Dread Journey (8 page)

Gratia’s face was framed for him through the intervening heads. He was gratified that she didn’t seem a part of her group. She smiled when their laughter rattled but she was silent otherwise, careless of Les Augustin at her side, watching Kitten and the man across the table. She didn’t see Viv Spender, she wasn’t looking in his direction. There was a table separating this table from that of Kitten’s party.

The man across from Viv leaned forward confidentially. “That’s Kitten Agnew back there,” he said.

Viv nodded. “Yes, I know.” He made himself look and sound interested.

The woman beside the man, the woman in the dowdy, expensive dress, smiled complacently. “She’s Dad’s favorite actress.”

“What I like about her,” the man defended, “is she’s a real American girl.” He went on about it in many words. The look on Viv’s face was a listening one. He supplied a variety of sounds when the monologue demanded it. God, the public really believed that stuff! The publicity department had told Viv so but he’d never quite credited it. One look at Kitten and you knew her beginnings and her probable end if she lived to that end. But the public wasn’t as discerning as Viv Spender.

And how would the public accept Kitten’s death before the end? They wouldn’t like it. How would they accept her producer going on to New York, making sure the show would go on as Kitten wanted it to go on? They’d accept it; they’d accept it because the whole sticky sweet mess would be spoon fed them by the boys in Publicity. He had no intention of missing the premiere. His fingers tightened and he said, “Yes indeed,” to the man across the table.

“Did you see her in
Fancy That?”
The garrulous fellow was launched again. He was even humming tunelessly the theme song, “Fancy That.” Kitten had done it well. It had been a good picture, a picture she could do. The story of a girl who wanted to be a successful singer, who almost got there, but who decided she didn’t really want it after all. Who turned her back on fame and fortune when it was within her grasp. Who chose instead the boy she loved and a little rose-covered cottage. Pure hoke and the public loved it. As far from Kitten’s nature as simple goodness and the public loved her.

The picture had grossed a mint. Kitten could go on doing that sort of thing until she became a character actress and keep on grossing six figures. If she only had brains enough to realize that hoke was her fortune, not want to mangle Clavdia Chauchat. He’d made a mistake thinking she was Clavdia; he admitted it, why couldn’t she? He wouldn’t have dropped Kitten if she’d been reasonable. He’d have kept her on; she could have remained right there at the top for years to come.

It was too late now. She’d refused reason; she’d threatened. And she’d mouthed the unforgivable insult, she’d demanded marriage.

Mike touched his arm. “What are you ordering, Viv?”

He looked at the menu, quieting the twitch of his hands. It might have been that Mike knew his mind. He smiled secretly. She couldn’t this time. He hadn’t told her anything. She didn’t know anything about Gratia Shawn, nothing except the dictation she’d taken this afternoon, the announcement that Gratia Shawn would play the part of Clavdia Chauchat in Vivien Spender’s production. Mike hadn’t even seen the girl. He’d got her aboard without Mike knowing. Mike wasn’t as indispensable as she thought.

She said, “I’ll take the steak.”

He ordered for them. The couple across left the table. It brought Gratia’s face into frame. He couldn’t resist. He said quietly, “That’s Gratia Shawn.”

“Yes, I know.”

Yes, she knew. He’d just congratulated himself that she didn’t know and she knew. He was pricked and he scowled at her. “How is it you know? She’s never been on the lot.”

“I met her this afternoon.”

He was sharp. “How?”

Mike was removing a cigarette from her black handbag. Her voice was easy. “I went to ask Kitten to o.k. the publicity for New York. That girl was in the drawing room.”

He wanted Mike to talk about her, to react to her, but she was silent.

He was forced to ask, “Lovely, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Mike said.

He burned silently. Mike mustn’t be allowed to think he had any interest in the girl save professionally. Actually he hadn’t. He’d treated her like a daughter. If within him he felt those stirrings, wanting to speak her name, to hear her mentioned, no one else must know. Not yet. Not while Kitten was in the way. He’d made a mistake allowing himself to be discussed publicly with Kitten. That wasn’t going to happen again.

He said, “I have plans for her. I don’t want Kitten exposing her to her cheap friends.”

“Les Augustin isn’t cheap.”

“Who’s the other man?”

“I don’t know,” Mike said. “I never saw him before.”

“Some drunken bum she picked up. You tell her I want her to leave Gratia Shawn out of her bouts.”

