Dread Journey (2 page)

When she became Viv Spender’s newest discovery, Kitten had knowledge of her predecessors, of their brief candles, of the snuffings out. The one in a home for alcoholics. The one picked up soliciting. The one who jumped from a window while Viv was in Florida with the new. And the others, returned to the drabness from which they had once hopefully emerged, walled behind counters, playing walk-ons. Before he discovered Kitten, when she knew he was about to discover her, she had arranged that she would not be snuffed out. Her lawyer was one of the most respected in law, feared and admired in the colony. From the very beginning he had known each step of her progress. He was ready to sue, ready to break Viv Spender. Not for money alone; because one of the tragic brief candles had been his niece.

Viv Spender could supplant Kitten Agnew, could offer the part of Clavdia to another, but he would be broken if he did. There would be a prison sentence to face. He was too powerful to face it. He had become so powerful that his pride was one with himself.

So powerful he would mete out death? She didn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe it. Mike hadn’t meant that.

Mike had been sent by him to make Kitten cancel this trip. She understood Mike’s purpose in trying to frighten her. If she’d worn a black veil and held a roiled crystal, Mike might have frightened her. But it was only Mike, the pearl-above-price private secretary to Viv Spender. The secretary every producer in Hollywood had tried unsuccessfully to steal away. Mike, homely in a land where beauty was the commonplace, unemotional where emotion was the norm, stable where stability was suspicious.

Mike had put on a good act. Sliding in that implication as if it were her own idea. Everyone knew that Mike didn’t act without his direction; there was no Mike except in co-existence with him. Mike had not frightened her, only angered her and set her determination. Kitten hadn’t known about Gratia then. She hadn’t even known yesterday when the publicity department begged her to take the unknown under her wing on this New York safari. It had seemed rather odd to be asked to share her drawing room, but it had been put up to Kitten in such a way that she couldn’t refuse. Her publicity was built on the legend of a natural, normal girl, with a great loving heart. Human, good fellow, sympathetic. They’d told her about her invitation—after they’d sent out the publicity.
Kitten Agnew invites a bit girl to share her drawing room.
There was nothing to do but go along with it. He had planned it that way, to goad her, to penalize her even in this petty manner.

She hadn’t known until half an hour ago that this girl was the one who was to take her place. He’d kept it that secret no one had known but he himself. Possibly Mike Dana. He had no secrets from Mike; he might think he had but he hadn’t. The girl, Gratia Shawn herself, didn’t know. And Kitten wouldn’t have known but for a casual question, put out of early boredom with the long journey, they were only now entering the desert; out of curiosity about this girl who sat quietly in the chair reading a small green-backed book.

She had asked, “What are you reading?”

Gratia had lifted her eyes, her shining eyes. She’d been too deeply immersed actually to hear Kitten’s question. “It’s wonderful. Mr. Spender asked me to read it.” Her smile was innocent as a white flower. “To see if I liked the part.”

It was then that Kitten actually saw the book. An out-of-print edition, from his own bed table. A book she’d held but never read. It was too long to read, too many big thoughts. She forced her suspicions into a seemingly idle question. “What’s the part?”

“Clavdia Chauchat.”

She didn’t hear what else Gratia had to say. Because that was her part. For four years she’d waited for it, been promised it. And because she was shrewd and had struck when she was catnip, she had an unbreakable contract for the role. He’d been promising to produce the picture for years; it was his obsession and his dream. He had discovered innumerable Clavdias but because Kitten was just a little shrewder than he, because she was still closer to her meager beginnings, she or no one would play the part. She had refused to sell him the contract at the time of their most bitter quarrel, four months ago. She had offered to trade it to him for marriage. He might have killed her then if they hadn’t been in his office. But she hadn’t been afraid of him, of the names with which he’d slapped her face. Everything was in her hands. She hadn’t known about the first Mrs. Spender then.

She didn’t have to die. She could go to him now, tell him in Gratia Shawn he’d found the perfect Clavdia Chauchat. She could bow out still playing the publicity department’s role of the good sport, Kitten Agnew. A part wasn’t more important than her life. Failure to attain the star she’d fixed, to be Mrs. Vivien Spender, wasn’t as humiliating as death. The fixed star of being Mrs. Spender had risen when he first discovered in Kitten the perfect Clavdia. She knew he’d marry Clavdia Chauchat. He’d been obsessed by the dream for too long.

