Dread Journey

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  With even steps, Mike walked out of the narrow room. It took all of her strength to open the vestibule door. The biting cold air scratched her lungs. There was no indecision as she pushed into the dim corridor of the death car. She felt her way past the door of Kitten’s room, loath to continue forward but impelled. Past doors of honest people, to Les Augustin’s door.

  Why couldn’t Les have been the one who killed Kitten? Les who had come to her last night, prying out the story of the first Mrs. Spender’s death. It could have been Les. Or Hank Cavanaugh or Sidney Pringle. Even Gratia Shawn. All had opportunity. It had been Viv Spender’s hand. The others hadn’t ordered a sleeping draught in Kitten’s name.

  She didn’t stop at Les’s door. She slowed but her steps moved on. She stopped at Viv’s room because that was the end of the corridor. She couldn’t enter. No place to go now but back to the cell, to sit alone with the nightmare. She realized suddenly that she was not alone. James Cobbett had come around the corner, from the linen closet. He was standing there looking down at her.

  He looked at her with the objectivity of a judge on the bench. He was like Viv Spender in a strange way, a handsome figure of a man, tall, commanding. The likeness was surface. This man was honest, it was his solid core. And he was kind, despite the cruelty he must have known, he was not embittered. He suffered with the suffering, he suffered with her now although he could not know the reason for her anguish. He was the man Viv Spender should have been, if Viv had not become warped by his power.

  Her knees buckled and she laid her hand against the cold metal wall for support. He said, “Can I help you, Ma’m?”

  He could help her. He could tell her what to do. She shook her head. “No.” She turned and started slowly to retrace her path back to herself.

  She was halted by the opening of a door. A big waiter was backing out, balancing a loaded tray. She hadn’t noticed the door; she didn’t know she was visible until she heard the voice, the rapier voice pricking her name.

  “Mike. Come in. We’ve been waiting for you to come.”

  Without volition yet almost with relief she walked inside.

  The four of them looked steadily at her as they had done earlier. She met Les’s eyes. And she saw that now they were not hostile, they were merciless. The sigh curled from her mouth.

  “What are you going to do?”

  She asked, “What are you going to do?” but she knew without asking. There had been no softening in any of them during the period when she had sat alone in her emptiness. They did not answer her question. They looked at her; they watched her falter into the chair, not because she wanted to remain with them, because her legs would no longer support the weight she carried.

  It was Les who answered her. Gentle as a sigh. “We’re going to hang Vivien Spender.”

  He need not have answered; she knew before he spoke. She said, “You can’t do that.”

  They didn’t understand, they scorned her doubt.

  He said, “We believe that we can.” He rested his fair head against his clasped hands. “We must think of Hank’s career. He’s been away a long time, he needs some stories. There’s a good one I heard about Vivien Spender a long time ago. When there was a Mrs. Spender. I have friends who must remember Mrs. Spender. I think they will remember quite a bit about her.”

  “It’ll make a good Sunday feature.” Hank Cavanaugh’s mouth was brutal. “The tragic deaths of the two women loved by Viv Spender. ‘For each man kills the thing he loves—’”

  “Not a bald statement Hank,” Les purred. “Let’s not be crude. The merest suggestion will start speculation.”

  “We’ll do a little speculating to the Chicago police tomorrow. There’s a guy I used to know—he ought to be a captain or something by now. Homicide. A big case could make his name. A smart guy. Bulldog, we used to call him. Liked to get his teeth into a case—”

  She said again, “You can’t do it,” and again they misunderstood.

  Les said, “There’s another story in the tragedy that has dogged the footsteps of those nominated to play Clavdia Chauchat. Sob stuff. A touch of the mysterious. Will Clavdia Chauchat ever be seen on the screen?” He shook his head in mock regret. “Not under Viv Spender’s direction.”

  Hank said, “Then there’s the story of Kitten Agnew. That’s a feature all to itself. It’s surefire. Maybe it’ll be dynamite. If her lawyer wants to talk.” Les smiled. “I think he’ll talk. I think he’ll give an interview that will be front-page material. Then Pringle here—”

  Pringle said, “I don’t know anything. I can’t help you.”

