Dread Journey (12 page)

Mike held her anger. Partly because she was conditioned to insolence from the Kittens of the studio, partly because the fears rode her. She couldn’t urge that Kitten change her mind, she was afraid for her to change it. She wouldn’t be party to the horror which might come.

She went back to Viv’s room. Not so much to report the refusal as to look upon him again, to look into him. He was still seated behind the breakfast table and his eyebrows lifted question.

She said, “Kitten says she can’t see you. Her program’s full up.”

She watched him closely, watched the anger rise in his gorge. The hairs on her head pricked. The anger wasn’t unleashed. But his eyes were stones as he smiled, “Thank you, Mike.”

Because the wish to save him was desperate, she began, “She won’t accept the terms, Viv.”

He repeated, “Thank you, Mike.”

Kitten had been wrong to refuse. Refusal had roused again that terrible anger. Mike went quickly. She started to her car but she didn’t want to be alone with thought now. There was yet the other hopeless errand. It was her job, no matter how foredoomed. She went to the door marked D.

Augustin said, “It’s you.” He was stretched out on his berth but he was dressed. His casualness ignored their parting last night.

She too could ignore. She mock sighed, “I’m popular today. Mercury where Venus is awaited. Or Apollo. Not that Hank Cavanaugh is an Apollo. Where is he?”

“Haven’t an idea.” Nor did he care. “He disappeared after dinner last night. Why don’t you look in on Kitten?”

“I have. Where’s his room?” She wasn’t returning to Kitten if she never found Cavanaugh.

“Hasn’t one. An upper somewhere. He was going to join me but he didn’t.” He lifted his eyelids. “Where’s Gratia?”

She answered as if he were still casual. “I haven’t seen her.”

“Not up yet?”

“She’s probably been up for hours.” She corroborated it. “Kitten’s alone. If you see Hank, have him drop in on me. You know where I am.”

“She’s not with Viv Spender?”

Their eyes met. She said, “Viv’s alone too.”

His eyes weren’t lazy; they were as cold and unmoving as Viv’s had been. But he said mildly, “I’d better find Gratia. We’re having breakfast together.”

She’d invited him to come this morning. For breakfast. She expected him to come. It was after noon now but she was still expecting him. He’d hardly be up early; the way he’d been drinking last night, he’d lie abed late. But he’d come. She would wait for him.

She wasn’t hungry. She had forgotten what it was to be hungry. Yet she could remember when she’d been broke, standing outside bakery windows more than once trembling at the smell of bread stuffs inside. She’d never been able to stand the smell of bread since. Once she’d had the money to buy anything she wanted, she hadn’t been hungry any more. The years of scant food had conditioned her to be satisfied with little. Or she’d ruined her stomach not eating. It didn’t matter. She didn’t have to worry about her weight as did some stars, because she didn’t eat enough to put it on.

Last night—she didn’t want to remember last night. She’d been a driveling fool. No wonder Hank Cavanaugh had played Old Dog Tray and nothing more. He’d set her down at her door as if she were a sweet sixteen and he the village bumpkin. She’d blown her lines on that one in fine style. A man who’d been billed as the protector wouldn’t suddenly become a bedroom invader. It was Gratia’s fault, going to bed at sundown. And Les Augustin, Les of all people insisting he was sleepy and intended to go to bed. She ought to demand that Mike Dana find other space for Gratia. Mike could take the girl in; she had a compartment to herself. One thing certain, Gratia wouldn’t come barging back in here soon. She couldn’t read her damn book in a darkened drawing room.

Mike was turning into a filthy snoop. Bursting in here instead of waiting until Kitten was up and dressed. She wished Hank had been in here. She’d like Mike to take that back to the boss. Viv must think she was a fool if she’d shut herself up with him at any time on this journey. If he had anything to talk over with her, he could do it with Mike. The way he’d been doing for months. She’d had to adopt any number of ruses to get in to see him privately the day she’d given him her ultimatum. This sudden urge to see her wasn’t healthy. Perhaps he didn’t know she’d read the memorandum Mike had typed. But then, it could have been his own idea, to have Mike show it to her accidentally—on purpose.

She yawned and she turned to the wall, closing her eyes. She’d be asleep again if Hank didn’t hurry up. A waste of hairdress and makeup if she went back to sleep. She might not hear him knock. That wouldn’t keep him out; he wasn’t that young. She curled herself comfortably. Hank had forgotten his interest in Gratia quickly enough once Kitten had her hands on him; no he wasn’t young.

