She said, “Good,” and she made no effort to hide her relief. “See you about five then.”
The hour dropped out of his mouth like a bitter pellet. “Five?”
“Kitten said fivish.”
His voice was carefully controlled. “I said after dinner.”
“She can’t come then.” The wariness was again on her mouth. “If you’re busy—”
He cut her off. “I won’t be busy.” He held his rage in checkrein. Until Mike had gone. Kitten had dared change the hour. Without consulting him she had set an impossible hour. He must chart his plans all over again. He could not offer her after-dinner coffee at five o’clock. She could not be expected to go to bed at that hour.
In his wrath he was half-way to the door before he recognized the danger of seeking her now. He had made a mistake going to her room this morning. It hadn’t been a part of the plan, it had been out of anger. And it had been dangerous.
He had been seen going there. He hadn’t noticed the slit of open door on his way. He’d been blanked out with the anger. It was on his return that through the slit he saw the prying eyes poked out of a pudgy little face. The eyes were malevolent with hate. He didn’t know why they should be; the face was strange to him. But he knew he was recognized. It wasn’t until he was again in his room that he remembered it was the face of the man who’d sat across from him in the diner, the fellow who made obnoxious noises in his soup. Why he should hate Vivien Spender, Vivien Spender couldn’t imagine. It didn’t disturb him.
He might have had a stray quaver of relief that he had not laid hands on Kitten. The man who hated would have been eager to tattle. It was true that in his anger, Viv had stalked to her room wanting to twist life out of her insolent body. Once there, his superior intellect had triumphed over animal rage. She wasn’t worth the brief pleasure it would have given him. The moment he saw her and her dread, he was satisfied to wait. The final satisfaction would be as sweet accomplished by wit as by the laying on of hands.
He hoped she sensed that she was going to die. He wanted her to suffer, to try to inch her way out of the oncoming juggernaut of her deserved fate. He didn’t believe she was acute enough to realize. Yet her fear of him had a physical stench, as if she were already touched with decay.
It must be accomplished this afternoon. He could wait no longer. The frustration was making him nervy. He would have to serve drinks instead of coffee. A strong drink should disguise an alien flavor as well as a hot bitter fluid. He would make certain she received the proper glass. It might be well to prepare a special cocktail, to cloud all the glasses with the mixture. Kitten couldn’t resist a fancy drink. Drop a cherry in a glass and she’d suck the dregs. He’d order some maraschinos early from Charles. It would go off just as well in the afternoon as at night.
If Kitten returned to her room to sleep off some of her drinks, no one would be suspicious. He must make certain that Kitten did return to her room.
She must not be discovered until too late. There must be no chance of her being rushed to a hospital in the wilderness of Kansas. If Mike were free she could keep Gratia out of the way. Mike couldn’t be in two places at once; nevertheless, Gratia must be kept away.
Everything fell into place concisely. He would see Gratia now; he would invite her to dine with him. If she met him in the club car at six, quarter to, she would be kept free of danger. After dinner, return here for talk, for planning her future. He could plan for her now; Kitten was already eradicated save for the act.
His finger rested on the buzzer but he put no pressure there. He would do this himself, no need to let Mike know. He wanted no middle man on this matter. Particularly he didn’t want Mike and her unspoken warnings. Momentarily rage against Mike bit him. She had dared couple his name with that of the notorious Doumel.
This was the afternoon lull. The corridor outside was soundless. He could knock on Gratia’s door; it was business. It didn’t matter if he was seen but he wouldn’t be seen. He stepped outside.
In the corner, Cobbett sat motionless on his leather seat. Viv was as startled as if guilt were written on his brow. Cobbett didn’t look at him but he knew Viv was there, Viv strode past but he didn’t stop at Gratia’s door. He walked out of the car, conscious that Cobbett's eyes followed him.
What business had the porter to sit there outside his room, a dark, silent jailer? What business had he to hold his eyes level with Viv’s when he spoke to him? Did the damn coon think he was as good as Vivien Spender? He’d find out. Viv could have him fired tomorrow.
