Pringle fretted. “None of you understand.” He trembled with frustration.
Les pitied. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand. You’re still thinking of neckties. We’re pricking our fingers on stars.”
—4—
James Cobbett sat in the dull-lit corridor on the small seat under the frame of his name card. He sat there heavy-eyed watching three doors. Three rooms not yet made up for the night although the hour had passed midnight. One door behind which no bell could ring. Two doors where he dare not knock and request they go to bed.
The old couple in E were asleep long ago. Knowing nothing of death riding with them. The young couple in C were moon-wandering. Not dreaming of the extra passenger that had, unknown, ridden the Chief. He had ached to warn Debby and Fred Crandall as he spoke his sober, “Good night.” Don’t be too happy. Be afraid to be too happy.
She must have been happy that way once. She must have loved and been loved. Because she had once been warm and young and alive. Now she was cold and still. Death didn’t care whether he chose young or old. He was a robot, touching whoever lay in his path. Death didn’t belong on board the Chief. It belonged in dark hallways. Death shouldn’t have been stalking someone made of shimmering life, someone shining like Kitten Agnew.
James Cobbett was afraid sitting there, urging the train forward, knowing it was of no avail, the length of the journey was inexorably bound. He would not be home until tomorrow. He would not touch Mary until tomorrow, know she was safe, and the children.
He was afraid because his thumbs were not quieted. What had hung over this journey had not been vanquished by Kitten Agnew’s death. Maybe if those who knew her would weep, this haunt would be washed away. They weren’t weeping. They were closeted together with the judge ye a flint in their fists. Judgment, without mercy, in their knotted fists.
Three rooms. In the far room the clay of Kitten Agnew, untenanted. In the near room Vivien Spender, the man who had been her creator, the man who had wept briefly; the man they accused of murder. In the mid-room the accusers.
The lovely girl who had been quiet before Kitten’s glitter, more quiet now that the light was put out. The cheap little man who had been moist-eyed when Kitten lived, whose eyes were dried to black buttons. The angular man who had been drunk last night and into this day; who was brutally sober tonight despite the bottle under his hand, Augustin whose languor had become nerves. The efficient secretary who moved now like a sleep-walker.
The Chief panted across the dark coldness of the Kansas prairie. Cobbett sat there dozing, thinking long thoughts, dozing again. He woke to the sound of a door opening. The mid-room. Ready for bed at last. But only one person came from it. It was the secretary. She wasn’t walking in her sleep now. Her face had grown old, but it was calm. Her movement was steady. If she saw James Cobbett, she gave no sign. She moved to the door of Vivien Spender’s room. She didn’t knock. She opened it and went inside. His fear was greater than before.
—5—
When he heard the door open, he lifted his head in surprise. It was entirely unexpected that the door should open at this hour. It was only natural that he would turn quickly to see who was entering. Nothing to do with nerves, his were as easy as a mill pond on a summer afternoon.
He saw Mike. He shouldn’t have been struck by a second dart of surprise, who else would come to him but Mike? Yet he was surprised. Because he had believed when she left earlier that she wouldn’t face him again until it could be amidst the confusion of strangers tomorrow. Mike was afraid he had killed Kitten.
She had been afraid. She wasn’t now. She came in and closed the door and she stood there as impersonal as if she’d come from the next office at his summons. He was relieved and secretly triumphant that she had come to her senses. Not that he hadn’t expected her to return to them. Her few lapses from the unemotional, competent Mike Dana, secretary, had been rare over their years, together. But he felt relief that she had reverted to her norm without the need of his intervention. The secret triumph was male; he had reconquered Mike and his pride was bulbous.
He hid all this. He asked her kindly, with a small, proper seasoning of surprise, “What’s the matter, Mike? Why aren’t you in bed?”
She said, “I’ve been with Les Augustin.”
His hands pressed down flat on the table. She didn’t know the weight of their pressure; she didn’t know that the anchored table would have splintered if it had been wood not metal. She continued with the relentless impersonality.
