The Night People

by Edward D. Hoch

  “Over here. The Russians arrived a half-hour before you, and your old friend Baine is in from Hollywood, too.”

  “He’s no friend of mine. I figured he’d be here, though, with his picture being shown—even if it is out of competition.”

  The journey downtown took only ten minutes in the sleek little sports car Martha had brought down with her. For an English girl, born and bred within sight of Westminster Abbey, she showed an amazing liking for French cars. “Oh, and there’s a Mister Falconi waiting to see you, too. He’s called the hotel twice.”

  “I don’t know any Falconi.”

  “Probably some Italian producer. You’re getting famous over here.”

  “Sure I am. How about our stars? Will they make it on time?”

  She swung the car into the paved hotel driveway. “I was saving the bad news for last. Georges broke his leg skiing. I got the wire just this morning.”

  “Skiing!” He ground out the cigarette in disgust. “Who in hell skis the last week in April?”

  “Georges does, apparently. Cheer up, Win. You don’t need him to win the top prize.”

  “I know. It’s just—oh, hell, it’s just that I wanted to give them the full treatment.”

  Win Chambers had made a career out of giving people the full treatment. Back in the States he’d been the boy wonder of Hollywood, until an unhappy love affair, coupled with an ever-increasing tax bite on his earnings and his disappointment at not winning an Academy Award, had driven him to Paris in near-despair. Oddly enough, the picture the American critics had scorned—Swamp King—made him famous overnight in Paris. He’d rented an old studio in the suburbs, hired Martha Myers as his secretary, and started producing and directing a number of low-budget films with promising young unknowns in their casts. One of them, Intrepide, had come close at last year’s Venice Film Festival, so he’d been especially anxious that Wild Yearling be chosen as the official French entry at the new Feru Film Festival. The competition came from England, and Hollywood, and Russia, and Italy. It would not be easy, but he had hopes. If it happened, if he won, then perhaps he could go back to America with Martha on his arm and spit in their eyes—the Academy, the studio bosses, the tax people, and especially a girl named Betty. He wanted to go back as the conquering hero. He wanted to go back and give them the full treatment.

  Up in the room, the telephone was ringing. “If that’s Baine or any of the Hollywood crowd, I’m in a conference,” he told Martha.

  “You think they’d believe that?” She answered the phone and quickly covered the mouthpiece. “It’s Mister Falconi again. You want to see him?”

  Win sighed and glanced at his watch. “I should be down at the theatre. Find out who he is, what he wants.”

  Martha spoke a few quiet words into the phone, then turned again to Win. “It’s business of a personal nature. But he says it’s most important.”

  “All right, I’ll change my shirt and go down for a drink. Tell him if it’s so important I’ll be downstairs in the lounge in maybe ten minutes.”

  He took time to shave, and it was closer to twenty minutes before he made it downstairs. By that time he’d momentarily forgotten the man named Falconi. He was thinking only of a quick drink to boost his spirits for the crowd of reporters certain to be waiting at the theatre. Then, just after it arrived, a shortish man in grey slipped into the chair opposite him.

  “Mr. Chambers? Winston Chambers?” No one had called him Winston in years, except sometimes Martha when she was fooling with him.

  “Yes? Oh, you must be Falconi.”

  The grey man gave a smiling nod. Win decided he looked a little like a doctor. Certainly not at all like a movie producer. “Correct. John Falconi. I’m from New York.”

  “Oh? I thought perhaps you wished to see me on behalf of the Italian film industry.”

  The grey man smiled. “No, no, nothing like that. I have, actually, an odd sort of request to make. I only approach you because I know you are well acquainted with many of the people attending the festival.”

  “I know them. You meet the same people pretty much at Venice and Cannes. Are you a reporter or something?”

  This brought another smile to the grey man’s face. “Actually, I’m the American representative of a film manufacturer who’s thinking of establishing a plant in West Germany. I am, of course, interested in meeting the money people at a festival such as this.”