She could give up everything. She wouldn’t have to return to the depressing poverty from which she'd emerged. She’d come a long way from North Dakota before she ever met Viv Spender. The chorus, modeling, band singing. In four years he’d made her a glistening Hollywood star. If she left him, she could go at once to any other lot. She wouldn’t be like the others, dropping into oblivion or worse because he’d dismissed her. She didn’t love him; she’d never loved him, mad as she’d been about him those first years. He’d been her opportunity. She wasn’t like the others, the mechanical doll into which he alone could breathe life. She could stand on her own feet, go on to bigger contracts, more important roles even than Clavdia Chauchat.

But she remembered Rosaleen who had been a great star for the brief interlude; and Titania, where was she? Without his life breath, they had become ghosts. She was afraid.

He wouldn’t kill her. It was absurd to consider such a thing. He wouldn’t dare. He had too much self-love to risk the fond self against execution. He’d know he couldn’t get away with murder.

He would realize it was better to pay, to allow her to be Clavdia—she’d be magnificent in the role. Or to marry; the marriage would be million-dollar publicity, and he could be free after he settled some of those millions on her. She had no intention of letting him frighten her into giving him his cold-blooded way. She’d almost frightened. That weakness was over and done with.

He wouldn’t risk killing her. Not unless he could get away with it…It was then she whispered to herself but aloud, “I’m afraid.”

And the lovely Gratia, not hearing words but only knowing they had been spoken, looked up and asked, “What did you say?”

Cavanaugh said, “I like it here. I’ll stay.” His voice didn’t sound drunk. It was loud and firm. Maybe it was too loud but he didn’t give a damn. Anyone who didn’t like it could get the hell out. He stretched himself out across the seats, closed his eyes.

He kept them closed only for a moment. When he shut out sight, he knew he was drunk. It was too early in the clay to pass out. It was a waste of good booze to pass out now. He’d be awake again by midnight. Awake and sober. Awake and agonizing. He shook his head and groaned, “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” The voice was vaguely amused.

The swirling hammers quieted. He focused his eyes on the man in the seat across. He scowled, “I know who you are. Leslie Augustin.” His tongue was thick on the Leslie and he sampled it again with odd pleasure.

“And this is my compartment.” The slight voice was still amused.

“Yeah. And how a guy like you rates a compartment and all I got is a lousy upper is what makes proletariats out of honest bourgeoisie.”

“I’m the great Augustin,” Augustin said pleasantly.

“Yeah? You got a compartment. I got an upper. Can’t do any honest drinking in an upper. The fat dame below says the guggle-guggle keeps her awake. I’ll stay.”

“You’ll sleep in the upper if you do,” Augustin smiled. “It’s my compartment.”

Cavanaugh yawned. “You’re selfish, Augustin. You Goddamn, lousy, selfish prostitute, you.”

Leslie Augustin yawned back at him. “It’s my compartment.”

Hank Cavanaugh looked out the window. He’d grabbed the window side. The landscape was going too fast and it was jiggling. He shuddered. “Ugh.” The landscape was too much like other landscape, barren wasteland. He was thankful his eyes were bleared. He turned them again on Leslie Augustin. Yeah, it was the same Augustin, still looking undernourished though he was undernourished now in a handwoven dust-colored lounging suit, not shiny serge pants. The fair-haired Augustin, an élégant today, the patina of success gold-dusted all over him. Once he’d been skinny, now he was slender; once he’d been unwashed, now he was immaculate; the broken nails had mended, they tapered in a discreet manicure. He still looked like a tall young angel, but his narrow cobalt eyes weren’t vengeful as once, they were merely cynical.

“How’d you do it?” Hank Cavanaugh demanded.

“How did I do what?” Leslie lifted a bored cigarette to his thin mouth. He shouldn’t be smoking; he had a cigarette cough that would kill a horse.

“What? What do you think? Last time I saw you, you were a stinking poor fiddler—”

Leslie interrupted mildly, “I wasn’t a poor fiddler. I was a magnificent fiddler.”

“I suppose you can tell me you weren’t poor when I fed you out of my own plate weeks on end.”

“Yes, I was poor but not a poor fiddler.” The thin mouth thinned then curved. “I was poor. And I’d rather be a rich prostitute.”