“And Hank Cavanaugh. And Sidney Pringle. And Gratia Shawn.”
The suffusion of anger was hot in his face. He had forgotten. He hadn’t even remembered the time, he was still dressed at this hour because he’d forgotten everything in his work. It was here on paper, the idea by which Gratia Shawn would be introduced. Here was the first rung of the starry ladder which would in time lead her up to the part of Clavdia Chauchat. He’d blocked out scenes, he’d synopsized an idea to be turned over to his highest-priced writers for development. Something simple and good, yet strong; something like Gratia herself. In his concentration, he had forgotten. As he could always forget in his work. What had been done this day was over with; he and time had passed beyond it, as irrevocably as the Chief had passed beyond La Junta and Dodge City.
He was angry that Mike should remember what had gone by. He had believed she too had forgotten; not that she had been diddering over the past with Les Augustin. However, he was careful to speak not in anger but in exasperation. “For God’s sake, why? I saw them earlier. I told you everything was all right.” He knew how to make his smile boyish, excited. He knew the answering smile of enthusiasm she would give in turn. “I’ve been sitting here planning the first picture for Gratia. I’ll open it—”
She broke in. Her voice was level. “Everything isn’t all right, Viv.”
The performance was ended. There was a brackish taste in his mouth. “What do you mean?”
“Tomorrow they will accuse you of the murder of Kitten.”
For a long moment they watched each other. Then he laughed. It had never come so hard. Because this woman knew him as he would know himself if he dared. Because she had not forgotten the past or any of the Vivien Spenders of the past, and no matter how excellent a performance he could give before her, she would not forget. She was his conscience. The idea fleeted across his mind and he marked it for future use. A living separate conscience pursuing a character. But he was stronger than conscience. He’d recognized her for what she was long before this night. He had conquered her, ruled her. Unless a man could conquer and rule that atavistic impulse called conscience, it would become a Cassandraic nuisance.
For the long moment they watched each other—then he tossed back his head and laughed. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard of.”
There was no reaction in her to his laughter or to what he had said. She was looking at him as if he were a stranger. She said at last, “No, Viv.”
It was difficult to control his anger in the face of her imperturbable negation. She knew better than to goad him this way. She knew how to protect him from his fury. Yet she said, “No, Viv,” and there was no more feeling in her face than in a face of stone. She sat down on the chair. And she said without feeling, “They know you murdered her.”
“They don’t know anything.” His mouth was brutal. He saw the shape of it in the mirror and she saw it because she was looking at him. But she wasn’t afraid.
“They know you murdered her. They are prepared to prove it.”
“They can’t prove anything of the kind.” He never shouted, he wasn’t shouting now. He was holding his voice so tight that his throat muscles ached. He began to laugh again. This time he was truly laughing, “You must be crazy letting a bunch of drunks upset you this way. You’re worn out, Mike. After we wash up this premiere you must take a real vacation. It’s been years since you’ve had a decent one.”
She said in that same level drone, “They are goin
g to the police in Chicago tomorrow. And to the newspapers.”
He kept on laughing. “Do you think any sane person would listen to such a ridiculous accusation against me?” He was Vivien Spender; had she forgotten? “As for the newspapers—” His laughter heightened, then he broke it and looked at her shrewdly. “There are libel laws. Come, Mike. Let’s have a nightcap and then you get to bed. Tomorrow you’ll realize how absurd this is.”
He pushed away from the table and he walked over to the tray stand near her chair. She watched him out of steady eyes.
“Unless you’re afraid to drink with me.”
She watched his hands pouring the drinks. She said, “I’m not afraid to drink with you. You can’t get rid of all of us.”
He said, “No one credits Augustin. He’s a malicious gossip. Pringle’s a disgruntled writer that we fired. Cavanaugh’s an alcoholic. Gratia—” He smiled. “She’s an impressionable child. Tomorrow I’ll talk to her.” He shot seltzer into the glasses. “Are you one with them, Mike?”