  “Does your company make colour film?”

  “Of course.”

  “And black-and-white?”

  “No, only colour.”

  “Then this is an odd place to come, Mr. Falconi. The Feru Film Festival has the unique distinction of barring all colour films. Only black-and-white motion pictures are entered.”

  This information took Falconi a bit by surprise, but he quickly recovered his composure. “Certainly, though, these producers are not adverse to working with colour. Some of the best recent motion pictures, including this year’s Academy Award winner….” His voice trailed off for a moment and then resumed. “Of course I know you yourself don’t feel too kindly towards the Awards.”

  “You know a lot about me, Mr. Falconi. Suppose you drop this talking in circles and get to the point. I’m a busy man.”

  The grey man smiled again. It seemed to be his favourite expression. “Very well, I am prepared to offer you a sum of money to accomplish a slight mission for me. You know the Russian actress Tonia Dudorov? She arrived here this morning. At the formal events of the Feru Festival she will surely be wearing her newly acquired Lenin Arts Award.”

  Win remembered reading something about Tonia winning the prize, presented each year to a leading exponent of the arts in Russia. “Wearing it?”

  “The award consists of a scroll and a small red metal star to be worn on the left chest. It’s the star we want.”

  “You want? What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “Please keep your voice down, Mr. Chambers.” He reached a hand into his pocket and came out with a small velvet box. Inside was a small red star. “You will simply substitute this star for the one she is wearing.”

  “Look, who are you, anyway? What is all this?”

  “I can understand your concern, but I’m not at liberty to reveal any further details. If you will substitute the stars for us, and deliver the new star to me, a large sum of money will be deposited to your account in a New York bank.”

  “Just how much is a large sum?”

  “Enough to settle your tax difficulties with Uncle Sam. You could return to America any time you wanted.”

  “It’s not just tax troubles that are keeping me away.”

  “We know,” John Falconi said, implying for the first time that there were others in this obscure plot. “But that would be a step. We checked up on you quite a lot back in the States. You might be interested in knowing that Betty Ainsley is married now, and has a child.”

  “You checked up, all right.” The news, even after so many years, hit him like a blow in the stomach. He tried to imagine Betty married, but his mind could not somehow grasp the fact. It was not so much at the moment of intercourse that he could not picture. Rather it was the act of childbirth that seemed still so completely foreign to this girl he’d once loved.

  “We know you can be trusted,” Falconi said.

  “Trusted by whom?”

  The grey man shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Uncle Sam, shall we say?”

  “I haven’t been back to America in five years. It means nothing to me.”

  “It’s still your country.”

  Win finished his drink and tossed some bills on the marble-topped table between them. “Look, I don’t know what you want. But I don’t intend to become a spy or anything like that, for the United States or anyone else. I’m a movie producer, and that’s all.”

  “Think about it,” Falconi said quietly. “I’ll call you again tonight.”

  “Don’t bother.” Win got up carefully from the table and
walked away. God, wait till he told Martha about this guy!

  But on the way to the theatre he remembered what Falconi had said about Betty, and that memory depressed him….

  The reporters and columnists were waiting, as they always were at these affairs. While the photographers chased up and down the beaches in search of some well-equipped starlet who might pose for a picture while losing her bathing suit or being rescued from the surf, Win Chambers sat at bay in a smoky lounge of the theatre, answering a variety of questions from reporters who sometimes only barely understood the workings of the English language.

  “Would you classify yourself as a runaway producer, Mr. Chambers?”

  “I left Hollywood a good many years before this exodus began, and since I don’t any longer consider myself an American producer making films abroad for the American market, I could hardly be classed with the runaways. In my own mind, I’d be running away if I returned to the States now.”

  “Mr. Chambers, your first big success in France was last year’s Intrepide, which was filmed in the French language. Now you have filmed Wild Yearling in American. Why?”