“How’d you do it?” Hank started to shake his head, remembered in time to hold it rigid. “How?”

“I realized,” and this time Leslie Augustin didn’t bother to put the curve in his mouth, “I wasn’t a Menuhin or a Heifetz. Nor a Beethoven nor Tchaikovsky. I’d better give the public what it wanted.” He moved his beautiful tapered fingers. “I wrote a stomp.”

“A what?”

“A stomp—”

“How d’ya spell it?”

Leslie stomped one foot languidly on the Pullman carpet. “Like that. Stomp.” He raised his fleet eyebrows. “My God, Hank, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Augustin stomp? Where have you been the last years?”

“Away.” The monosyllable was grim. It stopped foolish questioning. But he’d forgotten that Leslie resembled the fairy prince only in appearance. Beneath that beautiful head was a tight, shrewd nugget of a brain, lively as a monkey’s, insatiable for factual crumbs about his fellows, crumbs that kneaded together might turn into tasty pattycake for one Augustin. Hank Cavanaugh had despised the fiddler even when he kept him from starvation in New York. Leslie had been a crumb picker then. Plenty of yarns Hank had run down following the crumb trail.

Leslie said with mock humility, “I caught on. A good publicity man, the radio, platters, personal appearances…The war helped.”

Hank spoke in choked anger, “What about the war?”

Leslie’s eyes opened on him. “I’ve played the U.S.O. circuit.”

“Carrion.”

Leslie said appeasingly, “I’m sorry, Hank. It’s all I’ve been able to do. I have scars on both lungs.”

“Camille in fancy pants.”

Leslie flushed slowly. It went away leaving the tan of his cheeks pale. “It’s true. The doctors want me to go to Arizona for a long rest. But I won’t quit now. I won’t quit until I have…enough.”

“For diamond-studded caviar three times a day.”

Leslie smiled a little. “Maybe that’s it. I won’t stop until I’m sure I’ll never go back to a hall bedroom. And cadging meals.” The smile was like a knife. “The doctors say if I’d lived right I’d have skipped it. I should have stuck to plenty of fresh milk and green vegetables and twelve hours sleep a night when I was young.” The smile was deliberately amused. “For God’s sake, don’t tell Viv Spender. He’ll try to type cast me as Hans Castorp.”

“Who the hell is Viv Spender?”

Leslie coughed in amusement. “For God’s sake, don’t talk so loud! He’s in this car. Who is Viv Spender? Vivien Spender? The Gaekwar of Culver City! The Hearst of New Essany! The Zeus of America’s greatest industry!” His voice was good natured. “He’s a moving-picture producer.”

“You in the movies too?” Hank growled.

Leslie shook his head. “I’ve done a few. Not for Spender. For him I’m holding out for a million-dollar contract.” He took from his pocket a gold cigarette case. It was too long and too slender, thin as a ribbon, but the cigarette he took from it was un-crushed. There was engraving inside the cover.

Hank held out his hand. Leslie passed the case, “Sorry.” Deliberately Hank split it open, read the enscrolled message. “For the great Augustin with love, Valerie Van Houten.” He clipped the case together, said dryly, “Whew.”

“She wants to marry me.”

“Why not? There’s gold in them thar oil.”

“I’m not that kind of a prostitute.” Leslie replaced it in his pocket. His eye was shrewd, but not malicious. “What have you done for the war?”

Hank closed his eyes. He blanked memory but his tongue was vicious. “I’ve played carrion. Like you. I’ve wept crocodile tears on paper for suffering humanity. I’ve swilled while they starved.” He broke off. He’d realized. He wasn’t seeing pinwheels. He said, “I’m getting sober. Let’s have a drink.”

It had been years since she’d remembered Althea. Because he had forgotten, she had forgotten. Her life was that completely integrated with his.

She had known the first time she saw him that this was as it would be. Perhaps in that first meeting, she had dreamed it was to be the same with him. You are my life, and, you are my life. She had been young then, and the young dared dream even in the immutable face of realities. The young dared expect storybook perfection.

When she met him she still had faith in the old legends. Love would transform the ugly duckling into the exquisite swan. Beauty was not in the mask of a face, it was in the mind and the spirit and the grace beneath the mask. The legends were not without basic truth. Other men had cared for her. She could have married time over, married into love. But her love was given. And for him beauty was the beauty of flesh. Only by this beauty were his senses stirred.