Dread Journey (18 page)

The cue was picked up with a startling suddenness. “I’ve sent for a doctor.” It almost spoiled his performance. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder. It was James Cobbett who had spoken. He’d taken his place with the others. Mike too, her eyes a smudge of horror. They were all watching him with awful silence.

He stepped into the room at once, bent over her. “Someone help me.” He picked her up; she was a slight burden as he lifted her to the couch, laid her there. “Look in the medicine cabinet. She’s sick. Do something!”

They had closed him in. The doorway was a montage of their silent faces. Hank Cavanaugh’s lips snarled softly, mockingly, “She isn’t sick. She’s dead.”

Viv looked at all of them, one by one, as if the words had been incomprehensible. He turned away and looked down at what lay on the couch, what once had been Kitten Agnew. Slowly he lifted her wrist, felt for the pulse. His thumb pressed where there should be the life beat but where there was none. He dropped the slight wrist. “She’s dead.”

His mouth moved silently, his eyes stung. He tried to say something, words would not come. He dropped on his knees beside the couch and began to weep. It had been a fine performance. He buried his wet face on Kitten’s satin breast. Above him he heard the thin wail that broke from Mike’s throat.

Mike stood outside the door. Her face felt swollen as if she’d been weeping. She hadn’t wept; she didn’t know why she should want to weep for Kitten, why dry-eyed she should ache for tears.

She didn’t know how she could face them. He should have come himself. He could have told them and made them believe. He was calm again, after those first moments of frenzied grief when she’d led him back to his room. Scant moments. She hadn’t offered her breast as a wailing wall this time. But she’d remained with him, alone with him, alone with a murderer. She could have prevented him being a murderer. If she’d had the courage to tell him what she knew before the fact. Her silence had murdered Kitten. She sat there woodenly until his grief was spent.

By the time the officials came he’d assumed the proper proportions of regret and bewilderment, a touch of horror, a soupçon of grief. Untouched by his act, conscienceless, directing the scene. The doctor was a well known Los Angeles physician on his way to Chicago. Viv had had his way with him, with the conductors, with James Cobbett, Pullman attendant. There was no suspicion in any of them. They accepted him with readiness flavored with hidden awe, well hidden the awe. This was democracy, the great Spender asking a logical favor of railroad employees. He’d carried it off with his usual flair. Kitten would continue the journey as far as Chicago there in her drawing room. No one would know; the door locked. Everything was simple, everything efficient. If there were unplumbed depths in the dark eyes of James Cobbett, no one cared.

After they left, Viv sent her to Augustin’s compartment. She knew she could not face them, she knew he was the one who should go. She could not refuse; habit was too strong.

The four faces that lifted to her entrance were four masks. Not even the eyes moved.

She said, “It was her heart.”

Hostility fixed her against the door. Hostility from all. From Gratia huddled in a window corner; from Les Augustin, a coiled adder, beside her. From the poor misfit Kitten had lunched with, Sidney Pringle. From Hank Cavanaugh, tall, vengeful.

She forced herself to go on with the report. “The doctor said—”

Hank Cavanaugh’s cruel mouth interrupted. “Viv Spender killed her.”

The cry didn’t come from her; it came from Gratia. Horror distended the girl’s eyes. Sidney Pringle looked at Cavanaugh with beady curiosity.

Hank said loud, “She knew Viv Spender was going to kill her.”

Gratia whispered, “I don’t believe it. It isn’t true.” Agony twisted her face.

Mike cried, “He didn’t. He couldn’t have done it.” She went over it carefully, so carefully again. Oh God, again. “You were there with her. There was nothing wrong with the cocktails. You drank them. He did. I did.” Why didn’t he help her, not stand there with that terrible smile? Didn’t he know she was half crazy knowing it had happened, yet knowing it couldn’t have happened? He was present. He wouldn’t let it happen.

He said, “I don’t know how it was accomplished. Only that it was.”

“It was her heart.” She was forced to defend Viv. Knowing it was murder but that he couldn’t have murdered. “Go ask the doctor. It was her heart.”

Hank said, “It stopped beating.”

In the silence, no one breathed. The silence was too terrible even for them to endure. Les murmured, “I wonder if she’d taken an overdose of sleeping tablets. That stops a heart from beating.”

