nodded in agreement. “If you mean Ida Spain, she’s
the nicest thing this town’s seen in a long time.”
“Well, where does she live?” Jim asked while he signaled the bartender for a drink.
“Who knows?” Foster Hastings answered. “She doesn’t entertain in her home. From what I hear, she prefers a little motel just outside of town.”
Jim grunted. “She really goes around picking up men?”
Pinky laughed. “She’s a real nympho, man. Reminds me of a girl I knew down in New York once.”
Jim downed a shot of scotch and followed it with water. “Well, maybe I’ll get to meet her someday. I’ve got to be heading for home now, fellows.” He set down his glass and nodded to Pinky. “Glad to have met you,” he said, even though they hadn’t really been introduced.
He left the hotel and went in search of his car. The whole trip had been a waste of time, really, and he wondered what queer quirk of his mind had even led him there. Whoever Ida Spain was, whatever she did, it didn’t concern him. But somehow the thing did bother him. He stopped at a corner drug store and looked up her name in the city directory. There was no Ida Spain listed. But of course she could easily be living in one of the countless suburbs outside the city limits. What difference did it make, anyway?
It was dark when he reached home, and Doris was at work in the kitchen. “You’re late, dear.”
“I had to stop someplace.”
“How was the trip?”
“Good. Same as always. Dull, but good.”
She kissed him lightly and then went back to the kitchen. “I’ll have supper ready in a minute, dear.”
He picked up the evening paper and glanced at the front page. “What did you do while I was away?”
“Oh, the usual things. Bridge with a few of the neighborhood girls, a movie at the Strand.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking, Doris. You’re right when you say you never get out very much. I’ll bet you haven’t even been downtown in weeks. We visit the neighbors and one or two other people and that’s it. Why, you’ve never even met any of the people I work with, or any of my friends downtown.”
She reappeared from the kitchen and smiled bravely. “I know, dear. I’ve been telling you that for years—or months, at least. I’m glad you finally agree that a salesman’s wife has a dull life.”
“Well, I’m going to make up for it, starting tonight. I’m going to call Foster Hastings and his wife. I just saw him today and I know he’d like to go out with us.”
“Foster Hastings?”
“You’ve never met him, but I’m always talking about him. Swell fellow.”
“Oh, not tonight, Jim. I just don’t feel up to it tonight.”
“Okay. Don’t say I never suggest it, though.” He joined her at the table and inhaled the warm odor of soup. “Smells good. You always were a good little cook.”
“I’m glad I’m a good little something.”
“Oh, you know that girl, Ida Spain?”
“Yes?”
“I almost met her today. Didn’t miss her by five minutes.”
“Why are you so anxious to meet her, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Everyone seems to know her but me.”
“Well, believe me, she’s nothing special, dear.”
He laughed. “That’s a typical woman’s viewpoint.”
The conversation shifted to other topics, and once again the misty form of Ida Spain passed from his consciousness.
The next time Jim Crandell heard the name was the following week, when he was lunching with Bill Kook, one of the inside salesmen.
“You know Foster Hastings, don’t you, Bill?”
Bill Kook, big, smiling, never troubled, thought about it for a moment before he nodded. “I’ve met him once or twice.”
“He was telling me about a new girl around town named Ida Spain. She’s supposed to be really something.”
Bill Kook chuckled. “You can say that again. I’ve been out with her once or twice myself. She’s really the end!”
“You too! What does she look like, anyway?”
“An angel, boy; just an angel.”
Jim frowned and lit a cigarette. “How come I’ve never met her if she’s around so much?”
Bill thought about it. “Well, you’re out of town usually during the week. And she’s never around on weekends.”
“She isn’t! How come?”
“Who knows? Some of the boys think she’s got a husband on the side. If that’s the story, though, he must be a real dope not to keep better track of her.”
“Well, look, I’m not going to be away this week. See if you can fix it up so I meet her.”
Bill Kook chuckled. “What’s the matter, Jim? Your wife not treating you right?”
“No, nothing like that. I’m just interested. I’ve heard so much about her, yet I’ve never met her.”
Bill smiled knowingly. “Okay, boy. I’ll see what I can do.”
But the week passed without any word from Bill, and when Jim asked him about it on Friday he simply shrugged and replied that she hadn’t been around lately. That was all. She hadn’t been around lately.
