Dread Journey (5 page)

She let Les play with her finger while she watched the closed eyes of Hank Cavanaugh. She asked, “Are you both going through to New York?”

“Positively,” Les smiled. “No more geraniums for another year, thank God.”

Hank said in a monotone, “I’m going to New York. I’m going to write a book. It’ll be a whale of a book. It’ll sell a million copies and I’ll eat guinea hen three times a day while the people I write about go on starving. But I won’t care. I won’t have to watch them starve. After a while I’ll have so much money I’ll be able to forget them. I’ll slap down a dollar when the plate is passed for relief and tell what a great humanitarian I am.”

“Shut up,” Les said wearily.

“Is he always like this?” she asked.

Hank answered, “Always except when he’s drunk. Why don’t you ask Les for a drink? He might give you one and you could slip it to me.”

Les said, “It’s a matter of principle, Hank. We must wait for Cobbett.”

“It would be easier on the nerves if you’d pass the bottle.”

She’d known Les Augustin for three years, ever since he became a name in music. She knew all the topnotchers. She gave merry, expensive parties; the successful liked parties just as much as the stragglers. Even more. She didn’t like unsuccessful people. If Cavanaugh were one she must find out now. It wasn’t that she was a snob about labels; it was merely that the unsuccessful, those climbing up and those falling down, were unsure, pathetic. They frightened her.

She had been safe with Les from the beginning. He was too selfish ever to fail. All the colony liked him. He was wickedly amusing on parties and he was restful. Just being with him was relaxing. How such a limp person could make the most frenetic music of the present day was always good for space in the columns. Les admitted that he hoarded his energy for performance. His other hours were spent reclining.

She couldn’t understand where Hank Cavanaugh fitted with Les. She couldn’t place Hank Cavanaugh in any familiar pattern. Cavanaugh didn’t look like a success story; his suit was as rumpled as that of the man in compartment F, the difference was that he didn’t care. He had no outward aspects of success but no inner properties of failure. He didn’t seem to care about anything.

Les might have adopted him in the club car, an Augustinian gesture. Out of monkey curiosity. But there was more than casual relationship here. These men were not strangers; they had known each other a long time. She realized then that in the printed publicity of Augustin there were wide gaps. The boy genius, the Juilliard scholar, the Augustin Stomp—Hank Cavanaugh belonged in one of the gaps.

She was ready to question but there was a tap on the door.

Hank blinked open his eyes. “There’s the St. Bernard.” He bellowed, “Come in. Come on in.”

Charles, the club-car waiter, young, handsome, grave-faced, entered. Everyone who traveled the Chief, and who was anyone, knew Charles.

Kitten smiled her smile. “Hello, Charles.”

Charles said, “Hello, Miss Agnew. Mr. Augustin.”

Les lifted his hand. “Hello there. Put them on the table, will you, Charles?”

“I’m Hank Cavanaugh,” Hank said. “And you’re a life-saver.” He was holding out a bill.

Les said, “I’m host.”

“The set-ups are on me,” Hank growled. “I’ll drink your royal booze while I’m here but I won’t take your filthy lucre.”

Charles set up a tray table, deposited the set-ups, the bottles of soda. “I only brought two glasses, Mr. Augustin. James said two.”

“They didn’t expect me,” Kitten admitted. She smiled her smile again. “Though I was invited.”

“I’ll bring another.”

Hank said, “Don’t bother. I prefer the bottle.”

“There’s a tumbler in my room. We’ll get it, Charles.”

He took the bill from Hank.

Les said, “Next time you’ve another order this way, bring us a few more. Thanks, Charles.”

The boy closed himself out.

Hank said, “If you two will kindly move your assorted legs, I’ll pour. Get out your bottle, Les.”

Les stirred his legs. Kitten moved hers slowly, delightfully. Les looked at Kitten. “Go get Kitten’s tumbler, Hank, while I open the quart.” His slim hand closed on hers. “Hank needs the exercise, pet. And I need you.” She was watching Hank, but she knew the look in Les’s eyes didn't match his voice.

Hank rose grumpily. “Where the hell do I go? Compartment F?”

“No,” she warned. “That’s Pringle or Priggle. I’m drawing room B.” She pointed. “That way. The tumbler’s in the bath cabinet.”

Hank growled, “I warn you I shall return.” He banged the door.

Les opened a valise.

She leaned back, lazily. “Why did you deliberately give him the wrong impression?”