Mike looked at him. “You’d better tell her yourself. Kitten isn’t very friendly to suggestions these days.”

Mike didn’t know. If she had any idea, she wouldn’t ask him to speak to Kitten. She didn’t know what was between them was beyond grace of words, acts alone remained. He’d fooled her completely. If he could fool Mike, he could fool anyone, including the police. Mike knew him.

The steward had set two other persons across the table. He didn’t see their faces, he smiled amiably at their anonymity. “Did you know Kitten Agnew is sitting back there?” He mimicked the middle-aged man’s voice. One of these men craned over his shoulder, the other one looked down into his plate. Mike’s heel caught his shin. He turned his amiable smile on her. “Good steak,” he commented.

Did you know I’m going to kill Kitten Agnew? I had planned it for tonight. The Albuquerque police don’t know much. They’d take an accident. They wouldn’t doubt Vivien Spender’s sad regret. But maybe it’s better I’ll have to wait until tomorrow night. Maybe it’s better that Chicago will have to handle it. Sometimes tanktown cops get pretty officious. They might want to hold all of us for an inquest. Chicago will cooperate. There’s movie money there. The real issue will be so confused by the power of money and the industry, by the clutter of attorneys and advisers and officials and flacks and sob sisters, no one will suspect.

Mike said, “Just rare enough.”

Les said, “Don’t look now, darling, but the King of the May is behind you.”

She controlled the lick of fear that might have curled in her eyes. What difference did it make if Viv were there? It was none of his business now with whom she dined. He was through with her; she was through with him. He couldn’t hurt her as long as she was protected by a diner filled with civilized beings.

Hank growled, “Who’s the King of the May?”

Kitten lilted sheer laugher. “Darling, who else could it be?”

“Spender.” Les explained.

Kitten looked under her eyelids at Les. “I wonder what drove him out among the peasants.” It couldn’t be because he was stalking her. It wasn’t that.

Gratia’s voice was kind. “Perhaps he was lonely.”

Kitten gurgled. The glance she slanted was as at a country cousin, a particularly gawky one. “Darling, he’s never lonely. He always has Vivien Spender with him. What else could anyone want?” She trilled laughter again, hoping it reached his ears.

Les said, “Quite.”

Gratia remained untouched by Kitten’s laughter. She sat there watching Hank with her great eyes the way she’d been watching him all through the dinner. As if he were something important to her, as if she were a lovesick school girl worshiping at an unattainable shrine. Kitten’s nails clawed the napkin across her lap. Hank wasn’t for Gratia. Gratia couldn’t hold him for ten minutes; he was a man who’d want meat, not a cold turnip.

Gratia wasn’t going to get Hank. She’d thieved Vivien Spender, beyond that she should not trespass. Hank was the first man in years that Kitten had wanted out of emotion, not mind. She had no intention of allowing Gratia to spoil things. Let her have Viv. If she encroached on Hank, she’d regret.

He wasn’t paying any attention to the girl. He ate and he drank. Kitten looked at him now with warm eyes. She spoke gaily, “You’re eating as if you didn’t ever expect to see food again.”

At his expression, she drew back. His face had gone suddenly blank and hostile. He ordered, “Shut up.”

Les sighed, “Don’t start again, Hank.”

Hank pushed away his plate. “Let’s get out of here. I’m getting sober.”

She didn’t understand what had happened but she didn’t want to leave. Not until after Viv left. She didn’t want to pass his table, to meet his eyes, his scheming brain. She refused. “Gratia wants some ice cream. Don’t you, Gratia?” She wasn’t scoffing at Gratia now; she was Kitten Agnew, the warmhearted American girl.

Gratia shook her head almost in horror. “Oh no.” Her eyes whimpered against Hank’s face.

Kitten said almost angrily, “Well, I do. And demitasse.” She covered her annoyance with a quick moue at Hank. “You don’t mind, do you?”

His hostility had gone. He said, “Why not?” She didn’t know what had engendered that moment of terrible, unspoken rage. It had passed. But he didn’t touch his plate again; he lit a cigarette and gloomed with it.

She and Les ate ice cream. Gratia’s melted into a sweet, milky puddle while her eyes watched Hank. Kitten spooned slowly; she couldn’t ask if Viv were still there; she didn’t dare look over her shoulder. She feared a backwards glance as if she were being pursued.