The knuckles of his fist were sharp on Mike’s door. He didn’t wait for her response; he strode into her compartment.
When she saw his face, her eyes blanked. She asked, “What is it?” Her voice, despite her effort to make it normal, was blank as her eyes.
It was an effort to wrench himself out of the tongs of his anger. He was a little shaken when he smiled. “I want to see Gratia Shawn.”
Her breath came out in a gust. “I thought something was wrong.”
He laughed at her. “Nothing’s wrong. Except I don’t care to have my business bruited about the train. I’ll see her here.”
She made the sheaf of papers neat: “I’ll see if I can find her.” He couldn’t discover her face, her shoulder was turned to him. She went out, her face still hidden.
He turned his to her mirror. There was no trace of anger remaining on it. It was strong and handsome, and calm. He took up a magazine of Mike’s. He read a few jumbled pages on radar before she returned, alone. He was carefully controlled now. He waited for her report; she withheld it, as if she were afraid to speak. He asked, smiling, “Well?”
“She isn’t in her room,” Mike said. She avoided his eyes.
“Where is she?”
She said, “I couldn’t find her.” She was lying.
He was ironic. “Maybe you didn’t look very far.”
She faced him now and her nostrils flared. She said, “She’s in Les Augustin’s room. They’re all in there, Kitten and Hank Cavanaugh and Sidney Pringle. I asked the porter.” Her mouth was rigid. “I didn’t think you’d care to have Les Augustin knowing your business.”
Mike didn’t know what churned in him. He was so well controlled. He said, “You’re absolutely right.” He walked to the door before he realized he was crushing her magazine in his fingers. He flung it away. “I’d like Gratia to meet me in the club car about six. For a drink and dinner after. Get word to her.”
He didn’t hear Mike's answer. He walked back to his own car. Cobbett was still sitting in his observatory, motionless, silent, aware. Viv strode past him without a glance. Without striking a blow.
—3—
He had said: I want a witness. It was said and her relief was great. Because he wasn’t planning anything. He wouldn’t have her present if there were a plan. It could be that wisdom had penetrated his anger. It could be only temporary reprieve. But the reprieve was relief so great that she returned to her compartment physically weak.
There was routine to occupy her this afternoon. Her work traveled with her. She didn’t need to think, she didn’t want to think. When the knock came at her door, her nerves knotted. It couldn’t be that anything had happened. He entered before she could call out. Her surprise at seeing him was stifled by recognition of the condition he was in. The rage that jutted from his face couldn’t be hidden; anyone who passed him. would be frightened by it. She was frightened but not for herself. For him and the danger to him if he had been observed.
He covered the poison quickly. He wanted her to bring Gratia Shawn to him. The cool request didn’t match the heat of his emotion. She couldn’t ask what had roused him; he believed he was under control when he spoke.
She went out, wondering, still frightened. Could he have already met with Kitten? She knew of no one else who drove him into such passion.
The corridor of his car was empty save for the porter resting on a small leather seat. She approached the door of drawing room B
as if she were not afraid to enter it: Her knock was unanswered and she opened the door not daring to think what she might find. Her mouth trembled when she found nothing. No one. An empty room. She stepped back and closed the door. She stood there for a moment, holding to the latch, gathering the shattered pieces of her confidence into some semblance of a whole.
Standing there, she heard the jet of laughter, of Kitten’s laughter, from behind another door. She was all right again, hearing Kitten. Kitten was untouched. Mike turned to go but she hesitated. The porter would know. She might as well ask; it would save combing the train. In his present humor, Viv was capable of sending her into the engine for information.
She went nearer to the porter. He was a solemn fellow, unlike the quick smiling Rufe of her car. “Do you by any chance know where Miss Shawn is?” she inquired.
He rose to answer her. “Both of the young ladies are in D, Mr. Augustin’s compartment. Mr. Cavanaugh and Mr. Pringle are also there.”
It was as if he knew the reason for her inquiry, knew as well that she must not seek Gratia in Augustin’s room. He couldn’t know but there was too much wisdom in his eyes.