  Les’s smile sharpened. “Pringle heard so many rumors on the lot. He had no friends there; no one to talk with so he listened. He heard plenty of Spender’s plans—”

  It hadn’t been that way when New Essany was new. There’d been a personal loyalty then to the Boss. Spender wasn’t so far away then; he was one among his workers he was one of them. He’d become too big.

  “And that brings us to Gratia Shawn.” Les’s lips were a scimitar. “The new Clavdia Chauchat.”

  The girl was colorless. “I didn’t know. I didn’t want to take her place. I wouldn’t try to take anyone’s place.”

  Hank said, “We have Gratia’s contract. He never intended to let Kitten’s case come into court. He couldn’t win it. You won’t deny that. He couldn’t make Gratia a star when he was in prison. He had to get rid of Kitten.”

  “You have no proof,” Mike told him.

  “That’s proof enough. Put it all together, it’s proof enough.”

  She shook her head. This time she said it right. “You can’t do it to him. He’s not like other men.”

  Pringle’s round little mouth quivered. “He’s no better than we are. Money doesn’t make a man better.”

  “I didn’t say he was better,” she said quietly. “I said he wasn’t like other men. He isn’t.”

  Gratia’s hands were a white stain on the black stuff of her dress. “He isn’t sane. He can’t have been sane.”

  Les said, “He’s as sane as you or I.” He took a small breath. “With one small exception. He thinks he’s Almighty God.”

  Four of them. Four strangers. They would avenge Kitten. She had meant little to them living; she meant little more dead. It was not Kitten, it was murder they would avenge.

  It was Cavanaugh who held them together. Because he was a crusader. Because his craw was overfed with death.

  Without him, the others would be without strength. Gratia was too muted with horror to act. Sidney Pringle was afraid to take sides; his slack jowls wobbled as he balanced on the fence. He hated the great man but he feared to speak. Les Augustin played the wasp but he hadn’t the energy for active hate. He would demolish only if it could be accomplished without soiling his nails.

  Yet in Cavanaugh’s strength the four were as one, determined to destroy Viv Spender. They faced her with their unmoving, unflickering eyes. They did not know that she had come because she too knew he must be destroyed. What little remained of him not already destroyed by pride and self-will. She had not been sure of it herself until now. She differed from these four in one respect alone; she would be merciful. She had said the truth; he was not as other men. In his mind he believed his act was right. He had rid himself of a disease that threatened his existence.

  Because he was valuable, he must protect himself. There was no wrong in self-protection. He was as sane as any other man, save for one thing.

  Strength was returning to her. She must have strength for what she was to do. Not because she condoned. Because despite the sins, and his were heavy, love was changeless. It was hers to do, not these strangers with their varying motives. Because she had been weak before, and by her weakness had allowed his guilt to mount, she must be strong now.

  They waited for her to speak. They must believe she stood by him. They must not know she meant to cheat them of their triumph. She said, “You have no proof.”

  Hank answered her. “We
will have after the autopsy.”

  “What if you do find poison?” she demanded. “You can’t prove he gave it to her.”

  Hank smiled. “We have the glass she drank from.”

  “It was broken,” she said quickly.

  “Even broken glass can be tested.”

  She could tell them about the bottle she’d come on in Viv’s desk. A small bottle. Prescribed for in Kitten’s name. She could tell her horror and her sickness as she closed it away in the drawer. Because she knew Kitten had not ordered it. For months he had refused to see Kitten. Because she had seen a similar bottle once before, on the bed table of a young woman who died too soon.

  She said nothing. They would not need the information. She would not betray him to these who hated him. She would go to him now. If they would let her go. As she rose their eyes rustled suspicion.

  It was Les who quelled them. “It doesn’t matter if he knows. There’s nothing he can do now.”

  She said, “He wouldn’t believe me if I told him.”

  Les smiled, “If he asks why, tell him we’re afraid murder might become a habit with him. He mustn’t be allowed to do it again.”

  They didn’t stop her as she left the room. They believed there was nothing he could do now.