She said, “There was a bottle in your desk. Of sleeping tablets.”
He was calm again. As calm as she. He asked, “You saw it in my desk?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t mention it.”
“No.” The hesitation was so slight he might not have noticed if all sound had not been heightened by that fraction of silence. “Because I knew when I saw it. With her name on it.” Again there was the infinitesimal moment of silence. “I hoped terribly that I was wrong.” She was as stone but her voice was scalded with tears.
She went on, “There are pieces of broken glass. The glass she drank from.”
His back was to her; she couldn’t see this new anger mottling his face. She was lying. They’d lied to her. No one on the Chief would have saved that broken glass. They’d sent her to try to frighten him. He finished stirring the drinks, passed one to her. He had the glass to his lips when she spoke again.
“They know about Althea’s death.”
He didn’t taste, he put down the glass. A spill of it fell across the scrawled white paper. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and blotted the liquid from the paper. He spoke the name without meaning. “Althea?”
She said, “I told them you killed her.”
How could she remember that far away? He’d forgotten years ago. Althea was no more real to him than a character he’d written into a picture and later cut away. He couldn’t remember the shape of her or the color of her hair or the way she had spoken.
Why had Mike kept silent all these years if she remembered Althea? Why had she waited until this moment of pinnacle to speak? He looked at her and his voice was parched. “How you must hate me.”
“No,” she said. “I love you. I’ve always loved you.” She came quietly across the small room, carrying her drink. She set it on the table beside his glass. She slid into the seat directly across from him.
She said, “I can’t bear to have you suffer. The way they plan for you to suffer. They intend to crucify you, Viv. For what you did to Kitten.” She took her glass but she didn’t drink; she held it quiet in her hand.
What did Kitten mean to them? He knew before he planned this that there would be no one to regret her removal. She had no friends. Why should these strangers care what had happened to her?
He asked it. “Why?”
She said slowly, “I don’t think you can understand. I don’t think I can explain it myself. It’s different with each one of them. But it’s the same. It’s a question of right and wrong.”
He was sardonic. “Perhaps I can understand better than you think. Perhaps they are the ones who can’t understand. My right and wrong may be bigger than theirs.” His head was clearing. “What I don’t understand is how they turned you against me. I won’t ever understand that.”
She smiled at him and her smile was sadder than the anguish of tears. “I remember the first time I saw you. You didn’t have anything. I remember your shirt, it was a blue shirt. You wore blue shirts because they didn’t show wear so quickly. You had your hair cut very short—it didn’t need to be cut so often. But you had pride and faith. You were on fire with ambition. I knew you were destined for greatness.”
She was forcing him to remember. He had known too, known he was going to reach greatness. He hadn’t become great by weakness. You couldn’t become great if you were soft. You had to be strong enough to force the unyielding pattern.
She said, “I’ve walked with you every step of the way. It wasn’t easy at first. There were nothing but dreams of someday. Do you remember when you lived on those dreams, Viv?” She took a slow breath. “I loved you. You never loved me; you took me, yes, but you didn’t love me. That didn’t matter. It has never mattered. As long as I could be beside you.”
He’d never loved her, no. He loved beauty and she was plain. Yet she had meant more to him than any he had loved. He had been willing always to do without them but never without Mike. She was his flaw, his weakness. If he’d got rid of her long ago, when he first realized she knew him too well, she wouldn’t have been here to condemn him tonight. To hand him over to his motley judges. He hadn’t rid himself of her because he had believed he needed her, because he hadn’t been able to see his way without Mike.
She said, “I thought I’d lose you when those dreams became actuality. I didn’t. I learned how to keep you. By living only through you. It was enough.”
If she were gone, he could handle the others. They were weaklings, all of them. Money was all he needed to take care of them; he had plenty of money. Mike was their strength, without her word and knowledge, the little four had nothing.
