Dread Journey

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  He wondered about Vivien Spender and those who were lighted by the sun of Spender. He saw the secretary enter the car, hurrying as if fear nipped her heels. He saw Cavanaugh as he wavered out of Spender’s room; scorn twisting his mouth. The crisscross of movement went on. Mike Dana came out shortly after Cavanaugh. She wasn’t hurrying now, she moved like a wooden figure; she too went to Augustin’s. In, out, in again. She returned to Vivien Spender. Cobbett saw her angular face, wooden as her body. He saw her hesitation at Spender’s door, the fear line of white framing her lipstick. And he added to Vivien Spender, a man who could engender evil and scorn and fear. It wasn’t good for a man to have too much.

  In and out. The old financier and his blue-white diamond wife on their way to the diner. But Kitten didn’t come out. James Cobbett was waiting for that, waiting to look on her again, to reassure himself of her humanness because he had no superstition for reassurance. No one went to her room; she remained closeted there alone.

  He was still waiting when the other girl appeared, Gratia Shawn. The tightness of his muscles relaxed. He’d been a fool to sit here brooding all afternoon. Because he didn’t feel quite himself, a cold coming on, a stomach upset. Because his lonesomeness for Mary and the children was never stronger than when he was nearing them.

  Gratia Shawn ended his doldrums. She was young; she was cleareyed, smiling, human. The long afternoon was over, had been over since La Junta. He should have realized before. It was night and the Chief was coming alive. Tomorrow was the reality of Chicago. Everything was all right now.

  And in the moment of realization came the denial. Gratia was halted, pushed aside by Cavanaugh. It was he who went to Kitten’s door, who entered her room. In Augustin’s doorway there was tableau, the girl and Augustin holding each other, behind them a triangle of Sidney Pringle’s curious brow.

  Cobbett didn’t know why alarm rang in his head. Only that he’d been feeling lowdown and that he’d been the last one to look on the face of Kitten. He was the one who knew it wasn’t her face but that of one possessed.

  He remained on the leather seat but he was tensed waiting. He saw Cavanaugh return to the others, his face masked, expressionless. Cobbett watched. He didn’t hear their words; they spoke quietly and they were at the opposite end of the corridor.

  He watched them move like puppets, impelled by a will stronger than theirs. Cavanaugh and Augustin. The girl, forbidden, following after a moment. Pringle creeping up behind her. The four were a motionless frieze at the doorway of drawing room B.

  James Cobbett didn’t want to see what they looked upon. It was not his will that he rose quietly from his place and moved forward. Not his curiosity nor his anxiety. He was responsible for this car and its tenants. Something was wrong.

  When he reached the group he didn’t have to speak. They parted, made a lane through which he could walk to the threshold. He followed the flickering horror of their eyes to the floor of the drawing room.

  A golden scarf flung there. The scarf of her hair. A pale mound crumpled in the darkness. One hand clenched.

  Alarm was husky in his throat. “Is she—”

  Cavanaugh spoke behind him. His voice grated flatly. “She’s dead.”

  James Cobbett heard the words and knew them to be truth. Kitten Agnew was dead. She was dead when she passed him in the corridor. Death was the evil which had possessed her.

  —2—

  Mike wanted to go. He wanted her to go. He didn’t know why he kept her there, upright in the chair, inhuman as a sawdust doll, making pretense of attention to the empty words he spoke. He didn’t know why he made an effort to entertain her, as if she were a chance acquaintance he wished to impress.

  He knew only that he couldn’t let her go like this, eaten with suspicion, without reason for suspicion. He deserved her trust; for years he’d had her absolute loyalty, he had no intention of accepting her repudiation now. She’d been all right after Cavanaugh left the room, after she’d made certain with her own mouth that Kitten’s drink was harmless. She’d believed that Kitten had gone to change her dress.

  He’d been clever, very clever. He’d poured the first drink for Kitten, a harmless if loathsome cocktail. She’d take a second; he knew that. He knew how to play on her, just how to put another drink in her hand.

