Dread Journey (4 page)

Despite everything that Kitten was, she didn’t deserve death. At the hands of a righteous guardian angel, perhaps yes; but not at the hands of the man who’d abetted her moral delinquency. Kitten must be given a chance to escape death.

Mike knew Kitten’s space; she herself had made the arrangements. The Pullman porter wasn’t in sight. There would be no one to let slip to Viv Spender that she’d visited Kitten. Viv wouldn’t be prowling the corridor; not until he had his false face adjusted again. Rage had set it awry.

While Mike waited for answer to her tap, a door below her opened. She stood rigid, turned her eyes over her shoulder slowly. It wasn’t Viv. It was an old man, very neat and gray, a trifle stooped. He passed her murmuring, “Excuse me.”

She tapped again at drawing room B. The door was opened but it wasn’t Kitten who opened it. It was a slight, dark-haired girl with star eyes in the loveliest face she’d ever looked upon. She knew who it was without knowing the name. It was the new Clavdia Chauchat.

Mike said, “May I come in?”

“Why—why certainly.” The girl’s voice was as beautiful as her face. It wasn’t the whisky baritone affected by all the glamorous ones. It was soft and sweet and there were chimes ringing beneath it.

The girl didn’t know who Mike was. He’d kept this one from every knowing person, even from Mike. But what was she doing in Kitten’s drawing room? Something cold twitched Mike’s fingers.

The girl stood there, quite simply, waiting for Mike to explain her reason for asking entrance. Her forefinger was tucked between the pages of the book, the little book covered in faded green. The book that Mike had given him so long ago, before he was great and strong and ruthless, when he was Viv Spender, a punk kid with dreams. So very long ago.

Mike looked around the drawing room. “Kitten isn’t here? I wanted to see her. I’m Mike Dana.”

The girl didn’t say anything but her gray eyes with their strange purple shadows were reading Mike as if she were a small faded green book.

“Mr. Spender’s secretary,” Mike added. She had to say something, she felt just a little embarrassed; she, Mike Dana, embarrassed.

“I know, Miss Dana.” The girl wasn’t embarrassed.

Mike said suddenly, “See here, this is Kitten Agnew’s drawing room, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Miss Dana. She isn’t here now. She went to call on a friend.” She broke off, gave a small laugh. “You’re wondering why I’m in here? Miss Agnew asked me to share her space to New York when Mr. Spender decided to take me along to the premiere.” Her eyes were shining in anticipation.

Mike didn’t laugh out loud. Kitten sharing was a dream one. The publicity department must have had an extra reefer to nightmare that one. And then she didn’t want to smile. Because the publicity department wouldn’t have dared; those orders came from Viv. And Viv wouldn’t be escorting two Clavdias to the premiere. It was one at a time to Viv.

Mike smiled, “If you’re working for Viv Spender, we ought to know each other.” Without invitation she seated herself. She looked up brightly. “I don’t even know your name.”

“I’m Gratia Shawn.” The girl sat down opposite her.

“Not bad.”

Gratia cocked her head, then understood. “It’s my real name, Miss Dana.”

“Make it Mike. No one calls me Miss Dana but my banker. Have you been in pictures long, Gratia?”

“I’ve never been in a picture.” She was humble.

“Stage?”

“No.” She smiled. “I was taking a library course at the university. Part of the work is assisting in the library. He came for a book. I didn’t know who he was. Even when he told me his name, I didn’t know. Not until one of the other librarians told me. I’m from Newfoundland.”

“I’ve never known anyone from Newfoundland.” Mike widened her eyes and her mouth. “Smoke?”

“No, thanks. I don’t.”

“How do you get to Hollywood from Newfoundland?” she demanded.

Gratia Shawn had lovely laughter. “A friend of mine was going. I could live with her family. So my family let me go along.”

Mike asked carefully, “What does your family think of your wonderful luck?”

Gratia said quietly, “I haven’t told them yet. I’m not going to tell them unless it comes to something. My friend’s family agrees with me. There’s no reason to set high their hopes unless I make good.” She said humbly, “I don’t know anything about acting on the screen. Mr. Spender says it won’t be hard for me to learn. But I might not be able to learn.” She laid the book across her dark dress. “If I’m not successful, I don’t want them to know.”

Mike eyed the book. “Like it?”

“It’s wonderful. I’d always meant to read it but somehow I never got around to it before.” She lifted her eyes. “Mr. Spender asked me to read it on the trip.”