Yet in spite of the time she consumed, when she rose from the table her eyes met Viv’s. He was still in his place a table away. She didn’t recognize him, she was able to delay recognition by laughing over her shoulder at whatever Les might have said. Not until she came to his table did she seem to notice him.

Her voice was loud and careless. “Hello, darling! Fancy seeing you in public places.” She deliberately blocked the aisle, holding Hank, Les and Gratia penned behind her. They couldn’t move until she did; they couldn’t leave her with Viv.

Viv hated her. Until this moment she might not have known how permeated he was with hatred of her. It seeped from every pore as he spoke, normally, thinking his disease was hidden. He said, “You’ll pardon my not rising, Kitten. I’m wedged.”

Hank’s hand pushed her shoulder. “Go on, Kitten.”

She flung him a smile. “But, darling, I want you to meet Viv. Viv, this is Hank Cavanaugh. Hank, this is Viv Spender.” As she spoke her eyes fell carelessly on the man across from Viv. It was the cheap little man from compartment F. His eyes were dog eyes baying up into her face. As she met them, his spoon wavered and consommé dribbled on the starched white tablecloth. She didn’t give him recognition, deliberately she turned her back to him.

Viv accepted the introduction as if he were delighted to meet Hank Cavanaugh. Hank didn’t. He said brusquely, “Hello. Get on, Kitten.”

She didn’t move. She was enjoying this. Relishing the warning in Mike’s eyes, relishing Viv being relegated to unimportance. Even the disgusting noises Pringle was making over his soup didn’t spoil it. She laughed down into Viv’s face. “Wonderful trip so far.”

Hank had her elbow and was urging her but she didn’t move.

“Are you enjoying it, darling, or are you working as usual?”

“Someone has to work,” Spender laughed. The laughter was so brittle, a feather’s touch would have broken it.

“You’ll get dull,” Kitten said, and to Hank, “All right, darling!”

She didn’t intend to turn her eyes again on Pringle. It was as if she were forced. He was draining the cup of soup. He set it down and he licked the soup from his lips. His tongue licked his salty lips and his eyes lapped her face begging a crumb, one word. She withheld it. She left him gnawing the barren bone of anonymity. She didn’t know why he had been put on this train, or why, being aboard, he should continue to dog her steps. She didn’t want to be reminded of those who failed to measure up to Spender’s demands.

She hurried on out of the car not waiting to hear Viv speak to Gratia. She didn’t care what he said, what tonal richness saturated the words. She plunged ahead, wanting only to get away. She forgot Hank; she was alone in the endless moving tunnel. When he spoke behind her, she was startled.

He said, and it was conclusive, “Running away won’t help.”

It hadn’t been bad, he actually seemed to be enjoying his dinner despite the motley sounds and sights and smells about him. There’d been a touch of the old Viv in his fleeting assumption of the role of the movie-struck traveler, his query to the crumpled man across from him,
Did you know Kitten Agnew is sitting back there?
He had pronounced Kitten’s name without a tremor, with unimportance.

Yet Mike did not relax. She knew the moment must come, that Kitten and her party must pass the table on their way out of the diner. She and Viv had entered too late. She saw them rise at last; Viv too saw, his muscles tightened.

She didn’t look at Kitten. She saw the shape of the slim gray suit shadowing the table, heard the false merriment of the greeting,
Hello, darling.
Mike couldn’t look at Viv, she focused her eyes across the table.

The man across from Viv was bent over a cup of consommé. His mouth was too noisy on the soup, it slapped above train noise, above the painted dialogue of Kitten and Viv Spender. Mike was watching when Kitten’s eyes carelessly turned on the man, when his spoon wavered and the stain of consommé spread on the clean white of the cloth. She saw him put down the spoon, debased; she saw something else, that Kitten and this man had known each other somewhere, sometime.

Kitten turned cruelly away from his shame. The man sat there quivering, his nose hungry above the soup. His soiled nails crept to the spoon. Unobtrusively he took it up, supped again. He was hungry, only a hungry man would have denied his pride for a mouthful of liquid.

She recognized now his hesitation over the menu when he had been seated. She hadn’t at the time been conscious of why his eyes crept from the printed card to the broiled steak on her plate and on Viv’s. She hadn’t been conscious of his bitter abnegation when he ordered chicken fricassee; she had considered it a matter of taste. She realized now. Chicken fricassee, one dollar fifty; steak dinner, two fifty.