Hank groaned, “Oh God.”
“What’s the matter now?” Les asked.
“We’re still shy a glass.” Hank held out the red tumbler.
Gratia sat down on the couch. “I don’t care about drinking. You take it.”
“You mean you don’t drink?” Kitten’s small laugh clawed. Gratia might have been relic of an old attic.
Gratia didn’t want any trouble with Kitten. She didn’t offer any resentment. She answered peaceably. “I just don’t care about it.”
Hank sprawled down beside Gratia. “We’re sharing. I drink half.” He drank half. He put the tumbler in her hand. “When you drink your half, we’ll have another. Not until.”
Les Augustin grimaced. “If you can hold Hank to that, you’ll have to give up your screen career, Gratia. You’ll have your future cut out as his guardian angel.”
Kitten didn’t like that either. She didn’t like Hank sitting beside Gratia. She wasn’t getting the attention and she demanded it. Gratia turned it quickly back to her. “Mike Dana came in to see you.”
Kitten was suddenly naked. Hank looked quickly, angrily at Gratia. Her face quieted the anger. She hadn’t said this with purpose to frighten Kitten. Her own eyes were wide and puzzled.
“Who’s Mike Dana?” Hank demanded. But his voice was quiet.
“Mike Dana,” Les smiled slantly, “is the very private secretary of our friend, Vivien Spender.”
“What did she want?” Kitten might not have heard their interlude. Her eyes were great and shadowed. On Gratia.
Gratia tried to speak as if she hadn’t noticed. “She wanted to see you. Something about the publicity department.”
“The publicity department.” Assurance was returning to Kitten. She was forcing its return. She moved her head in irritation. “Always the publicity department.” She tilted her drink. “They can jolly well wait.”
“That’s the spirit,” Les murmured. He returned his narrow eyes to Gratia. “I’ve never seen you before,” he stated. “I’d remember you if I had. You have a face to remember.”
“She’s beautiful,” Hank told him.
Gratia was uneasy, glancing under her eyes at Kitten. This time Kitten didn’t seem to notice. She was looking out the window, looking into space because there was nothing but scrub and space outside.
“What pictures have I missed?”
Les was speaking directly to Gratia, but she didn’t understand.
“In what pictures have you appeared?”
“Oh, I haven’t been in any pictures,” she said quickly.
“She’s an unknown,” Kitten said. There was meaning behind the words but Gratia couldn’t read it. She didn’t know enough. Kitten drained her glass. “Maybe I’d better go see Mike.”
“Now?” Les protested.
“It might be important.” She didn’t want to go. She sat there, reluctance on her shoulders.
Hank said, “You’re too slow.” He took the tumbler from Gratia’s fingers, drained it. “I’ll go with you,” he told Kitten. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to pity her, to be forced to protect her. But he was powerless. She wasn’t an expensive blonde tramp; she was all the helpless, terrified women he’d been unable to protect; her eyes were their agonized pleading eyes.
Color came again into her face as he spoke. “You will?” She rose then. “Move your long legs, Les.”
“You’re so energetic,” Les protested. He swung them aside for her to pass. “Don’t be long, pet. We’ll wait dinner.”
“It won’t take me five minutes to tell Mike what I think of the publicity department.”
“And five minutes more for me to tell Mike what I think of all publicity departments,” Hank grimaced. He touched Gratia’s hand. She wouldn’t understand what he was trying to tell her, that he didn’t want to leave her and do battle; he wanted only her quiet peace. She didn’t understand. She was watching Kitten. His eyes too, turned to Kitten.
At some point crossing that small room, she had changed again. He knew undeniably then that he had sensed truth; Kitten was afraid. It was fear that had stripped her of her poise at mention of Mike Dana’s visit. It was fear that made her move more slowly now. He rose up from the couch to meet her. She was trying to make her smile natural when she lifted it to Hank. But her speech was nervous. “You’d better not come along after all.” She curved about his arm her small hand with the long scarlet almond nails. “It’s strictly business. I can finish it quicker alone.” Her smile became provocation. “Be sure to wait dinner.”