She couldn’t look at him. She’d given him the weapon herself, the knowledge of the pattern. It hadn’t been repeated! Les couldn’t use the knowledge.

Some strength seeped into her veins. She could complete her errand. “Viv wants you, Gratia.”

Les’s laughter was shocking. “Let him come here.”

Hank echoed, “Let him come here.”

It was a dare, let him come if he dare, come before this jury to be judged. He should have come in the first place. Only he could answer them. If he dared.

She said, “I’ll tell him.”

He’d done this to be safe. He wasn’t safe.

She went back to him. He didn’t, know the sickness that possessed her. He looked up from his memoranda, Jovian peace on his broad brow, his eyes unblemished by thought or deed. When he saw she was alone a shadow, the faintest shadow crossed his face.

“Gratia?”

She wet her lips. “They want you to come there.”

Anger flooded him. His control was on the surface, beneath it were the hairtrigger nerves. “They?”

She nodded. Words came hard. She named them. “Les Augustin. Hank Cavanaugh. Sidney Pringle.”

“Who is Pringle?”

“He’s a writer. I remembered the name this afternoon. We didn’t pick up his option.” She watched his mind. He wasn’t worried about Pringle or the failure to take up an option. He could manage Pringle. Another option. He wasn’t worried about Hank Cavanaugh. He’d already made advances there. He’d sign up those two. Les Augustin had been a wasp too long. He hated Augustin, and he knew he couldn’t buy Augustin. Only for a million dollars. He might have to spend the million.

She wanted desperately to warn him, watching the cool calculation. He must not be crass before them, not at this time. He didn’t know they were waiting for him with cold eyes, with open swords. He must realize when he saw them; he would play it right. He was never wrong.

He demanded, “What do they want?”

She said heavily, “I think you’d better go see them.” He looked long at her. He wouldn’t believe they knew the truth of him, not until he smelled their hostility. He must face it himself.

He said, as if humoring her whim, “Very well.” He pushed aside his notes and slid out from the confining table. She was afraid to look at him when he stopped in front of her. He said, “You’re right, Mike. I should talk to them.” He put his hand on her shoulder. She held herself rigid, not daring to shrink from him. “You’re so tired.” His voice was kind; she alone knew that the kindness was only an empty cadence. “Why don’t you go rest for a while?”

She lifted her eyes to his face. He wasn’t trying to read her; he didn’t know yet the prescription bottle that weighted her mind. She said, “I’ll wait here for you.”

Les Augustin, orchestra leader. Hank Cavanaugh, exile newspaperman. Sidney Pringle, writer. And Gratia, whose beauty caught your heart, even in this poignant withdrawal. How absurd to have been apprehensive of this meeting. Simply because Mike was so shattered by the past few hours that she hadn’t the courage to face anyone, not even him.

It would be child’s play to answer their questions. They weren’t lying in wait for him. Their antagonism was open. It was only natural, after all, that they would be suspicious when Kitten was drinking with them one moment and was dead the next. It wasn’t suspicion of him but of sudden events. If they got ugly, he’d fling a few suspicions himself. Her lunch with Pringle, her afternoon in this room. He too could wonder what had happened to Kitten.

He stood there at the doorway after he entered, tall, grave, in command of the situation. No one asked him to be seated; he would refuse if asked. He preferred to be the tower above them. He said, “Mike says you wanted to see me.”

They said nothing. Their eyes were motionless on him.

He let his voice break a little. “Kitten is dead. Nothing I can do, nothing you can do, can bring her back to us.” He paused for a reverent hush.

“The conductor has been kind enough to allow us to continue through to Chicago. I asked that boon. I didn’t want her to be taken off at some lonely way station.” He was doing well, a catch of breath now. “She wouldn’t have liked that, being left alone in the dark, in a strange place.”

Les’s eyes were like a cat’s. He murmured,
“Give her strewings…”

Viv didn’t understand. He continued, “The conductor has made one request. That no one on board learn of Kitten’s death until after we reach Chicago.” He queried gently, “You will respect his wish?”

“We wouldn’t think of telling anyone.” It was Hank Cavanaugh who spoke. Events had sobered him. “Would we, Les?” He was an ugly customer, his sarcasm was heavy handed.

Augustin’s was light. “Certainly not.” He blinked up at Viv Spender. “What happened to her, Viv?”