“Yes,” Mike sighed. But Gratia didn’t recognize the sigh. It was too well sublimated to the important action of putting out the cigarette. She said dryly, “I won’t keep you from your reading.” She went to the door. “Tell Kitten,” she put her hand on the knob, “there’s some stuff from the publicity department I want her to see when she has time.”

She went out closing the door silently. She stood there a moment. After this share-the-space movement, the publicity department angle ought to fetch Kitten running. As well as be excuse in case Gratia mentioned the visit to Viv. He must be mad. Gratia Shawn wasn’t someone he could use and discard; she was a normal, healthy person from a decent family. She was well-born. It was in every word, every slight movement.

For the moment reason faltered. It could be that Viv actually had found his Clavdia. The girl was certain to be a sensation. Yes, she would be a sensation. But she wouldn’t play Clavdia Chauchat. Wearily the routine unreeled in Mike’s mind. You must have some experience first, you can learn on this production. A second picture: this is a perfect gem for you, we’ll postpone the other for a while. And so.

Again Mike wanted to return to Viv, to face him with reason, to force him to sanity. But she remembered the fury of his voice and face. She would speak to Kitten first. As she started towards her own car, she heard an opening door, a flurry of laughter, the laughter of men and the laughter of Kitten. Mike walked straight ahead. She didn’t know why she was stewing over Kitten. Kitten wasn’t worried. She was having her usual merry-making; she wouldn’t appreciate having a pall hung over it. She’d be the first to say she could take care of herself.

Kitten had stepped inside the compartment too quickly. The man on the seat wasn’t Les Augustin. It was a man with sleazy rayon socks slithering down to his ankles. Below the ankles were long, thin shoes, two-toned tan leather, spotted with perforations. She didn’t know why anyone would have bought those shoes. But out of the past, so far away it was almost beyond memory, she did know. He had bought them because they were cheap.

He was cheap. He was dumpy and sallow, his receding hair was black furze on his pale head. No matter how much sun he took, he would never glow with tan. A tenement-soiled pallor was inlaid in his skin. His tan suit was cheap stuff, crinkled where he had rested against it. Cheap as his shoes and socks. He blinked up at her, tears of oozy self-pity, in his eyes. She blinked down at him, wondering what he was doing in a compartment on the Chief, wondering what had led her into his compartment.

And then, because she was Kitten Agnew and because he might possibly be an exhibitor from Cowpatch, Arkansas, she gave him the Kitten Agnew smile of gaiety. “I’m sorry. I picked the wrong race.”

He said, “It’s all right.” He smiled at her. It wasn’t much of a smile, it was too sad for that. “For a moment I thought maybe you’d come in here on purpose.”

He couldn’t be trying a verbal pass; he had a mirror, he’d know he wasn’t the type. Though men never knew. Whatever he meant, she was curious. “Why did you think that?”

He debased himself. “Because you’re Vivien Spender’s—”

She interrupted harshly. “Go on, say it.” But she didn’t say it. It was an ugly word. She said, “Girl friend.”

“I was going to say his number one actress.”

“Like hell you were.” If she was out at New Essany, she didn’t have to keep up the girl-graduate act. “Who are you?”

“I’m Sidney Pringle.” He waited for applause. She supposed she should give it, but she didn’t have any idea what for. Broken-down actor, she labeled him.

“Won’t you sit down, Miss Agnew?” Only then did he remember to rise.

“Just for a moment.” She didn’t know why she sat down, accepted a cigarette. He was a revolting little man. Yet the words came from her mouth, telling her why. “So you’re another Spender fugitive.”

He thought her words were deliberate slur. Yet he swallowed them, licked them and swallowed them, seasoning his self-pity with them. “I worked for him for some months, if that’s what you mean.”

“What pictures were you in?”

“I’m not an actor!” He had a shrill laugh, edgy, as if he were rusty at laughter. “I’m Sidney Pringle.” He preened his fuzzy black semicircle of hair. “A writer.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know any writers, not while they were writers alone. When they became hyphenates, when they entered the production end, she met them. “You’ve been writing for Viv; now he’s terminated you.”

“That isn’t strictly true.” He was obsequious. “He didn’t even know I was there actually. I was hired through departments.”

“And fired.”

“Yes, I was fired.” Resentment quivered the bulbous tip of his nose. “I didn’t suit New Essany. I wasn’t good enough for them. I was a worker. I didn’t have a Cadillac car and a private secretary and—”

She was getting out of this. He might start throttling her with those twitching fingers because she was New Essany. She saw now the tears of pity were functional, to water his bitter anger. She stood up. “I’d like to help you but—” She might as well say it, it wouldn’t be a secret much longer. “Viv Spender and I haven’t been speaking for months. One word from me and he’d blackball you at all the lots.” She was at the door and something about the man made her gentle. His very physical offensiveness was pathetic. “If we were speaking, I might tell him that I was delighted he’d kicked you out. That might do some good. If I get a chance I’ll do it, Mister.”

