The Night People

by Edward D. Hoch

“Why not?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “You’re stealing, aren’t you?”

  She tried to explain. “But it’s just from Mr. Melrose and the company. In a way they owe it to me.”

  “Well, somebody owes me a car, too.”

  The money—the $5,275—was in its brown envelope on the seat between them. She was sliding out when she decided to leave it there. It was too late to stop trusting him now. “I’ll be down a little before three,” she said. “Be ready.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be waiting.”

  She stood at the curb and watched him drive away, and somehow it all seemed right.

  Mr. Melrose welcomed her with a smile and words of sympathy. The brunette, Sue, muttered something and bent her head over a ledger. Joyce went to her desk and began opening the morning mail. Before long it had settled down to be a day like any other Monday.

  At 2:30 she totaled up the bank deposit and announced, “There’s almost five thousand, Mr. Melrose—$4,934.”

  “Good,” he said. “Joyce, I’ve decided I’ll be going down to the bank with you for a few days—just as a safety measure.”

  Her stomach turned and she had to steady herself against the desk. “That’s hardly necessary, Mr. Melrose. The robber’s not likely to try it again so soon.”

  “No, but another one might. No sense taking any more chances. I’ll go with you.”

  They walked out to the elevator and waited in silence. Her mind was whirling as she tried to think of a way out. Dave would have the car by now. He’d be waiting for her. She had to shake free of Mr. Melrose and take the money with her. Otherwise Dave would think he’d been double-crossed and take off with the original loot. And she’d be left with nothing.

  The elevator arrived, and it was empty. As they rode down in silence her eyes darted about the closed car, looking for a sign that would tell her the way out.

  The indicator light went from 3 to 2 to 1, and then the car stopped with a little bump. She looked at the light and saw a B under the 1, and knew what she had to do. Mr. Melrose was not gentleman enough to let her out first. As he stepped out of the car she quickly pressed the B and the Close Door button and prayed.

  “Hey! Joyce! What the—!”

  Then his voice was silenced by the closed elevator door, and she was dropping to the basement. Fast, fast. Every second counted.

  She’d been there only once before, looking for an old filing cabinet, but she remembered her way. She was suddenly like a child, running in the near-darkness between piles of dusty boxes, finding her way out. It was the way out of all her past, of childhood and mother and self. The only way out.

  Then she was free, breaking into the sunlit alley, running toward the street. She was right on schedule, and she was sure Dave would be waiting. She was sure because he loved money as much as she did, maybe more. They were a team, a pair, suited to each other.

  He reached over to open the door for her. It was a tan Chevy, last year’s model, and she didn’t ask where he’d found it. “I was beginning to get worried,” he said.

  “Melrose came down with me. I had to ditch him.”

  “Then he’s wise?”

  She nodded. “He’s wise now.”

  He wheeled the car around a corner. “Well, how much is there?”

  “Almost five thousand.”

  “Good.” She placed the envelope on the seat between them, and his hand closed over it possessively.

  “Dave?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where are we going now? Some place far away?”

  “I know a motel about twenty miles from here. We can hole up there for the night.”

  “The police will be looking for me.”

  “Hell, yes!”

  “But I still feel good, Dave. It’s what I wanted to do.” She stared straight ahead, through the spotted windshield. “I don’t mind about Melrose. Or any of it.”

  They were at the motel before 5:00, and he booked a single room for the night. She walked around a bit, not wanting quite yet the confinement of the room, and stood for a time at the edge of the empty swimming pool, imagining all the other pools there would be, in Florida or Mexico or California.

  Then she went back to the room and found him just hanging up the telephone. “Who were you talking to?” she asked.

  “Nobody. Room service.”

  “Oh.”

  After a half-hour no one had come, and she thought he’d better call again. Then she suddenly rolled over on the between bed. “Dave?”

  “What?”

  “Do motels like this have room service?”

  “Sure, why not? You think I was lying to you?”

  “Dave.”

  “Hell, what now?”