He lifted out the pinch bottle. “What’s up, Kitten? What are you afraid of?” He spoke as she opened her mouth. “What’s up with you and Viv?”

It couldn’t be that it was so obvious. He was fishing, with Hank Cavanaugh’s shot in the dark for bait.

She shrugged. “I’m not afraid.”

“You’re an E string turned too tight.”

“Don’t be poetic.” She moved over to the window. “I’ve been working too hard. I need a vacation.”

“A long one?” He measured Scotch into the glass.

She said, “Viv and I are through. But I don’t have to worry. I have contracts, and a lawyer. He can’t throw me out. Either I play Clavdia, or he doesn’t produce his masterpiece.”

Les tossed his head and laughed. “You mean there’s a new one.”

She held out her fingers for the drink. “I mean there won’t be a new one.” She smiled.

Her smile covered her inward tremors. Viv had never been thwarted since he came to power. He wouldn’t be thwarted. But he couldn’t stop her. Only by death.

She wasn’t coming back from New York. Her ticket was marked one way. Gratia Shawn had a round-trip ticket. The conductors hadn’t thought it strange when they checked the tickets. Gratia hadn’t noticed.

She took a drink. “Did you ever hear about Viv’s wife?” It wasn’t what she wanted to talk about; she’d come here to forget. But Les collected odd scandals; in his ragbag brain there might be a scrap of information.

“You mean Viv’s married?”

“He was once. Years ago.”

“I never knew he’d been married. What about her?”

She said, “I don’t know about her. I never heard about her until this week. She’s dead.” She sipped. He couldn’t know it was tasteless. “He’s never mentioned her.”

Les said, “Maybe he still grieves.” He knew it was absurd. “Who told you? Mike?”

“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. He’d go to Mike. She shouldn’t have spoken. But it didn’t matter really; he’d be offhand, casual. Les was clever and careful. His ferreting might bring to light more information. She switched the subject. “Who is Hank Cavanaugh?”

“Newspaperman.”

“You’ve known him a long time.” She made it statement.

“Yes. I knew him in New York when he was just another reporter.”

She was curious. “What is he now?”

“He’s a big shot. He’s won a lot of medals on his stuff.”

She slanted her eyes.

“He was a war correspondent. Was in Singapore before Pearl Harbor. He’s just back from China.” Leslie was strangely thoughtful. “He must have cracked up over something. The drinking—”

She said, “Is he broke?”

“No. He can’t afford you but he isn’t broke.”

“He looks it.”

Leslie smiled. “He always looks that way.” He settled himself. “Tell me your troubles, darling. That’s what you came for, isn’t it?”

“Definitely not. I came to be amused. To forget. Tell me a story. About you and Hank Cavanaugh.”

His eyes slitted. “You’re not serious.”

“What do you mean?”

“About Hank.” He tittered. “Oh no, Kitten!”

“Why not?” She rounded her mouth thoughtfully. “Three days and nothing to do. Anything can happen in that time.”

“Anything can,” he agreed pleasantly. “Except making hay with Hank Cavanaugh.”

“A Krister or—”

“Neither.” He frowned quickly. “Something’s happened to him. All he wants is to stay drunk.”

“Perhaps I could help him forget.” She was amused. But that was only for Les. Hank was all right. Hank could keep her from thinking. And he could keep her from being alone; if she weren’t alone, Viv couldn’t get at her. The starry-eyed bookworm wasn’t any protection; Viv could use a machine gun and Gratia Shawn would think it was in the contract.

Les coaxed. “I wish you’d tell me about it. Maybe I could help out.”

It wasn’t to lend a helping hand that he wanted to know. It was his greedy curiosity, the desire to be first on all scandals. If she told him, the story would be hawked in the Cub room Saturday night, whispered at the Wedgwood room, shouted at Copa. She’d be a laughing stock, the girl who thought Viv Spender was a gunsel. That might be a way to tie his hands. A small quaver warned her against belief. It would only make Viv more careful in his plannings. The point was not to be alone with him.

She said, “There’s nothing to tell, Les. Truly. He’s going to try to give me the brush-off but he’s going to find he can’t do it.” Her mouth set hard. “For once he’s going to have to fulfill a promise. I don’t look forward to the battle but I can’t lose.” Only by death. She lashed her eyes that Les couldn’t see the fear again. “I wonder what’s happened to your friend Cavanaugh.”

Les laughed lazily. “We probably won’t see him again until we reach Chicago. You’d better put up with me, darling.”