The rap was small but she heard it and the smile licked her lips. She called out sleepily, “Come in.” She didn’t turn until she heard the door close, then she rolled over slowly, sleepily, stretching out one arm, opening her eyes slantly.

Her eyes stretched wide. She raised up and she pushed back against the berth wall, her backbone rigid. Her voice was distorted crazily. “What are you doing here?”

He stood there in that awful red-pink robe of his, his hands thrust deep into the pockets. For the first time in her life she wanted to scream to keep on screaming. The tiny upcurve of his lips, the treacherous softness of his speech had paralyzed her throat. When she could make sound, she whispered, “You get out of here. Get out of here.”

He didn’t move. He could kill her now, no one could stop him. They were alone. He mocked. “Are you afraid I’ll compromise your good name?”

“Get out.” She said it mechanically, over and again. “Get out. Get out. Get out—”

“Don’t worry. No one saw me come in. Everyone’s gone to lunch.”

Her eyes stiffened in their sockets. If there were no one in the car, he could carry out his plans. It wasn’t just something she thought about; it was actuality. She couldn’t speak, her mouth was filled with dust.

His lips were thin. “I dropped in to ask you to cancel one of your appointments. I didn’t take Mike’s word for it that you were too busy to see me.”

Her muscles twitched under the covers.

“I won’t keep you long. It is, you realize, purely a business matter.”

She opened her parched mouth but no words came from it.

“Shall we say after dinner? Only for a few minutes?”

She said, “Get out.” The words were dusty.

Was he going away? His hand was on the knob of the door. She said “No,” but he didn’t hear it.

“I’ll expect you. About nine.” He dazzled a smile on her. “You look very beautiful this morning.” If he touched her she would die. He didn’t touch her.

The door was blank and empty. She was afraid to move. And then she rushed, clipped the bolt and stood there shivering with cold that wasn’t in the room. She was not safe alone, not even behind this locked door. She began to dress with frantic, fumbling fingers. She mustn’t be alone again.

She wouldn’t see him. He couldn’t force her to come to him. But she knew his strength, his demands that must be answered. Unless she came to him, he would appear again, unwanted, unannounced. Better to have it over with.

She’d go but not alone. She’d take someone. Mike. Because Mike knew, because if anything happened to her, there’d be someone to make him pay.

And not at night. Anything could happen at night, in the dark. She’d go this afternoon. At the cocktail hour when there was activity in the cars, the club car waiters on the move. When everyone was awake and alert.

“Oh God.” She whispered it aloud. It wasn’t prayer but it was as near as she could come to prayer after years of neglect. She didn’t want to die. She was afraid to go out into the vast unknown stretch of eternity.

She began to dress quickly with trembling fingers. Only long practice in dressing always for admiration gave to the result its practiced finish; another woman would have come out slipshod. She was so cold when she was complete that she caught up the mammoth ruby and pinned it on her breast to warm her. Red for warmth. It wasn’t until she fumbled with the catch that she remembered it was his gift. She left it there as a blazing defiance, and as a finger to point. If anything happened to her, it would speak his name.

Her hand touched the knob of the door but it took strength to open it. More strength than in her craven fingers. Blindly she forced it open. He wasn’t outside. She stepped out into the corridor, fearing to look behind her to his door, yet fearing to move forward with him possibly at her back.

She saw then, ahead of her, her reprieve. The pudgy man in the crumpled suit, more crumpled this morning, as if he’d tried to press it under a tossing mattress.

She called out, “Good morning.”

He barely hesitated; he didn’t turn.

She called again, “Good morning, there.”

He peered over his shoulder. He didn’t believe she was speaking to him, his eyes sought the corridor for some other person. She took quick steps to catch up to him.

He said humbly, “Good morning, Miss Agnew.”

He’d shaved this morning but the shadow was already across his jowls; he’d washed his face but it was as pale and gray as if he’d washed in soot.

She swallowed revulsion and she hated Viv Spender for forcing her to accept this miserable oaf for her protection. Sidney Pringle would accept the duty; he was eyeing her now with full realization of her importance, of the dust of it that would cling to him if he appeared publicly in her company.

She was gay. “It’s really afternoon, isn’t it? You’re a late sleeper too, Mr. Pringle.”