  “Dave, why were you so certain I’d taken the money and not Sue, the bookkeeper?”

  “I told you. We went all through that.”

  “Dave, how did you know I was at home Friday? You said I’d called in sick, but I never said it. Dave, how did you know?”

  “What is this, anyway?”

  Her stomach was churning again. She was off the bed, panicky, knowing only that something was terribly wrong. She ran to the door and flung it open—and there was Sue from the office, facing her, smiling.

  She thought she screamed then, but she couldn’t be sure. She only saw Dave’s fist coming at her once more, and felt its jarring thud against her jaw. She toppled over, hitting the floor hard, but she didn’t lose consciousness.

  Sue stepped over her and Joyce saw them embrace. Then Dave handed the two packets of money to the brunette and she stuffed them into her pocketbook. And suddenly they were gone. Together.

  Joyce stayed on the floor for a long time without moving. When she finally got to her feet, her jaw was aching even worse than it had on Thursday. She sat on the edge of the bed and tried to think, but she couldn’t. Later, much later, she reached for the telephone and dialed the police.

  The Man at the Top

  HARDY HADN’T PLANNED TO kill the gray-haired man in the alley by the Seaman’s Club. It was one of those crazy things that just happened—an event which, once started, seemed to take on a life of its own. It had been three long months since his last ship, and he needed money. He needed it for himself, and especially for Myra, who was waiting back at the hotel.

  The guy had seemed elderly enough, and prosperous enough, to be an easy touch. Hardy had come up fast behind him, catching him around the throat with one arm while he flashed the knife; but the guy had wanted to fight and the knife had gone deep, almost by itself. And now Hardy was running.

  There are few places to run after midnight in the dock area, especially without money, and soon he found himself back at the seedy little hotel where Myra was waiting. She was a prostitute he’d picked up one night three months ago, when he was flush with money from a voyage to Capetown. Now the money was gone, and there were no new jobs to be had, but Myra had stayed on anyway, maybe because she’d begun to love him.

  “What is it?” she asked when he came through the door. “Did you get the money?” She hadn’t been sleeping, just sitting up in a chair by the window, smoking one of her endless cigarettes and watching the Bock Beer sign flash on and off down the street.

  “There was no money,” Hardy said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Jeez, Myra, I think I killed a guy.”

  She stood up, very slowly, her face pale even in the neon glow that filtered through the curtains. “What happened?”

  He told her about it, talking fast, confessing his sin as he had so many times in his youth to his father or mother, or the priest. When he had finished she simply looked away, without uttering the words of forgiveness he’d somehow expected.

  “I have to get out of here,” he said. “I have to get a ship out of here till it blows over. The cops will be checking all the unemployed seamen. Maybe they’ll even be able to trace the knife somehow.”

  “There’s no way out,” she said quietly. “You’v
e been trying for months to sign on with a crew.”

  “Don’t you know anybody that could help me? This is your town, Myra. Hell, you must know someone!”

  She thought about that. Finally she said, “Sam Madrid is the man at the top, but nobody sees Sam Madrid. He talks to mayors and ship owners, not to bums like you.”

  “Do you know him?”

  Her eyes seemed to cloud with memory. “I knew him once—one night after a convention uptown. He was a real gentleman, but tough.”

  “Would he remember your name?”

  “Sure, he might.” She lit another cigarette. “But I don’t know how to find him. He’s a strange guy. He trusts nobody.”

  “I’ll find him,” Hardy told her. “I’ll find him and tell him I need a favor. I’ll tell him Myra needs a favor.”

  “Hardy …”

  “Yeah?” He paused at the door.

  “Good luck.”

  The bartender at the Ports of Call screwed up his face in a frown. “Sam Madrid! You don’t want much, do you? Hell, he never comes around here. What do you want with him?”

  Hardy licked his lips. “I’m hot. I need a ship bad. Anything—oiler, stoker, mate. Anything to get me out of town.”

  “Sam Madrid’s the one to see, all right. But I doubt if you’ll get to him. He’s at the top.”