“You’re certain you want to go alone?”
“Absolutely certain,” she smiled.
He opened the door for her, watched her out of sight. When he closed the door, he questioned Les Augustin. “What’s Mike Dana got on her? Why is she afraid of Mike Dana?”
Les’s smile was patronizing. “She’s not afraid of Mike Dana.” He added fondly, “Stupid.”
—5—
He had it planned. Now that it was consummated in his mind, it seemed as if he’d been planning it for a long time. As if knowledge had been there from the source that the beginning could only lead to this ultimate end. That he had known in first meeting with Kitten that she must be destroyed.
She hadn’t been like any of the others. He didn’t know now what it was of her that had caught his attention. There must have been something; he didn’t choose without a reason. The reason was gone, lost in the penance of years in which he’d been forced to wear Kitten, a haircloth beneath his position and his pride.
He should have realized before how simple it would be to rid himself of her. He needn’t have endured the nettle of her this long if he’d faced the problem before. It had taken her final blatant insult to make him face it. He was a busy man, that was the trouble; he hadn’t had the time for clear thought. Not until she flung her insolent demand and he was momentarily dropped like a stone into a void of blackness. He had pushed up to the surface with the knowledge of what must be. The million-dollar gesture was only that; he knew Kitten would not settle for less than the role of Clavdia—or of Mrs. Vivien Spender. She would get neither. Kitten must die.
With the decision had come a calm he hadn’t known in years, in the years of Kitten. A calm that came with lightness. It had been simple to chart the plans. It would be as simple to effect them. The only difficulty was to make certain that Gratia Shawn was out of the way. He must invent some business for Mike to take up with her during the hour.
It wouldn’t hurt to have Gratia present as a witness. In case there was questioning afterwards, her innocence would favor him. But Gratia mustn’t be touched even faintly with anything sordid. Better to have no witness to the deed. Not even one to testify to his honor.
It would have been wiser not to have included Gratia on the journey. He had known that when he planned it. Yet he did not regret overriding his sober judgment. It had been long since his pulses quickened, since warmth crept through his veins at mere mention of a name, the name. He couldn’t resist the irresistible; he did not want to leave her behind nor did he leave her behind. She was here with him. Separated only by a few doors, and by Kitten.
He regretted now the impulse which had prompted him to have her travel with Kitten. There was ironic juxtaposition to it, yes, just as he had conceived of it. It had infuriated Kitten just as he had hoped. He smiled remembering his publicity boys’ report of Kitten receiving the news. The boys in Publicity were clever; better give them a raise. Before some other studio found out how clever they were and tried to snatch them. That was the trouble with other studios. No moral sense, no respect for property. Not enough talent to make their own finds; scavenging off their betters.
His mouth tightened happily. Wait until the other studios saw what he did with Gratia Shawn. They’d all be blubbering into their Scotch. They’d all be crying anew about the genius of Viv Spender, cursing his ability to discover the rare and the exquisite. He’d sit back and smile at them; smile with pity. He’d let t
hem knew they too could have had Gratia Shawn. She was under their eyes all the time. To be sure they might not use the great library as often as he, but that was their prerogative. If they preferred Hollypark or Ciro’s to Knowledge, who was he to suggest they change their spots? The library was there with its priceless treasures. One of which was Gratia Shawn.
It was entirely possible that they might have seen in Gratia Shawn only a colorless, soft-spoken librarian. Remembering the beauty of her face, he knew this was untrue. They, any of them, would have recognized beauty. They dealt in beauty. It was likewise true that, recognizing beauty, they would not always take a chance on unknown beauty. If they had noticed Gratia Shawn, it was entirely possible they might have passed her by. Because among all of them there wasn’t another Viv Spender.
Now that he had found Gratia Shawn, he would watch the lesser producers writhe. She would be his greatest star. His other discoveries, each one, had in time been proved with blemish. He had tried to make goddesses of them but they refused to give up their clumsy clay feet. He wouldn’t let it happen to Gratia. He would create her as an artist created his masterpiece; he would treasure her as a precious gem. She was the perfect medium, the blank page. She had not been infected by the colony; she was without desire, without ambition. Beautiful, gentle, serious.