She said, “It would still be enough for me, Viv. Even now when you’ve failed.”
“Failed?” The word was whiplash and he started from its thong.
“Yes, failed.” That sad smile was across her eyes. “No one else knows yet. The first thing you lost was ambition. You traded the dream of your masterpiece for cheap affairs. The Viv Spender I first knew wouldn’t have done that.”
She didn’t understand, she couldn’t understand a man’s search for perfection. He took up his highball and drank from it. Perhaps he had made some mistakes. Maybe he’d seen Clavdia Chauchat where she couldn’t possibly be. He could be allowed a few errors. He hadn’t made many.
“Faith? You lost your faith long ago. I don’t know how it happened. Maybe too much money does that to a man. You stopped believing in yourself; you believed only in things. There’s nothing left but your pride. I hope you haven’t lost your pride.” She was beginning to break, her voice caught for a moment. He barely heard the name. “Doumel.”
He was shaken by rage. His tongue was thick. “I’m not a Doumel. That mangy French tomcat. I threw him off my lot.”
Her words had a dreadful inevitability. “There was only one girl in the case of Doumel. She didn’t die. It was unfortunate she was so young. Perhaps he didn’t know any better, he hadn’t been in this country for long. Do you remember the trial? The hideous long trial, the testimony in the newspapers? Do you remember his face when the sentence was pronounced? He’s in prison now. He’ll be there a long time. When he comes out, no one will remember him. He might as well be dead.”
He drained his glass, set it down. She couldn’t force him to listen any longer. He could silence her too.
She said, “He had dreams once. I wonder what he dreams of now.” Her face had no expression. “Comfortable clothes? His car? Going into a restaurant and ordering whatever he wants? Or just of being free.”
He knew the hideousness of men shut away from everything that made life decent. He had visited prisons before he made the first big picture of prison life. He remembered the dead face of one man who was shut in for life, a man who had killed his wife, a murderer. He wasn’t a murderer! What he had done couldn’t be called murder! It was justice.
He scoffed, “If you’re afraid of ghosts, I’m not. Nor of Augustin and his friends. They can’t do anything t
o me. When I get through with them, they’ll be sorry they started anything.”
There was pity in her, pity for him! A pity that was scorn. “You can’t laugh off judgment day, Viv. It’s been a long time coming but it’s at hand now. You can face it any way you choose. I hoped you’d choose to face it proudly.” Her mouth was stern. “This time you can’t escape. You’ll have to pay.”
She believed her words. She expected him to believe. She’d forgotten that he was Vivien Spender. Pity and scorn, mockery and tears were for little men. For weak men. Not for Vivien Spender. He said, “If you’re through, I’d like to tell you my plans. For Gratia.” He paused to give her his smile.
She was unsmiling. “If you go in to Chicago tomorrow, you can’t escape, Viv.” Her breath came slowly. “That’s why I had to turn against you. To save you. To let you die as you’ve lived, a great man. So that the legend of Viv Spender wouldn’t die too.”
She was dispassionate as stone. The monstrous horror of her suggestion suddenly smote him. If her voice had trembled, if she’d been touched with tears, he wouldn’t have believed. She was turned to stone. She meant he should end his life.
His eyes blurred with that horror. The police. They couldn’t arrest him. They could hold him. They wouldn’t dare. They would dare because they would call it murder. He couldn’t make them understand; even Mike did not understand.
Panic stirred in him. If the police held him, if the poison was found both in the body and on the splintered glass, if the prescription was traced to him—men had been condemned to die on such stupid trifles. They couldn’t put him to death! He faced the eternity of prison. The humiliation of being caged like an animal, of being demeaned to the stature of Doumel. If he were in time pardoned, to come broken into a hostile world. A world with no sympathy for failure. Too old to fight upward again. Kitten had pulled the pillars down about him. He was eaten by his fury but he could not vent it on her because she was dead. Dying she had destroyed him.
Dread Journey Page 17