  She thought she was being clever; Kitten was transparent as cheap silk. Bringing Cavanaugh instead of Mike. A stranger, someone not under the influence of Vivien Spender. Poor, stupid Kitten. Having no faint recognition of how Viv could twine about his finger any person he set out to capture. Cavanaugh was on Viv’s side almost at once. Idiot Kitten. As if a drunken newspaperman could hold out against a man of Spender’s civilized nuances.

  Cavanaugh took that first drink from her. Perhaps in her silly soul she’d had a premonition of danger. Viv prepared her second cocktail exactly as he’d planned her second. He’d rehearsed earlier, a careful rehearsal. He had no fear of being discovered now. He’d prepared for Mike; the most minute detail had been worked out to pass her scrutiny. He knew where to stand, where to place his hands, just when to empty the vial into the glass. It wasn’t discernible in the concoction. A cherry for a fillip.

  He watched her drink, watched with no emotion save appreciation of the interesting conversation he was developing for Cavanaugh’s pleasure. Not that he needed to converse. One cocktail added to what Cavanaugh had already taken this day took care of the man.

  He had planned the mishap. A cocktail upset on her dress and she’d go quickly to change. She’d be safe in her own room when the draught took effect. He knew just how long it would take, minimum and maximum. He’d learned that a long time ago. If by mischance any of her drinking companions went to her room, he’d think Kitten had, to be crude, passed out. There was little risk that any one of them would go to her. They’d been shut up all day in Les Augustin’s room; they’d all be in about the same shape as Cavanaugh.

  With the exception of Gratia. There was still the need to make certain of Gratia. When Mike admitted she hadn’t carried out his orders to Gratia, his mouth tightened. His angry, “I don’t care where she is, I want her now,” was careless. Mike was too keyed to suspicion. She went at once to fetch the girl but she was reluctant to go.

  He didn’t know what happened in that room; he knew only that Mike returned with fear again sucking her blood. She said, “It’s too late. Gratia has promised them.”

  He could have slashed her with blame but he held his tongue. He must not give way to anger again. If Gratia were remaining with Augustin and his friends, she wouldn’t be retiring early.

  He shrugged and asked playfully, “You won’t desert too, Mike? Or have you more important fish to fry?”

  She said, “I won’t desert you, Viv.” But she didn’t match his mood. There was a great sadness on her homely mouth. A sadness that was not relieved by the entertainment he furnished for that purpose. The knock at the door was welcome relief. She shouldn’t have been frightened by it; he wasn’t. She shouldn’t have moved board-stiff to answer.

  She opened the door a handsbreadth. He waited calmly. He heard her say, “One moment.” She closed the door before she turned to him. Behind the slant green glasses the emptiness of her eyes was shocking. She said, “It’s Hank Cavanaugh. He wants to see you.”

  He breathed satisfaction. “Good. I knew he’d come around.” His smile was sure. “A contract with Vivien Spender isn’t something to refuse.”

  Into her empty eyes came the oil of pity.

  He broke off. “What does he want?”

  “He wants to see you.” Her gesture was limp as chiffon. “Out there.”

  Something had gone wrong. Someone had stumbled across Kitten. Too soon. Too wisely.

  He put a little laugh into his words. “I wonder what he wants that’s so private.” He stood up, his shoulders square, and crossed to the door; opened it smiling. When he saw Cavanaugh’s face, he knew he was right.

  Cavanaugh said, “I want to show you somet
hing.”

  He never felt more sure of himself than at that moment. Just the correct tilt to the eyebrows, the slight puzzlement to the lips. He didn’t need words; pantomime was more expressive. He followed Cavanaugh.

  They were waiting outside Kitten’s door, the chance companions of her last journey. The brittle sophisticate, Les Augustin. The resentful failure, Sidney Pringle. The beautiful innocent, Gratia Shawn. All of them reduced by death to the common denominator of fear.

  He went past them silently, following Cavanaugh to the doorsill. Only then did the swift horror come to his face. He cried, “Kitten.” He snapped on the lights. “She’s sick. Hurry. Get a doctor.”