  “So I hear.” Hardy left the bar and headed down a side street, steering clear of the Seaman’s Club. He was halfway along when he heard the distant siren, and he knew immediately that someone had found the body in the alley. His feet moved a bit faster over the damp pavement.

  In the next bar he tried the same question. “Where can I find Sam Madrid?”

  The bartender reached up to adjust the color television. “Nobody finds Sam Madrid. He finds them.”

  “Cut the games. It’s important. I’m a friend of Myra’s.”

  “I don’t know any Myra,” the bartender said, but he didn’t walk away. After a moment he said, “Madrid’s right-hand man is Doug Schaefer. He’s the only one who could tell you where Madrid is.”

  “All right. How do I find Schaefer?”

  “He has a supper club uptown, but this time of night he’s more likely to be at the apartment. He runs midnight crap games for high rollers. Strictly big-time stuff.” He wrote an address on a piece of paper. “Here, buddy, but I’ll tell you, dressed like that you won’t get through the door.”

  Hardy took a subway uptown to the address the bartender had given him. It was a luxury apartment building with flowers growing in the lobby and a burly doorman with a bulge beneath his uniform coat. “I came to see Doug Schaefer,” Hardy told him.

  The man ran his eyes down Hardy’s soiled sweater and dungarees. “It’s a little late for deliveries.”

  “No delivery. It’s business.”

  The doorman picked up the house phone and dialed a number.

  “What’s your name?” he asked Hardy.

  “He won’t know my name. Tell him it’s about Sam Madrid.”

  The eyes above the telephone flickered with interest as he repeated the message. Then he hung up and ushered Hardy into the elevator. “You can go up,” he said briskly, “once I frisk you.” His hands traveled quickly over Hardy’s body, missing nothing. Then he grunted and stepped out of the elevator. “No funny business,” he warned, as the elevator doors slid shut.

  The doors opened again at the top floor, and Hardy stepped out into a fashionable foyer where a man with a pistol was waiting. “State your business,” he said quietly. “You mentioned Sam Madrid. You got a message from him?”

  “You don’t need that gun,” Hardy assured him, looking beyond to a sunken living room where a dozen men stood around a dice table.

  “We take no chances on robberies here. The gun stays.”

  “Are you Schaefer?”

  The dark-haired man nodded. He wore a striped business suit that seemed to belong in some cheap gangster film. Hardy had seen many of them in his youth, when life had been so simple. “I’m Schaefer. Who are you—one of Sam’s sailor boys?”

  “I’m a seaman. I have to get out of the country. I heard Sam Madrid could help me.”

  The man named Schaefer chuckled. “He’ll help just fine. You got money?”

  “I … no.”

  “No money?”

  “I’m a friend of Myra. She said Madrid owed her a favor.”

  “Madrid owes nobody favors.” Someone called to him from the dice table, and he yelled back, “Be there in a minute!”

  “Just tell me where I can find Sam Madrid, that’s all.”

  “Sam’s probably gone to bed by now. Wait till morning.”

  “I can’t wait till morning.” Hardy licked his lips. “The cops are after me. I have to see him now!”

  “Well, I can’t help you. Nobody disturbs Sam Madrid in the middle of the night.” He put the gun away and motioned toward the elevator. “Go on! Get lost!”

  A gray-haired man in evening clothes left the crap game and hurried out to the elevator. “You cleaned me out, Doug,” he grumbled. “I hope you’re satisfied,”

  “Better luck next time, Mister Maxwell.” He stood there, his eyes on Hardy, until the elevator door closed.

  The man named Maxwell was still grumbling as they descended. “I wouldn’t put it past him to sneak crooked dice into that game. My luck’s never been as bad as tonight.” His eyes shifted to Hardy, as if suddenly remembering his presence. “What was all that business with the gun, young man?”

  “I came to see Sam Madrid, the man at the top.”

  Maxwell gave a low chuckle. “That’s Sam, all right.”

  “You know him?”

