The Night People by Edward D. Hoch Read Free Book Online Page A

puts us last.”
    He grinned a bit at her concern. “Say the word, Martha gal, and I’ll change it to Another Wild Yearling. The last shall be first. Seriously, I don’t think being last is too bad. Where’s the car, anyway?”
    “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