He was hugging despondency again. “It wouldn’t do any good. He doesn’t know I exist.”

She made a quick exit. No more of that! She swayed alone with the corridor for a moment trying to recall which was Les Augustin’s compartment. He’d mentioned it last night at the Players—it wasn’t F. It came back to her. D. Compartment D. F was the compartment in Wahakatchee which that radio director had. She’d mixed them up. Both had invited her to drop in for a drink. She passed E, rapped at D.

“Come on in.” That bellow couldn’t be Les. But she was certain of compartment D. “Come in.”

She remained on the threshold after opening the door. No more sessions with broken-down scribblers. She had enough problems of her own; she didn’t need those of other persons. What she needed was escape from problems. That was her purpose in seeking Les, he was always good for diversion.

When she saw his blonde laziness on the Pullman seat she stepped in. She caroled, “Hello, duck. I came.” Her eyes slanted at the man by the window, the one who was pinning her with his eyes. He was the longest, gangliest man; he had a lean, ugly face, rumpled brown hair, glazed eyes, but he was definitely aware.

Les said with his customary boredom, “Kitten, pet. I was just wondering how long.”

The man at the window growled, “Don’t you believe a word of it. He hasn’t given you a thought.”

“Shut up, Hank.” Leslie didn’t disturb the evenness of his well-modulated voice. “Kitten, beloved. This is Hank Cavanaugh. He’s drunk.”

“Kitten is a gruesome name,” Les said to Hank. “Viv Spender gave it to her.”

Kitten smiled, “You’re always so wonderful, Les.”

She swayed from the hips as she came over to the men. She pushed in beside Les, where she could face the other. Maybe the trouble was she had been too faithful to Viv. In Cynarian fashion. If she were in love, she wouldn’t have the bad dreams she had been having. Hank Cavanaugh offered something tonic.

Hank said, “If Les is in your way, he’ll move. Though he’ll point out selfishly that this is his compartment.” He lidded his eyes at Les. “Who’s the pretty thing?”

Les patted her thigh. “This is Kitten Agnew, Hank, and I’ve no intention of moving. Where’s Viv? Skulking in his tent?”

She trickled laughter. “You’re divine. He probably is.” But she didn’t like the switch. Skulking was a word with shadows.

“What are you afraid of?” Hank demanded.

“Nothing.” She lashed her eyes at him.

“Listen kid. I’ve covered enough trouble to know.”

Les moved in gently. “Now that you’re about to play the charming consumptive, you have first-night jitters.”

She edged her eyes to Les. “It looks like I’m keeping my health.”

It was no surprise to him. He’d heard rumors; he wanted it first hand. He rolled it around his brain. “You have a contract.”

She smiled. “I have a contract. Good till hell freezes over.”

Hank said, “You’re afraid of a cold snap in hell.”

“I told you. I’m not afraid.” She flung it at him. She wouldn’t be intimidated again.

“I’m getting sober,” Hank complained. “Why don’t we have a straight one, Les? The dame wants one.”

Les said, “What’s your rush? Cobbett will have the mixings in a minute.”

“Who is Cobbett, darling?”

Hank said, “Cobbett is the gentleman who attends this car. Probably the only gentleman in the car. God knows, Les isn’t one.”

She smiled. “Doubtless you’re right. Viv Spender isn’t one.” She looked up at Les. “Speaking of gentlemen, I invaded the wrong compartment. I went in F.” She shuddered delicately.

“Interesting.”

“Hardly. The most revolting little oaf tried to weep on my shoulder. He’s just been fired from New Essany. An author—Sidney Priggle or Pringle.”

Hank said, “Sidney Pringle wrote a pretty good book.”

She opened her eyes in simulated admiration of Hank’s knowledge. “Actually? He did? I mean he really did?” But she was wary of him now.

Hank said, “Yeah.” He closed his eyes again as if she didn’t exist. His mouth was drawn in grim lines, too many late nights or too much trouble. He didn’t belong here in Les’s compartment; he was a hardbitten man, not a lazy posturer as was the great Augustin. Les was a house pet, a sleek, lazy cat; this man was lean and hungry, something out of deep woods, something cruel and lost. That was pretty good. Viv had taught her to think in pictures that way. Viv had taught her plenty of lessons; she was going to teach him one now.