  “Everybody knows Sam Madrid.”

  “I need to get out of the country. I need a ship.”

  “Madrid’ll get you out. He especially likes young fellows your age. Sam’ll get you a ship and probably give you a hundred bucks besides.”

  “He can do that?”

  “Sam Madrid can do anything.”

  “But where is he? I’ve been searching for hours!”

  “Who knows? He never gives out his address.”

  “I have to find him.”

  “Maybe he’s with his mistress.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Girl named Stella Gold, at the Lux Apartments.”

  “You were hinting that he liked fellows.”

  Maxwell chuckled. “Sam Madrid likes everybody. That’s why he’s at the top.”

  The Lux Apartments did not have a doorman with a bulge beneath his coat. They were farther downtown, back toward the docks. Hardy felt he was being drawn to the old neighborhood, to the ships and the seamen and the foghorns in the night. That was where he belonged, and perhaps that was where he would finally find Sam Madrid.

  “It’s three in the morning!” the blonde girl screeched as she opened the door an inch on its protective chain. “Who in hell are you?”

  “I came to see Sam Madrid.”

  “Well, he’s not here! Get lost!”

  “You’re Stella?”

  “I’m Stella, but he’s still not here.”

  “It’s very important. I have to find him.”

  “Look, buster—go, or I call the cops—and I’m not kidding you!”

  “I won’t hurt you. I just have to find Madrid. I need a favor.”

  “Sure, everybody needs favors.” But she’d calmed down a bit. Perhaps she’d had visitors like him before. “Well, Sam was here earlier, but he’s gone now. He left before midnight.”

  “Where would he go?”

  She shrugged, allowing the door to open to the length of the chain. “Maybe home. He goes there once in a while.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “With his wife, Maria. A fat old pig.”

  “I mean the address.”

  “He doesn’t like people to find him. He lives under another name. People are always bothering him.”

  Hardy had a sudden thought. “Maxwell?”

>   “No,” she chuckled at the idea. “Not Maxwell. Did he send you here?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed. “All right, I’ll tell you. Sam Madrid and his wife have a house down by the river. A brownstone facing Pier 17. You can’t miss it. The name is Madden, but it’s him.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t tell him I sent you.”

  He headed farther downtown, toward Pier 17, knowing he was near the end of his quest at last.

  There were more police cars here, cruising the streets with slow precision. He knew they were searching for him, but he was no longer afraid. It was like his younger days, on the way to church, or to see his father. Sam Madrid would listen to him, and Sam Madrid would grant him the absolution he sought. By morning he’d be on a ship, far from the reach of these cops in their prowling cars.

  He saw the house from a block away, because there were lights in it even at this hour. Sam Madrid would not be sleeping. He would be waiting, waiting for sinners like Hardy—just as the priest had always waited in the confessional for latecomers.

  There was a man at the door of the brownstone, a guard with a gun under his gray sport coat. He frowned at Hardy as he opened the door, and Hardy said, “Madrid?”

  “Who wants him?” the guard asked.

  “It’s important. I’ve been searching for him half the night.”

  The guard motioned with his hand. “End of the hall.”

  Then Hardy moved into the darkened hallway, seeing the light at the end, hearing the muffled voices. The light filtered out from behind beaded curtains, uncertain but strong enough to show the way. He went slowly toward it, and finally pushed through the curtains into the room. A fat old woman sat at a table, and two men stood nearby. They looked up as he entered, and waited for him to speak.

  “I’ve come a long way,” Hardy said. “I need help. You are Maria Madrid?”

  The old woman nodded. “I am Maria.”

  “I need your husband. I need help from Sam Madrid. I was sent to him, because he’s the man at the top.” He looked at the other two, but they did not change expression.

  “You want Sam Madrid?” the woman repeated.

  “Yes.” His mouth was dry and his legs were growing weak.

  “But you are too late,” the woman told him. “Sam Madrid is dead. Someone killed him with a knife tonight, in an alley by the Seaman’s Club.”