  —3—

  Sidney Pringle began to shake as with a chill. His words stammered. “I’m not a drinking man. Could I have a little drink now? I’m cold, so cold.”

  “You’re afraid,” Leslie Augustin said. He didn’t open his eyes to speak. His head was against the back of the seat. The life was drained out of him, under his tan you could see the pallor. His tongue scorned softly, “You’re afraid.”

  Pringle took the glass that Cavanaugh, wordless, held out. He drank one inch of the whiskey, finished the second inch but it didn’t help. He said, “Yes, I’m afraid. Aren’t the rest of you afraid?”

  There wasn’t an answer. Cavanaugh poured himself a drink and drank it. Les Augustin was stretched motionless across the seat. Gratia sat in blurred silence by the window.

  He tried to tell them. “You don’t know what he is. We can’t do anything to him. He’s too powerful. He’ll get out of it. We won’t be safe ever again.” They didn’t hear him. “You don’t know what he can do to us.”

  Augustin said, “I know.” He opened his tired eyes and there were pinpoints of excitement stabbing the pupils. “I know. I’ve fought him for a long time. Now I want to end it.”

  Cavanaugh put down his glass. He was curious. “Why have you fought him, Les? What did he ever do to you?”

  “I don’t know.” Distaste sloped his shoulders. “I never liked him.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “I think it is. Something tells you not to like certain persons. Not why. Sometimes you learn why later. Sometimes you don’t.”

  Cavanaugh hung his legs over the arm of the chair. “You learned why this time.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes. Gratia.”

  She hadn’t spoken for a long time. She’d said now, “You didn’t see me until yesterday. You didn’t know I existed.”

  Augustin went on in that fine, silken-thread voice. “Something inside of me knew there’d be a Gratia someday and knew what he’d do to her. I’ve been trying to stop him all these years.” He moved his slender eyes to Pringle’s face. “Yes, I’m afraid. I’ve always been afraid of him. Afraid I couldn’t stop him in time. I’m not afraid any more. Not of him.”

  Gratia said again, “You didn’t know me. I couldn’t have anything to do with you and Viv Spender.”

  “You did.” Augustin’s fingers threaded together.

  Cavanaugh shook his head, “I don’t know. I don’t know you, Les. I’ve never known you.”

  “No one has ever known me,” Augustin said pleasantly. “I’ve never let anyone know me. Because I was afraid.” He turned to Pringle and he shuddered delicately. “He says he’s afraid. The rest of us wouldn’t say so. We’re too civilized. But we’re afraid all the time.”

  Pringle said, “You’re making fun of me. Because I’m afraid of what you’re planning to do tomorrow.”

  Augustin looked at Cavanaugh. “I’ve been afraid of being hurt. All my life. Everything I’ve done has been to keep myself from being hurt. What I am is out of fear.” He mused. “If it weren’t for being afraid, I’d be a concert violinist. Starving for the purity of my art.” He juggled the idea. “One of the fiddle section of the Philharmonic. On the side giving lessons to little boys, nasty little boys whose mothers dream for them to be in the fiddle section someday. And give lessons to—”

  Hank Cavanaugh had been thinking of fear today, but he hadn’t been thinking deep enough. Now it was said. “Maybe it’s fear that makes all of us tick. Maybe you’re right.” He worried his forehead. “Kitten was afraid to die. I’m not afraid of that. I wonder if Viv Spender is afraid of that.” He denied it. “No, he’s not afraid of anything. That’s why he’s a monster. He isn’t human. That’s why we can plan his destruction, Pringle. We know he’s extinct.”

  Pringle insisted hoarsely. “You don’t know how powerful he is. With his lawyers and investigators and bankers—all his money. He’ll beat us. We can’t help but lose.”

  “We won’t lose.” Cavanaugh’s smile was cold iron. “We haven’t anything to lose. There’s nothing he can take away from any of us. We haven’t anything.”

  “Our futures,” Pringle whimpered.

  Cavanaugh’s voice threatened. “Nobody can take away your future. Nobody can take away something you don’t have yet. When you get it, it’s up to you what you do with it.”

  “Bravo.” Les’s eyebrows winged. Surprise had tilted his voice. “You’re all right now, aren’t you, Hank?”