He was too sober. He stood in the corridor and the corridor swayed but he was steady. He didn’t have to go to the blonde’s compartment and pick up her damn tumbler; he could walk straight along into the next car. Keep walking until he reached the club car. He knew what to do when he reached it. He could stop his mind from functioning; he’d learned how.

Les didn’t want him to return. Les wanted to be alone with the blonde hussy. Hank didn’t give a damn about her; let Les pick her brains, find out what made her afraid. He didn’t care. The days when he’d tried to beat Les to the details of a yarn were long past, thank God.

If he weren’t too sober he wouldn’t have seen the fear Kitten was trying to keep covered. Even if he’d seen it, he wouldn’t have cared. It wouldn’t be nagging at him now when he should be moving one foot after another towards the bar.

What had a girl like Kitten to fear? She wasn’t smart enough to be aware of the big things, the mad chaos of the spheres. She wasn’t facing want, one look at her dispelled that fantasy. She wasn’t old enough to fear the creeping debility of oncoming age. Fear of losing love? He scoffed the idea; there was nothing dewy-eyed about Kitten.

It wasn’t any small fear eating her; it was something basic, something terrorizing. One look and he’d recognized it. Because he hadn’t seen anything much but fear in these last years. He shook his head. He mustn’t remember; he must not remember. He must stay drunk. But he didn’t walk forward in the train. He flung open the door of drawing room B. Flung it open, despising himself for his curiosity about a tinsel doll, for expecting blood when there could be nothing but sawdust.

The train lurched and he fell into the room muttering about damn trains and damn curves and damn tumblers and Goddamn blondes. He didn’t see the girl until he’d closed the door. She wasn’t a blonde. She wasn’t tinsel.

She was seated by the window, her finger marking a place in her book. Her eyes were lifted to him, not so much in curiosity as in wonderment. He brushed the hair out of his eyes, the first time in years. And he damned himself silently after his hand fell. Did he think she’d see the Hank Cavanaugh who once was, simply because his hair was in place? He knew what she’d see: a gaunt scarecrow, his face riddled with fatigue and anger, not trivial emotions of the moment, but of long standing. Did he care what she’d see? Not a tinker’s dam.

He demanded rudely, “Who’re you?”

She answered simply, “I’m Gratia Shawn.”

He stood there blank and silent. What did he expect her to say?
Lie here and rest. Try to forget.
Because there was serenity in her face, because he could find peace in her, didn’t mean she had been put down here for that purpose. He must be drunker than he thought. Yet he had never felt more sober. It was a long time since he had felt as secure.

He said, “You’re beautiful, Gratia Shawn.”

“Am I?” She might never have heard the words before. But there was a flush of embarrassment touching her cheeks. She didn’t realize he was saying nothing personal; it was as if he were looking at a painting.

“Yes. You’re beautiful.” He walked over to her until he stood above her and she was frightened. He didn’t blame her for being frightened. He wanted to tell her not to be but it didn’t seem important. He said, “You’re so beautiful, it hurts. Here.” He put his hand on his vest. He wasn’t as sober as he’d thought. He wavered down beside her. “Who is Gratia Shawn?”

“I am.” She was humoring him. Usually it angered him, but with her he didn’t care. “Who are you?” she asked.

“What’s the difference?”

She said, “I want to know. I told you my name. You tell me yours.”

“I’m Hank Cavanaugh.”

“The newspaper Cavanaugh—” Her face lighted with recognition.

His eyebrows raged. “I’m Cavanaugh, the bum. What are you doing in Kitten Agnew’s room?”

“I’m going to New York.”

“What for?”

“For the premiere of Kitten’s new picture.”

There was lovely excitement in her voice. He didn’t like it. “Are you a friend of Kitten’s?” he demanded.

“Oh no. I never met her until this morning.” She explained, “The studio couldn’t get space for me and she offered to share hers.”

“You in the moving pictures?” He didn’t want her to be.

She said, “N-no.” Not yet.

“You want to be,” he accused.

“If I can be good, yes.” There was a dream in her eyes.

He said harshly, “You can’t be good. They’ll destroy you. They’ll take away your beauty. They’ll turn you into a painted hussy. Like Kitten.” He broke off, “What’s Kitten afraid of?”

“Afraid?” She didn’t understand.

“Is she afraid of you?” He shook his head.

“Of course not.” Her laugh was puzzled. “That’s absurd. I’m nobody.”