Viv controlled his knotting muscles. They knew what happened; Mike had told them. He’d sent her to tell them. “The doctors warned her months ago that she must take it easy. She was burning herself out, young as she was. Too much work—and play. She was too proud to believe them. Too headstrong to listen.”

“You didn’t expect her to die, did you, Viv?” Augustin asked. It wasn’t a simple question; it was studiedly insolent.

He couldn’t allow his anger to break through. “No. When she told me, I believed she was dramatizing.” He moved cautiously although without seeming caution. “Kitten was always dramatic.” His smile was saddened at the corners. “You know that. Yes I begged her to be careful. I asked her not to make this trip. I wanted her to take a vacation.”

“A long vacation,” Augustin slurred.

Kitten had talked too much. Viv said, “For her sake only.” He went on, “If I’d had any idea that she—”

Hank Cavanaugh interrupted, “There’ll be an autopsy in Chicago.”

His eyebrows knotted. “An autopsy? Why should there be?”

Augustin smiled at Cavanaugh. “We didn’t expect her to die. Not of heart failure.”

He couldn’t let them know he wanted to kill them. With violent hands. There was no reason for an autopsy. Kitten had died of heart failure. The doctor had certified it. She’d died too quickly for the sedative alone to be responsible. Her heart hadn’t been strong enough to beat the minimum time. This macabre vaudeville team couldn’t force an autopsy. Not that it would make any difference, only a change of sudden death to suicidal sudden death. Heart failure induced by an overdose of sedative.

He shook his head sadly. “I don’t believe the doctor will force that ignominy on her. It would serve no purpose.” Sadness became him. “This loss—I can’t tell you what it means to me. I still don’t believe it. That Kitten—” He swallowed the lump in his throat. A good rehearsal before meeting the Chicago press tomorrow. “The curtain has fallen.”

Augustin’s voice deliberately cut into the expected silence.
“The last act crowns the play.”

He nodded slowly. Not a bad line; he could use it tomorrow. But he didn’t like the way the fellow was laughing, laughing without sound. He spoke quietly. “You won’t mind sharing Mike’s compartment tonight, Gratia? Your things have been moved.”

Hank’s harsh voice contradicted, “Gratia stays with us.”

He waited for control. “I don’t believe that’s wise. There might be questions—”

Les Augustin repeated it, “Gratia stays with us.”

He swallowed pride. He coaxed, “I don’t believe it is wise for Gratia’s career to stay with three men she scarcely knows. Innocent as it would be. Besides, she needs rest. Just look at her.”

All of them looked at her. She was alone in her bewilderment, in her lack of understanding. The ordeal of death had hollowed her eyes, faded her color to parchment. She was never more beautiful. Viv yearned to comfort her.

Hank said slowly, “Don’t worry about Gratia. We intend to take good care of her.”

Augustin’s gentleness turned from her and in turning became malice. “We intend to take very good care of her. No heart attack. No overdose of sleeping tablets.”

It was said. It was for this they ordered him to come, to accuse. They could not know; they could not possibly know the form of the act. Even the doctor didn’t know. There would never be proof. It was wise he had personally attended the moving of Gratia’s things. And in attending had placed the emptied bottle of sleeping tablets in the bath cabinet. The pellets had been flushed away on the dark tracks. The first fright passed and in its wake he was left more secure than before. He could ignore their gauntlet. He was safe. He could use the suggestion to his own advantage. The elevation of an eyebrow. “I’m happy Kitten didn’t have to come to that.” His smile on Gratia was gentle. “Do whatever you wish tonight. But rest.” He waited for her to respond but she was numb, half hidden behind the screen of Les Augustin. Let it go for tonight; tomorrow he would have her in his hands again. Now that this was over, he could really begin to mold her to that magnificence she promised.
The last act crowns the play.

His exit was unhurried. But in the corridor again, the line echoing in his mind, he wondered. Les Augustin hadn’t meant the curtain had fallen on the last act. He meant it was yet to come.

He softened his face quickly as a door opened on him. It was an elderly man and his wife; the cloak of security of position, mind and heart, tailored to them. It could never have been otherwise for them. For that one moment Viv stretched out his hands to their small respectability. He said, “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” the old man bowed. His wife smiled. She didn’t know who he was but she knew he was important. When she read the Chicago papers tomorrow she would remember this brief meeting. She would feel pity for him, realizing how he’d hidden his grief under courtesy.