She said, “Thanks. I won’t bother them now,” and she went back to Viv. He thought he received her report well; he didn’t know the way he tortured the magazine in his hands.
When he had gone, she picked up the magazine where he had flung it, tried to smooth the pages. Her hands began to shake, her whole body was shaking as if she had been taken by malaria. This wasn’t Viv. He wasn’t himself; he was ill. He needed her help and she ached to help him. But she didn’t dare, not unless he summoned her. She was only his secretary. But if she hadn’t known that Kitten would not see Viv without her, she would have gone to his car, taken up her watch beside the porter.
The endless afternoon, the weary scene pasted to her moving window, tightened her nerves. She tried to read but the print wandered from her eyes. She knew there was unpleasantness to be faced; she’d seen both Viv and Kitten in rage, separately and together. There was more than the unpleasant to face, there was the prevention of—She could not say the word. Not even to herself.
By five she was tight-lipped. She needed a drink to relax her; she was afraid to order. There wouldn’t be enough time. The train was stopping at another lost station, shrunken under hard spits of snow. This was La Junta, there was yet the endless flatness of Kansas to cross but it would be mercifully shrouded in night.
By five-thirty the window pane was pricked by lights in the dreary darkened world outside. And Kitten did not come. Fear swelled in her. She had closed her mind to the slyness Viv might use to escape her resistance. She knew him, why had she believed he meant her to be present? He’d managed to see Kitten alone once today; he’d manage it again if that were his will and his plan.
She waited until near six. Her room was dark, it must have been cold, her hands and feet were numb. Only then did she realize; she hadn’t delivered his message to Gratia. She had legitimate reason for returning to that car, for going to Augustin’s room, looking for Kitten as well as Gratia. She had legitimate reason to go to Viv. If only she weren’t too late. She caught up her purse and she ran, ran as if she raced with Death, and as if Death were the fleeter of foot.
—4—
One step took him into the corridor, the door clacked loudly after him. She was standing outside the door of drawing room A. She was alone. She didn’t look frightened now; she had the insolent air of a high-priced prostitute. In the strange light and shadow of the corridor, the black satin of her dress writhed about her flesh. The cabochon ruby was a bloody stone hung upon her breast. The sharp sound of the door he had slammed stayed her hand. Her head turned and her frown discovered him.
She said with annoyance, “What do you want?”
He was belligerent. “Where’s Mike?”
Behind her Cobbett sat on the small leather seat and ignored them. Cobbett was so entirely a fixture in the corridor that they could quarrel in his hearing without realizing he heard.
Her golden hair shimmered as she tossed her head. “I decided I’d see him alone.”
He’d overcome the moment of cowardice which had held him to his drink as she left the compartment. The moment when he’d told himself she would be safe without a nosy stranger interfering. He wouldn’t knuckle under to the cowardly way again. He said, “I’m going along.”
“I don’t want you.” There were rude amber flecks in her brown eyes. She didn’t want him because he reminded her of her fear. She’d tossed fear over her shoulder like a spill of salt and she didn’t want it shaken on her again.
He said, “I don’t care what you want. Spender sent for me and I’m on my way to see him. If you prefer to be private, get out of the way and I’ll go alone.”
He rattled his fist against the door as he spoke. She didn’t get out of the way, she turned her eyes round and full on him. But she’d veered again on the wind of her fear. She hadn’t the sureness her arrogance implied.
The door opened before she formed a new insult on her lips. It didn’t open wide. The man within wasn’t visible to Hank, Kitten filled the aperture. He heard the rich voice, “Hello, Kitten. I’ve been waiting for you.”
She stepped in, the door would have closed but Hank was too quick. He took her place in the opening and his eyes were level with the eyes of Vivien Spender.
The surprise in his was reflected in Spender’s. Spender didn’t understand what he was doing there. Hank didn’t understand why he had accepted her brand of murderer for Spender. This man was not a murderer. He was a good-humored man, a big man. Not alone physically, his reactions were keen. You could see the intelligence that was stored in his skull, one look in the man’s eyes gave the insight.