  Cavanaugh’s hand went across his face. “Maybe I am,” he said. “I hope I am.” He was feeling his way through a miasma of muddled thought. “I don’t know. I’ve been afraid too. Afraid of all the evil, afraid there wasn’t any good left.” He looked at Gratia; she might have slept, her lashes lay heavy on her cheeks. “There is good. That’s what we keep searching for. All our lives. Most of us don’t find it. Don’t know how to find it.”

  Pringle complained, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You won’t listen to me. I’m trying to tell you about him.”

  Cavanaugh said to Les Augustin, “Good can be untouched by evil. If it is truly good.”

  He looked again at her and her eyes lifted to his. As if she understood all the half-words he had spoken.

  But she said, “I’m afraid too. Nothing will ever be the same again.”

  She brushed her hair away from her face. “I didn’t want Kitten’s part or Kitten’s life. I didn’t understand how it was. You called me innocent, Hank. It wasn’t innocence, it was ignorance. Because I’d never had to fight. I never knew what it meant to fight for your very existence.”

  He looked again into her face. And he saw it was blemished with the beginning of knowledge. She had spoken truly. She had never had to fight for the existence of self. The fight that must be fought. Even when blood came from your mouth, even when you had lost all vestiges of pride, even when you lifted your head and went out clutching the rag of fear. Even when victory was descent again into the bowels of hell. It was this fight which made the incongruous three, he, Les Augustin, Pringle, one with Kitten. Gratia had been too young, too untouched, too lucky to know what desperation bound them together.

  He said to her, “No, it won’t be the same again. The fairy prince, the marble palace—”

  She shook her head gently. “They wouldn’t be enough now. Now that I’m awake.”

  If there were a world somewhere without evil, if he and Gratia could come together there, it would be good. He had nothing to offer her in this world but his own dark anguish. Even she could not bring him peace. He had to go back, he’d known it all along; he couldn’t run far enough away. He had to return from whence he fled. Peace wasn’t for him, not until the last mouth had been fed.
<
br />   He said, “I had a dream too.” With the decision made, the burden was lightened. He could breathe.

  Les said lightly,

  “It is not, Celia, in our power

  To say how long our love will last…”

  He was holding her beauty in his eyes, drinking it into memory. He didn’t know his heart was also in his eyes; he hadn’t had experience with love. “I tire easily,” he said. “I’d even tire of the good and beautiful.” He knew he mustn’t cough but he brought forth his thin golden cigarette case. The insouciant gesture for the lie. “I tire of all but the great Augustin.”

  Hank pulled the cigarette from his fingers. “It’s no good, Les.” The cynic with the rosebud-wreathed heart. “You didn’t get it. I’m going back.”

  Les shook his head slowly. “You can’t do that. You can’t leave Gratia to the jackals. Once Spender is gone, they’ll be baying on her heels.”

  Hank grinned, “She’ll have you.” He wasn’t afraid to turn her over to Les now. Les cared enough to want to give her up. Enough to lie for her sake.

  She broke in hotly. “You can’t dispose of me that way. I’m not a cotton-wool toy any longer. I’m awake.” She drew a tremulous breath. “You’ve watched over me all the journey. You held my hand as if I were a little child, you didn’t let me wander off alone, you didn’t let me see anything ugly. You wanted me to stay enchanted in my ignorance.”

  Hank said honestly, “We needed you the way you were.”

  She made a quick gesture. “Don’t think I’m not appreciative. You were good, so good, both of you. You didn’t want me hurt by what was going to happen. You didn’t want me shamed by finding out.” She wasn’t regretful. “I had to know. I had to be shamed. Now I’ll learn. What all of you have always known. The way to fight for what you want to come true. Dreaming isn’t enough; you have to fight.”

  Les whispered, “Darling.” It wasn’t an interruption.

  She said, “Maybe someday I will play Clavdia. After I’ve learned.”

  Hank beetled at Les. “Maybe caviar three times a day won’t be as tasty now, Augustin. Now you’ve something better to live for.” His eyes moved to Gratia. “When it comes to fighting Les is a good teacher.”