  “First off, my first big success in France was an American picture, Swamp King, and not Intrepide. But to answer your question, Wild Yearling is in English—not American—and I see nothing wrong with this. Perhaps these last five years I’ve come to think more like an Englishman than either an American or a Frenchman. The picture was partly financed with British money, and I think the story it tells can better be told originally in the English tongue.”

  “But it is the French entry.”

  “A fact that makes me very proud. There will be a one world of films within our lifetime, and with it perhaps a one world of diplomats.”

  There was a stir towards the back of the lounge as some others entered. Win recognized the Russian actress, Tonia Dudorov, and he suddenly remembered the strange meeting with Falconi. Tonia was a lovely girl who seemed more French than Russian, and who carried herself with an unmistakable air of superiority. In a nation only beginning to match the strides of the rest of the world in the field of the motion picture, Tonia Dudorov was already supreme.

  He stood up to greet her and someone snapped a picture. “Hello, Tonia. Welcome to Feru.”

  “Win, Win darling! It has been so long.”

  “Last year at Venice.” He’d gotten mildly drunk with her at one of the round of parties, and he knew then as now that he could have slept with her almost at will.

  “So long! Look, I have a new addition since last we met.” She fingered the tiny red star pinned to her dress. It was about the size of a button, and it seemed to Win’s eyes to be identical with the one Falconi had shown him.

  “The Lenin Award. I heard you’d won it.”

  “In my country, a very great honor.”

  “I’m very happy for you,” Win said, and then because the newsmen pressed on all sides of them they parted. He saw her again when they went out of the screening of the first picture, but she was sitting on the other side of the auditorium in the company of the rest of the Russian party. He gave himself over entirely to the enjoyment of the movie, an Italian entry dealing with the always sensitive subject of the army’s cowardice during World War I. It was a well-made, well-acted job, and he felt the power of it gripping the judges.

  When the lights went up at the end, he saw Baine and a group of other Americans heading towards his seat. He switched on the automatic smile and rose to greet them. Once a year he could act like an American. More than that would have been an effort….

  “Hello? Hello? Winston Chambers?”

  He recognized immediately the voice of the grey man, John Falconi. “It’s past midnight, for God’s sake! I’m getting ready for bed.”

  The telephone crackled foreignly. Win had never gotten used to foreign phones. “Mr. Chambers, I must see you again. Tonight. The matter has become extremely urgent.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve said all I care to.”

  “Your life may be in danger, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Listen, I’m going to come over there and pop you in the nose! Maybe then you’ll stop bothering me with your spy games.”

  “As long as you come.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I have an apartment. 85 Rivage.”

  “All right,” Win hung up and put his tie back on, cursing himself for even coming back to the hotel. Well, he’d finish with this Falconi once and for all tonight. Then there’d be no more phone calls.

  The address proved to be only a few blocks distant, within walking distance. As the street name implied, the place overlooked the harbour area, where a narrow wandering river finally found its home in the sea. John Falconi lived on the second floor, in a building that must have been ancient when Win was born. He came to the door in answer to the knock and hurriedly closed it after Win had entered.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said.

  “Look, either you stop bothering me, or….”

  “Were you followed?”

  “How the hell should I know if I was followed? I told you I was a movie producer!”

  “Will you give me five minutes to speak to you? Over a drink?”

  Win sighed unhappily. “All right. Five minutes and no more.”

  While the grey man mixed the drinks Win looked around the apartment, seeing the ordered neatness so unusual in bachelor living. There were bookshelves, filled to capacity with classics and bestsellers, all in American editions. He took out an illustrated edition of The Red Badge of Courage and glanced through it, thinking it might still make a good movie in spite of a previous Hollywood attempt.

  “Here we are. Is scotch all right?”

  “Fine. Two of your minutes are up already.”

  Falconi smiled. “Then I’ll come to the point.”

  “I thought you did that this afternoon.”

