Midnight | Page 3

and crawled
forward along the curb, leaving the inky shadows of the far end of the
station, and emerging finally into the effulgence of the arc at the corner
of Cypress Street.
Once again the door of the Union Station opened. This time Spike took
a professional interest in the person who stepped uncertainly out into
the night. Long experience informed him that this was a fare.
She was of medium height, and comfortably guarded against the

frigidity of the night by a long fur coat buttoned snugly around her
neck. She wore a small squirrel tam, and was heavily veiled. In her
right hand she carried a large suit-case and in her left a purse.
She stepped to the curb and looked around inquiringly. She signalled
the cab. Even as he speeded his car forward, Spike wondered at her
indifference to the almost unbearable cold.
"Cab, miss?"
He pulled up short before her.
"Yes." Her tone was almost curt. She had her hand on the door handle
before Spike could make a move to alight. "Drive to 981 East End
Avenue."
Without leaving the driver's seat, Spike reached for her suit-case and
put it beside him. The woman--a young woman, Spike
reflected--stepped inside and slammed the door. Spike fed the gas and
started, whirling south on Atlantic Avenue for two blocks, and then
turning to his left across the long viaduct which marks the beginning of
East End Avenue.
He settled himself for a long and unpleasant drive. To reach 981 East
End Avenue he had to drive nearly five miles straight in the face of the
December gale.
And then he found himself wondering about the woman. Her coat--a
rich fur thing of black and gray--her handbag, her whole demeanor--all
bespoke affluence. She had probably been visiting at some little town,
and had come down on the accommodation; but no one had been there
to meet her. Anyway, Spike found himself too miserable and too cold
to reflect much about his passenger.
He drove into a head wind. The sleet slapped viciously against his
windshield and stuck there. The patent device he carried for the
purpose of clearing rain away refused to work. Spike shoved his
windshield up in order to afford a vision of the icy asphalt ahead.

And then he grew cold in earnest. He seemed to freeze all the way
through. He drove mechanically, becoming almost numb as the wind,
unimpeded now, struck him squarely. He lost all interest in what he
was doing or where he was going. He called himself a fool for having
left the cozy warmth of the White Star Café. He told himself--
Suddenly he clamped on the brakes. It was a narrow squeak! The end
of the long freight train rumbled on into the night. Spike hadn't seen it;
only the racket of the big cars as they crossed East End Avenue, and
then the lights on the rear of the caboose, had warned him.
He stopped his car for perhaps fifteen seconds to make sure that the
crossing was clear, then started on again, a bit shaken by the narrow
escape. He bumped cautiously across the railroad tracks.
The rest of the journey was a nightmare. The suburb through which he
was passing seemed to have congealed. Save for the corner lights, there
was no sign of life. The roofs and sidewalks glistened with ice.
Occasionally the car struck a bump and skidded dangerously. Spike had
forgotten his passenger, forgotten the restaurant, the coffee, the weather
itself. He only remembered that he was cold--almost unbearably cold.
Then he began taking note of the houses. There was No. 916. He
looked ahead. These were houses of the poorer type, the homes of
laborers situated on the outer edge of the suburb of East End.
Funny--the handsomely dressed woman--such a poor neighborhood--
He came to a halt before a dilapidated bungalow which squatted darkly
in the night. Stiff with cold, he reached his hand back to the door on the
right of the car, and with difficulty opened it. Then he spoke:
"Here y'are, miss--No. 981!"
There was no answer. Spike repeated:
"Here y'are, miss."
Still no answer. Spike clambered stiffly from the car, circled to the curb,

and stuck his head in the door.
"Here, miss--"
Spike stepped back. Then he again put his head inside the cab.
"Well, I'll be--"
The thing was impossible, and yet it was true. Spike gazed at the seat.
The woman had disappeared!
The thing was absurd; impossible. He had seen her get into the cab at
the Union Station. There, in the front of the car, was her suit-case; but
she had gone--disappeared completely, vanished without leaving a sign.
Momentarily forgetful of the cold, Spike found a match and lighted it.
Holding it cupped in