  The cue was picked up with a startling suddenness. “I’ve sent for a doctor.” It almost spoiled his performance. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder. It was James Cobbett who had spoken. He’d taken his place with the others. Mike too, her eyes a smudge of horror. They were all watching him with awful silence.

  He stepped into the room at once, bent over her. “Someone help me.” He picked her up; she was a slight burden as he lifted her to the couch, laid her there. “Look in the medicine cabinet. She’s sick. Do something!”

  They had closed him in. The doorway was a montage of their silent faces. Hank Cavanaugh’s lips snarled softly, mockingly, “She isn’t sick. She’s dead.”

  Viv looked at all of them, one by one, as if the words had been incomprehensible. He turned away and looked down at what lay on the couch, what once had been Kitten Agnew. Slowly he lifted her wrist, felt for the pulse. His thumb pressed where there should be the life beat but where there was none. He dropped the slight wrist. “She’s dead.”

  His mouth moved silently, his eyes stung. He tried to say something, words would not come. He dropped on his knees beside the couch and began to weep. It had been a fine performance. He buried his wet face on Kitten’s satin breast. Above him he heard the thin wail that broke from Mike’s throat.

  —3—

  Mike stood outside the door. Her face felt swollen as if she’d been weeping. She hadn’t wept; she didn’t know why she should want to weep for Kitten, why dry-eyed she should ache for tears.

  She didn’t know how she could face them. He should have come himself. He could have told them and made them believe. He was calm again, after those first moments of frenzied grief when she’d led him back to his room. Scant moments. She hadn’t offered her breast as a wailing wall this time. But she’d remained with him, alone with him, alone with a murderer. She could have prevented him being a murderer. If she’d had the courage to tell him what she knew before the fact. Her silence had murdered Kitten. She sat there woodenly until his grief was spent.

  By the time the officials came he’d assumed the proper proportions of regret and bewilderment, a touch of horror, a soupçon of grief. Untouched by his act, conscienceless, directing the scene. The doctor was a well known Los Angeles physician on his way to Chicago. Viv had had his way with him, with the conductors, with James Cobbett, Pullman attendant. There was no suspicion in any of them. They accepted him with readiness flavored with hidden awe, well hidden the awe. This was democracy, the great Spender asking a logical favor of railroad employees. He’d carried it off with his usual flair. Kitten would continue the journey as far as Chicago there in her drawing room. No one would know; the door locked. Everything was simple, everything efficient. If there were unplumbed depths in the dark eyes of James Cobbett, no one cared.

  After they left, Viv sent her to Augustin’s compartment. She knew she could not face them, she knew he was the one who should go. She could not refuse; habit was too strong.

  The four faces that lifted to her entrance were four masks. Not even the eyes moved.

  She said, “It was her heart.”

  Hostility fixed her against the door. Hostility from all. From Gratia huddled in a window corner; from Les Augustin, a coiled adder, beside her. From the poor misfit Kitten had lunched with, Sidney Pringle. From Hank Cavanaugh, tall, vengeful.

  She forced herself to go on with the report. “The doctor said—”

  Hank Cavanaugh’s cruel mouth interrupted. “Viv Spender killed her.”

  The cry didn’t come from her; it came from Gratia. Horror distended the girl’s eyes. Sidney Pringle looked at Cavanaugh with beady curiosity.

  Hank said loud, “She knew Viv Spender was going to kill her.”

  Gratia whispered, “I don’t believe it. It isn’t true.” Agony twisted her face.

  Mike cried, “He didn’t. He couldn’t have done it.” She went over it carefully, so carefully again. Oh God, again. “You were there with her. There was nothing wrong with the cocktails. You drank them. He did. I did.” Why didn’t he help her, not stand there with that terrible smile? Didn’t he know she was half crazy knowing it had happened, yet knowing it couldn’t have happened? He was present. He wouldn’t let it happen.

  He said, “I don’t know how it was accomplished. Only that it was.”

  “It was her heart.” She was forced to defend Viv. Knowing it was murder but that he couldn’t have murdered. “Go ask the doctor. It was her heart.”

  Hank said, “It stopped beating.”