Hank hadn’t met the man on eye level in the diner last night, he’d barely glanced at him. Had he, he would have known that Kitten was embroidering a tale to fit some sly fancy of her own.
Hank said, “I’m Cavanaugh. You wanted to see me.”
Spender’s eyes cleared. His voice was hearty. “Yes, I did, Mr. Cavanaugh. I hardly expected Kitten to bring you along with her—”
Kitten interrupted viciously, “I didn’t bring him. He came.” She curved herself down on the couch, one silken leg drawn under her. “You get rid of him.”
Spender laughed in good humor. “Your bad manners are childish, Kitten. I’m delighted to have Mr. Cavanaugh. Come in and sit down.”
He was a perfect host, as perfect as if he were in his Beverly home, not on the Chief. He was freshly shaved, his dark suit was newly pressed. There was a tray on a stand, glasses, a cocktail shaker, a small bowl of cherries in maraschino.
“I was just about to have a drink,” he said. “You’ll join me?”
“Certainly.” Hank let himself down beside Kitten.
She was watching Spender. Her eyes were steady and smooth as polished stones.
“Kitten?” Spender took up the silver shaker, shook it.
For a breath her eyes held on the moving shaker. She said defiantly, “I’ll have one if you do.”
“I’ll have two,” Spender smiled. “This is a new recipe. Fortunately the steward in the club car had all the ingredients. Where’s Mike?”
Hank’s eyelids drooped. There was a change, an almost imperceptible change in Spender’s voice before he asked the question. But the man’s face was as open as before.
Kitten said, “I haven’t any idea. Give me a cigarette, Hank?”
The hands on the shaker pressed a little more tightly, that was all. The voice was calm. “We’ll have to wait for her before taking up our business. My secretary, Mr. Cavanaugh. Indispensable.” He was as equal with Hank as if Hank too were clean-shaven, fresh-groomed. As if Hank too were an important and expensive executive. “I scarcely dare mix a cocktail without her permission.”
He carried the glass to Kitten, dark, wine-colored liquid, a cherry supine in its somber depths: Kitten took it from him but didn’t lift it to her lips. The st
em wavered in her fingers. She wore the wrong lipstick, Hank hadn’t seen it before; her face was too white for that color of wet blood. He shoved his spine upright. He had seen something else without seeing; Spender had masked the cocktail tray as he poured.
Hank said, “If you don’t want it, give it to me.” He took the glass out of her fingers. They uncramped slowly, one by one as if they had been frozen. He held the cocktail steady a brief second, waiting for Spender to knock it from his hand. Spender didn’t stop filling the second glass. He handed it to Kitten.
Hank drank. If Spender were a murderer, too careful to give himself away even if a stranger must die, it didn’t matter much.
The cocktail tasted like a concoction, too much bitters, slightly medicinal. He finished the drink and he didn’t writhe in agony. Nothing wrong although what a man of the obvious good taste of Vivien Spender was doing messing up good liquor in this fashion, he didn’t understand.
Kitten watched him drink, then put her own glass to her lips. Viv Spender, his glass in hand, took his place by the window. He tasted, made a slight grimace. “Why I waste good liquor this way! I’m incurably curious about recipes.” He tasted again. He was urbane, pleasant. “I understand you’re just back from the Orient, Mr. Cavanaugh. No doubt you met some rare recipes there.”
Hank’s eyes blackened. “No doubt.” His words came from between his teeth. No doubt. Blood and filth and dead babies and two grains of rice. Hunger and grief and fear and two grains of rice. He didn’t hear Spender’s amiable recitation of what the man had found in the Orient before war. Rare recipes. He hadn’t rooted through garbage for two grains of rice. If Hank had heard he would have risen and destroyed Spender. But his eardrums were split with remembered sound, the sound of the agonized, waiting for death. He said thickly, “Give me another drink.”
“Certainly, Mr. Cavanaugh.” Viv Spender was too big for the smallness of a train room. He was across to Hank before he had finished speaking. He took the glass and refilled it at the table tray, returned it to Hank. “Kitten?”
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