She had photographed breath-takingly. She didn’t know; he’d withheld the tests from her. She couldn’t act but he’d teach her that. Her voice was exquisite. He was a great teacher, the greatest teacher in the colony. Look what he’d done for Kitten.
The scowl ravaged his face again. Kitten. He’d made mistakes but never one of the magnitude of Kitten. His hands twitched to throttle her with his bare hands; his foot knotted to step on her as on a beetle. If civilization were more decently primitive, he could end Kitten as she should be ended. He had created her; she was bad; he should be permitted to destroy her. With violence not trickery. What had she been? A cheap little tramp dancing in a third-rate bar, singing through her nose. He’d made her more than a great star, he’d made her the pattern of a lovely woman and a fine actress. He hadn’t known that the cheapness had poisoned her veins, that she’d never drain it off.
She’d had her chance. She didn’t deserve another but he’d give it to her. Because he was civilized. Because he was fair. A million dollars in exchange for those papers her shyster was holding, and her signature that she wouldn’t work for another studio for five years. The latter stipulation was business. He was a business man. You didn’t perfect something and give it away to your competitors. He smiled coldly. In five years she would be forgotten. Those whose career depended on being before the public couldn’t exist after a five-year oblivion.
If she refused his terms…His eyes met the eyes of the man in the mirror. She would refuse, and his plans were made. He had even prepared his speech for the reporters. “The show must go on. It is the way Kitten would have wanted it. The premiere will proceed as planned, a tribute to her courage and her art.”
The man in the mirror was tall and well built. His head was leonine, his face strong and intelligent. He smiled, his smile was honest. He didn’t appear to be nearing fifty. There was no touch of gray in his hair, no pouches under his clear gray eyes. He was a man who could make decisions and carry them through to firm success. He was a man who commanded the attention of men and women. A man who could make of Gratia Shawn the most glorious creature who had yet appeared on the screen. He could now produce his book; he had found Clavdia Chauchat. First she must learn of course, but it would not take her long.
He had not intended seeing Gratia while on board the Chief. He had been carefully secret of her thus far. He intended to take no chances where she was concerned. Time enough to learn her in the great crowded anonymity of New York. But the urge to look upon her face was strong. To hear her voice, to watch her move. There was no reason why he shouldn’t see her; he intended to announce his find as soon as he reached New York. She couldn’t be stolen now; she had signed his contract. He rang for the porter, as he rang recalling the name he’d noted when entering the car. Cobbett.
He sat there, his hands quiet, watching the handsome man in the mirror. When the knock came at the door he raised his voice correctly and watched the door open. He liked Cobbett; the man wasn’t obsequious as were most attendants to the great Spender; he had dignity. Cobbett was decently interested but no more than that. The porter liked him. That was not unusual; where Viv gave liking, it was seldom not returned.
He said, “Cobbett, would you mind asking Miss Shawn, drawing room B, if she’d step in to see me?”
“Yes, sir.”
The door closed. He’d like a man such as Cobbett for his secretary. Mike had always been too personal, recently she’d intensified it. True, she’d warned him of Kitten’s changeless nature. But she ought not to refer to it now. It wasn’t her place to remind the boss of his mistakes.
Why had he kept Mike so many years? Laziness, he told himself sharply. No other reason. To avoid breaking in someone new. If he had someone like Cobbett he’d have the perfect secretary. Cobbett would never interfere; he would retain his aloofness. Vivien Spender amused himself with the idea while he was waiting. Cobbett was probably a college graduate; ridiculous that he should be forced to earn his living as a porter. Obviously he was qualified for a more intellectual position. If he took Cobbett for secretary, that would give the colony something to buzz about.
He couldn’t kick Mike out, not after twenty-odd years. He could pension her but she wouldn’t gracefully be turned out to graze. He could elevate her; everyone wanted to get into production. His hands moved slightly. There were so many fascinating things he could do. Once he was rid of Kitten.