The next week he was out of town again, this time to a city in West Virginia. But by Thursday the vague vision of this girl he’d never met was too much for him. He put in a long distance call to the office and asked for Bill Kook.
“Bill, Jim Crandell here.”
“Yes, Jim.” And then the eternal question, “How’s the trip going?”
“Good, but I think I can finish up here a day earlier than I expected. I’m flying back early this evening. I was wondering if there might be anything doing.”
“Doing, Jim?”
“You know—any place that Ida Spain might turn up.”
“Funny you should mention that, Jim. I just had a drink with her last night. Some friend of Foster Hastings is having a party tonight and she expects to be there.”
“Where is it?”
“Just a small affair at the fellow’s apartment. I think it’s in the Clinton Arms. His name is Pinky something.”
“I met him once. Thanks, Bill. I’ll find it. It’s swell of you to cut me in on the fun.”
Two hours later, as his plane slid beneath an overcast sky for an easy landing, Jim debated briefly about calling Doris from the airport. Finally he decided against it, mainly because he couldn’t yet explain his odd actions even to himself. The thing had grown like an obsession within him. He had to see this girl. She was suddenly more important than anything else, even Doris.
He found the Clinton Arms without trouble, and even the location of the party was obvious from the muffled murmur that reached his ears. He checked the name on the door—Pinky Peterson—and walked in.
Foster Hastings was the first to notice him. He detached himself from a slim blonde and came over with a drink, “Swell to see you, boy. That fellow from your office—Kook—said you might drop by.”
“He did, huh? Where’s Ida Spain?”
Hastings seemed puzzled by his abrupt manner, but he pointed toward the kitchen. “She’s back there with our host.”
Jim pushed his way through the dozen or so people in the living room and made for the kitchen. Now….
But there was only Pinky, pulling an ice cube tray from the refrigerator. “Hi there.”
“Where’s Ida Spain?”
“Ida?” He laughed. “Did you check the bedroom?”
Jim pushed past him and looked into the darkened room. It was empty. “Where is she, damn it?”
“Hey, fella, get a grip on yourself. How the hell should I know what happened to her?”
Jim went through the darkened bedroom on the run and yanked open a door at the far side. It led back into the hall.
“That door should be locked,” Pinky mumbled behind him. “Somebody must have opened it.”
“Yeah.”
“What are you so excited about, anyway? I thought you didn’t know the girl.”
“I don’t.” He walked back through the kitchen, past the
laughing people, and out of the apartment, feeling curiously empty inside. He was like a boy watching someone else eating his cake.
There was nothing to do then but go home, and he walked slowly toward the cab stand down the street. She had cheated him again, he knew, and it was almost as if she was trying to avoid the meeting between them. What manner of woman was this, he wondered, What manner of woman …?
The house was dark when he got there, and the car was gone from the garage. Doris would be at the movies again, not expecting his return until tomorrow. He dropped a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster and put a pot of coffee on the stove.
Suddenly the telephone leaped to life in the living room and he went to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Jim?”
“That’s right. Who’s this?”
“Bill Kook.” There was a note of near-terror in the voice. “Look, Jim. I was at the party tonight, with Ida Spain. We were in the kitchen when you arrived….”
Jim’s body tensed. Had he really been that close to meeting her?
“Where are you now? Is she still with you?”
“Yes, she’s here. At my apartment. She stepped into the bathroom for a minute and I had to call you. Jim,” the voice dropped to a whisper, “Jim, I’ve found out something about her. I suspected it when she made me run out on the party, and now I’m certain about it. Jim, can you come over here right away?”
“Can you keep her there?”
“I’ll try. But hurry!” Then there was a click as he hung up on the other end.
Jim Crandell dropped the phone and grabbed up his coat. He was out of the house in ten seconds, running down the street until he was out of breath and had to slow down or drop. He had to find a taxi, a bus, anything. He had to hurry. He had to hurry before it was too late and something happened that he didn’t fully understand.
And then at last a cruising cab!
And he was racing across town, for the final rendezvous with Ida Spain….
The apartment was dark, and when nobody answered his ring he tried the door. The knob turned readily in his hand and then he was inside, focusing his eyes through the dimness of the room.
“Ida Spain.”
He spoke the name softly.
The Night People Page 3