  In the silence, no one breathed. The silence was too terrible even for them to endure. Les murmured, “I wonder if she’d taken an overdose of sleeping tablets. That stops a heart from beating.”

  She couldn’t look at him. She’d given him the weapon herself, the knowledge of the pattern. It hadn’t been repeated! Les couldn’t use the knowledge.

  Some strength seeped into her veins. She could complete her errand. “Viv wants you, Gratia.”

  Les’s laughter was shocking. “Let him come here.”

  Hank echoed, “Let him come here.”

  It was a dare, let him come if he dare, come before this jury to be judged. He should have come in the first place. Only he could answer them. If he dared.

  She said, “I’ll tell him.”

  He’d done this to be safe. He wasn’t safe.

  —4—

  She went back to him. He didn’t, know the sickness that possessed her. He looked up from his memoranda, Jovian peace on his broad brow, his eyes unblemished by thought or deed. When he saw she was alone a shadow, the faintest shadow crossed his face.

  “Gratia?”

  She wet her lips. “They want you to come there.”

  Anger flooded him. His control was on the surface, beneath it were the hairtrigger nerves. “They?”

  She nodded. Words came hard. She named them. “Les Augustin. Hank Cavanaugh. Sidney Pringle.”

  “Who is Pringle?”

  “He’s a writer. I remembered the name this afternoon. We didn’t pick up his option.” She watched his mind. He wasn’t worried about Pringle or the failure to take up an option. He could manage Pringle. Another option. He wasn’t worried about Hank Cavanaugh. He’d already made advances there. He’d sign up those two. Les Augustin had been a wasp too long. He hated Augustin, and he knew he couldn’t buy Augustin. Only for a million dollars. He might have to spend the million.

  She wanted desperately to warn him, watching the cool calculation. He must not be crass before them, not at this time. He didn’t know they were waiting for him with cold eyes, with open swords. He must realize when he saw them; he would play it right. He was never wrong.

  He demanded, “What do they want?”

  She said heavily, “I think you’d better go see them.” He looked long at her. He wouldn’t believe they knew the truth of him, not until he smelled their hostility. He must face it himself.

  He said, as if humoring her whim, “Very well.” He pushed aside his notes and slid out from the confining table. She was afraid to look at him when he stopped in front of her. He said, “You’re right, Mike. I should talk to them.” He put his hand on her shoulder. She held herself rigid, not daring to shrink from him. “You’re so tired.” His voice was kind; she alone knew that the kindness was only an empty cadence. “Why don’t you go
rest for a while?”

  She lifted her eyes to his face. He wasn’t trying to read her; he didn’t know yet the prescription bottle that weighted her mind. She said, “I’ll wait here for you.”

  —5—

  Les Augustin, orchestra leader. Hank Cavanaugh, exile newspaperman. Sidney Pringle, writer. And Gratia, whose beauty caught your heart, even in this poignant withdrawal. How absurd to have been apprehensive of this meeting. Simply because Mike was so shattered by the past few hours that she hadn’t the courage to face anyone, not even him.

  It would be child’s play to answer their questions. They weren’t lying in wait for him. Their antagonism was open. It was only natural, after all, that they would be suspicious when Kitten was drinking with them one moment and was dead the next. It wasn’t suspicion of him but of sudden events. If they got ugly, he’d fling a few suspicions himself. Her lunch with Pringle, her afternoon in this room. He too could wonder what had happened to Kitten.

  He stood there at the doorway after he entered, tall, grave, in command of the situation. No one asked him to be seated; he would refuse if asked. He preferred to be the tower above them. He said, “Mike says you wanted to see me.”

  They said nothing. Their eyes were motionless on him.

  He let his voice break a little. “Kitten is dead. Nothing I can do, nothing you can do, can bring her back to us.” He paused for a reverent hush.

  “The conductor has been kind enough to allow us to continue through to Chicago. I asked that boon. I didn’t want her to be taken off at some lonely way station.” He was doing well, a catch of breath now. “She wouldn’t have liked that, being left alone in the dark, in a strange place.”

  Les’s eyes were like a cat’s. He murmured, “Give her strewings…”