“I slept late today,” he said. “This will be my breakfast.”

“Mine too.”

He didn’t know whether to precede her or to follow her; obviously he’d never walked with a woman through a train. He didn’t know about women like her, only of cheap if virtuous girls in hallways. He’d never known a beautiful girl, he’d never known an expensive girl. Her nails and her mouth were stained blood red, her skin was golden and she smelled of perfume. The black satin curved as she walked. She watched the way his chin trembled as he opened the door for her. Watched and despised him. She went ahead of him and she waited at the next door for him to open it. She would rid herself of him as soon as she came upon someone else. They passed through two cars to the club car. She smiled to right and left as she passed through. She carried her head like a lady and her body like a snake. She wasn’t any more a lady than her follower was a gentleman but she’d learned. There was no familiar face in any car. Together they entered the diner.

The steward said, “Two? This way.”

Her smile over her shoulder was friendly. “You don’t mind?” She didn’t have to carry him further but she couldn’t be sure. Viv Spender might be following. She couldn’t chance his intrusion.

The dapper steward drew out her chair at a table for two. Sidney Pringle seated himself.

“You don’t mind?” she repeated when the steward left them. “I’m always afraid to correct an authority for fear they’ll be cross.”

Pringle smiled, “I’m pleased, Miss Agnew,” But he wasn’t. His eyes were clammy. Looking across at him, at his cheap clothes, she understood why. He didn’t have the money to pay for breakfast with Kitten Agnew. Nausea trembled her. Not in years had she been forced to endure this humiliation. Again he was warning of being dropped back into struggle for basic existence. Because of the sick hatred he engendered, she was cruel. She requested specials not on the menu. He did not look at her, his eyes were on the price list. He ordered the spaghetti lunch, the cheapest and most filling item.

She smiled, “You eat a hearty breakfast.”

He was shamed. He tried to carry it off, “Then I won’t have to waste time on dinner.” He was shamed that she thought him a pig eater. He didn’t know that she knew a man ate starchy food because it was cheap.

“That’s like an artist,” she mocked. “I’ve always wished I were an artist instead of a craftsman.” It pleased him; he didn’t sense the mockery. He was too eager for a pat on the head.

She went on, “Hank Cavanaugh says you wrote a wonderful book. Do you know Hank Cavanaugh?”

His eyes were fanned with hope, “I know him through his work.”

“He’s on board.” Her own eyes were restless. She watched the door over his shoulder, as if by talking of Hank, she could conjure his presence. “Maybe you’ve seen him. A tall, ugly man. But he’s brilliant.” She looked scornfully into Pringle’s eyes. “You should meet him. Fellow admirers.”

The waiter laid food in front of them. Sidney Pringle ate hungrily. She forked hers, barely tasting. Because she must keep this man with her until she was with the safety of friends she added, “If we can find him after lunch, I’ll introduce you. Would you like to meet him?”

His eyes thanked her soulfully. He couldn’t do more than nod, his mouth was filled. He wiped red sauce from his mouth. It stained the napkin. She lidded her eyes to his grossness. The poor were gross because the poor were hungry, the poor were always hungry. He’d doubtless been sitting all morning in a vacuum of hunger, waiting in order that this lunch might serve his stomach for the day. No breakfast; an early heavy lunch, cheaper than dinner. Stay his dinner hunger with peanuts and chocolate bars and apples as polished as wax fruit and as tasteless, sold at the various railroad platforms. Go to bed early, to succulent dreams. She knew because she too had suffered hunger. He didn’t know she knew the tricks. He didn’t know her loathing of him was because he was forcing her to remember.

To keep from thinking, she asked, “Why are you going east?” It was a stupid question remembering last night. He was going east because he’d failed.

He didn’t snivel now. He tried to erase the memory of his weakness by irony. He didn’t know his clown face could express only the ludicrous. “I didn’t fit in Hollywood,” he said.

“Nonsense.” She laughed. “What are you going to do in the east?”

He said, “Sell neckties.” Behind his smile was bitterness, the arid bitterness of failure.

She had no pity for him. She didn’t care if he sold neckties; she didn’t care what happened to him. All she wanted from him was safe conduct to Hank Cavanaugh. She didn’t want to hear any more of his plans. Because she could silence him by playing the part of Kitten Agnew, the lovable American girl, she asked, “Have you ever tried radio? I’ve some good friends in it. If you’d like I’ll give you their names.”