The Night People (4 page)

“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.

And then he was looking into the wide staring eyes of Bill Kook.

“Bill….”

There was only a tiny trickle of blood from the neat little hole in Bill’s forehead.

“Bill!”

Nothing moved.

“Bill, who is Ida Spain?”

But Bill Kook would never answer him in this life….

He didn’t wait for the police.

Once again he arrived home, tired and depressed and oddly empty. Only now the car was there, and when he opened the door he could hear the sounds of Doris from the kitchen.

“Aren’t you surprised I’m home a day early?” he asked.

“I guess so, dear. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“How was the movie?”

“Good. It was a mystery.”

“Doris, someone killed Bill Kook tonight,” he finally said.

“That man from your office? How terrible!”

“Doris,” he sighed, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me lately. I’m a bundle of nerves. I’m all shot.”

“Look, dear,” she cuddled up next to him, “why don’t we leave this town and go back to New York where we belong. Why don’t you go in and quit your job tomorrow?”

He thought about it. “Maybe that’s the answer.”

“And you won’t worry about this girl Ida Spain?”