  “I could not be completely frank until I got the okay from higher up.”

  “J. Edgar Hoover?”

  “You’ve been away. This sort of thing is handled by other people now.”

  “I’ve heard of the C.I.A.”

  Falconi only smiled. “Let’s just say the American taxpayers are paying the bills.”

  “Fine. You’ve got about ninety seconds left.”

  “You saw Tonia Dudorov today.”

  “I saw a lot of people today. I shook hands so much my right one feels like it might fall off.”

  “She was wearing the Lenin Award.”

  “Yes. Your sources of information are quite good.”

  “Not really. Your pictures are in the newspaper.”

  “Oh.” Oddly enough. Win was beginning to like the man. He stopped looking at his watch and sipped the scotch.

  “Listen, Mr. Chambers, it would be quite simple for you to get that pin for us, to substitute this one for it.”

  “Maybe it would, but why should I? Didn’t I make it clear that I owe nothing to the United States?”

  “Except some back taxes,” Falconi reminded.

  “Yes, except those. But the C.I.A. hardly makes a practice of recruiting tax dodgers as spies, does it?”

  Falconi spread his hands. “Your background has been cleared by Washington, and you’re the only man in a position to accomplish the mission.”

  “And just what is the mission? Why is Washington so anxious to steal a medal from a Russian film star?”

  “I can tell you now. I saw my immediate superior this evening and cleared it with him.”

  “You people have quite an outpost here. I suppose it’s a nice vacation spot, though.”

  The grey man smiled. “My superior is only visiting. But temporarily you might say we are birds of a feather here in Feru. It is a wonderful little city.” He chuckled to himself at some private joke and then went on. “The Russians have a nice little habit in recent years of developing high-test metal alloys, mainly for use in missiles and jet bombers. Of course the exact chemical composition of these alloys is a closely guarde
d secret, but we find they occasionally use the metals for other purposes. The alloy in question is being used in the nose cone of their newest missile. It is able to withstand the great re-entry temperatures generated by air friction, and it just might be better than anything we have for the same purpose. We know the Russians, praising this metal alloy highly, are using it also for their new Lenin Award stars.”

  “And it’s easier to steal a star off Tonia’s dress than a whole missile nose cone, right?”

  “Correct, Mr. Chambers. Quite correct.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Win sat back and lit a cigarette.

  “What?”

  “I don’t believe the Russians, or anybody else, possessing a secret alloy like that, would risk passing it out, even to heroes and movie stars.”

  “You are a doubting man, Mr. Chambers. Just a few years ago the Russians used remelted metal shavings from a jet bomber’s wing to make coat hangers, of all things. We obtained one of the coat hangers, ran a spectroanalysis and chemical test on it, and were able to determine not only operational range for the plane, but its bomb load as well. Actually, one of the big American missile manufacturers did something similar just last year. They named a girl employee Miss Missile and adorned her with a pendant made from beryllium, a missile metal lighter than aluminum. Of course, beryllium is not exactly top secret.”

  “And if I delivered Tonia’s star to you?”

  “I would pass it on to my superior. It would be in Washington by the end of the week.”

  Win ground out his cigarette and lit a fresh one, as he always did when he was thinking. He’d always been a great one for experience, but he’d never before acted as a spy. Somehow the years of Hollywood life had accustomed him to thinking of spies as shadowy men in dark alleys who waited with knives to strike down the State Department courier and steal the secret code. Could one actually become a spy by simply stealing a tiny red star off a girl’s dress and substituting another bit of metal for it?

  “What’s this star of yours made of?” he asked Falconi.

  “An alloy which we hope approximates the weight of the Lenin Arts Award. Fortunately, the red lacquer hides any difference in colouring of the metal. With luck the lady will never realize the substitution. We worked directly from photographs in the Moscow press at the time of the award. But of course the knowledge of the Award’s physical make-up reached us through another source.”