He turned on his smile quickly at the knock on the door. “Come in.” His voice was warm; perhaps a shade too loud. His veins ran warm. But it was Cobbett who again stood there.
“She isn’t in her room, Mr. Spender.”
“Where is she?” His frown was slight and he erased it at once. Although he had a right to annoyance. She should have been there. Gratia Shawn knew no one on the Chief.
“I don’t know, Mr. Spender. There was no one there.”
He smiled mechanically. “Thank you, Cobbett.”
Kitten had taken Gratia on her club car maraudings. He couldn’t send for Gratia now, advertise his interest to the Chief gossips. He was not a man to be thwarted. He intended to see Gratia. He would go along to the club car, join the girls casually. Invite them to dine with him. It was a good move after all; everything friendly on the surface. The great man taking Kitten and her protégée to dinner.
The train was slowing. He looked out into the twilight, then glanced down at his watch. Needles already, six forty-five. He widened his smile. This was better. He’d get off and walk, board the train again at the club car. The meeting would be accidental, no seeking out. Fate, as was her custom, played his hand.
Even Fate would not thwart Vivien Spender.
—6—
Kitten said, “What does the publicity department want now that I should do? Ride in the baggage section?”
The train was stopping at Needles. The Chief was hermetically sealed in its own air-conditioned void. No desert heat could penetrate. The sluggish men and women on the station platform stood in the heavy, unmoving air outside and gazed curiously in at the sterile faces behind the train windows.
Mike said, “Not yet.” She laughed after she said it, but the laugh was too sharp; it was almost a cry. “You’re a riot, Kitten. No, it’s just some releases for New York I wanted you to okay.”
Kitten took the typewritten pages disinterestedly. “That’s the trouble with these cross-countries. No agent to do the dirty work.” She looked at papers with disdain. “Do I have to read all this stuff?”
“I’ve read it; you don’t have to,” Mike said. “Just pencil on your initials.”
Kitten took the pencil Mike offered. “Viv and his bureaucracy. The other studios don’t go in for
this red tape.”
“It’s for your own protection,” Mike said mechanically.
She had to bring up the subject of the wife. She had to delay long enough to get Mike to talk about it. She nibbled the pencil and looked over the first page. “Maybe I’d better read them,” she said. “Maybe he is trying to slip a fast one over me. Like putting that girl in my drawing room.”
“How are you getting along with her?” Mike spoke absently, without interest. She was gazing out the window.
Kitten followed her gaze. She drew back. He was striding down the platform. Viv Spender, the king. She didn’t want him to see her. She didn’t want a scene with him now. She wanted to get back to Hank; it wasn’t safe leaving a man with Gratia Shawn.
Mike, too, had drawn back as Viv passed. Kitten’s eyes were shrewd. “He’s trying to put something over. What is it?”
Mike eyed her for a long moment out of her green-rimmed glasses. Her hand moved to a typewritten sheet on another sheaf of papers. She held it put silently.
Kitten took the sheet but she didn’t look at it. She looked at Mike. Mike’s eyes were as expressionless as the glass panes covering them. The paper was undated. Kitten read: Vivien Spender (his name must be first always) announced today that Gratia Shawn…Kitten crumpled the paper from her. It fell to the carpet, lay there, a white blotch.
“He isn’t putting anything over on you. He told you.”
Kitten asked, “When is he releasing that?” Her throat was dusty.
“When we get to New York.”
“He’s already signed her?”
“He says so. I haven’t seen the contract.”
Kitten said harshly, “He can’t do it.”
“I wouldn’t try to stop him.” Behind the slant green glasses Mike’s eyes appealed to her. “He’s in an ugly mood.”
“So am I.”
Mike cried out now, “Why not settle your contract, Kitten?” It wasn’t like Mike, the unemotional, to be emotional.
It brought the fear again to Kitten’s spine but she arched her anger against it. “He can’t do it to me. I’ve got him where I want him.”
Dread Journey Page 5
