Fire Will Freeze

by Margaret Millar

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ll be bristling with watch fobs, Poppa!”

  “Joyce!”

  “What’s a G-string?”

  Mr. Hunter cleared his throat. “It is, I believe, some—some sort of apparatus used to camouflage the female form. I don’t wish to discuss it.”

  A hand tapped his shoulder and he turned his head irritably and found himself staring into Miss Morning’s eyes.

  “I say,” Miss Morning said. “You got the time? My watch stopped.”

  Mr. Hunter blushed painfully and reached for his watch. “Exactly four-thirty-six.”

  Joyce giggled again.

  “Thanks.” Miss Morning returned to her pursuit of Mr. Goodwin. “Nice old guy, isn’t he? I’m crazy about older men, especially if they got white hair. I don’t know, it sort of gets me. I wonder who the deadpanned dame is.”

  “His daughter. She calls him Poppa.”

  Miss Morning chuckled. “That doesn’t mean a thing, Goodie. If all the guys I’ve called Poppa were laid end to end . . .”

  Mr. Goodwin struck his forehead again and said, “Spare me. Spare me the apodosis.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Spare me the end of that sentence. I don’t think I could bear to hear the results of having all the men you’ve called Poppa laid end to end.”

  “Say, you are a funny guy.” Miss Morning’s voice was anxious. “What’s your racket?”

  “I write,” Mr. Goodwin said belligerently. “I write poetry. I am a poet.”

  “Well, you needn’t get tough about it. I didn’t say anything about poets. As a matter of fact, I’m crazy about poets.” Miss Morning retired rather huffily to her second layer of chocolates.

  Joyce Hunter whispered, “I say, Poppa.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you hear that? He’s Goodwin, the poet, Anthony Goodwin.”

  “Is he? I never read poetry.”

  “Well, naturally not. Neither do I. But he’s supposed to be terribly debauched. Lies around in a drunken stupor. I read it in Time.”

  “I don’t think,” Mr. Hunter said dryly, “that he can debauch Miss Morning.”

  “Well, there’s me. I think he’s rather cute. Too bad he’s traveling with his mother.”

  “His mother?” Mr. Hunter said in surprise.

  “The fat lady in the back seat.”

  Mr. Hunter turned his head, and there, sure enough, was a fat lady occupying the whole of the left back seat. She wore an immense raccoon coat and it was impossible to tell how much of the lady was coat and how much sheer lady. At any rate the seat was full. The lady was gently snoring.

  “I can’t understand you, Joyce,” Mr. Hunter said crossly. “One minute you’re in a coma and the next minute you’re ferreting out other people’s private lives.”

  “Well, that’s just my way,” Joyce said modestly. She turned her head and looked again at the fat lady in the raccoon coat. She added thoughtfully, “Of course she may not be his mother at all. She may just look old enough to be his mother because he’s debauched her so thoroughly.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Mr. Hunter said with a sigh.

  “Well, you just wait and see!”

  Silence descended upon the Hunters and Joyce relapsed into her coma.

  In the back seat the raccoon coat began to twitch and the gentle snoring ceased and Mrs. Evaline Vista returned to consciousness, pleasantly unaware that her morals had been slandered.

  She yawned loudly, and stretched, and thought what an excellent idea it was to sleep away the trip and what an excellent idea the trip itself was. It would do Anthony, and Anthony’s poetry, a world of good. Anthony had had too much pampering; he needed to face the world and battle the elements. He needed, in one word, Mrs. Vista’s favorite word, virility.

  “Ah, virility,” Mrs. Vista whispered, rather sadly, for she had suffered from it, in her day. Mr. Cecil Vista had had far too much of it. His last trip to Brighton with his secretary had cost him ten thousand pounds a year alimony. It was only fitting that Mrs. Vista should use the ten thousand pounds to inject into the arts some of Cecil’s own quality.

  She studied the back of Anthony’s head fondly. What a good thing it was that innocent unworldly geniuses had a Mrs. Vista.

  She said, “Anthony!”

  Mr. Goodwin turned sharply. “Ah, Evaline. So you’re awake.”

  “Where’s your hat, Anthony?”

  “On my lap.”

  “You’ll catch pneumonia. Put it on instantly.”

  By way of answer Mr. Goodwin jammed the hat savagely down over his ears. It was a green felt Tyrolean hat with an orange feather growing from the band. Mr. Goodwin looked and felt extremely silly in it, but it had been a present from Mrs. Vista who had bought it in Bavaria for Cecil. Cecil had refused to wear it, so Mrs. Vista gave it to Anthony. She had, at times, an economical turn of mind.

  “There,” said Mrs. Vista in her comfortable bellow. “Much better. Oh, driver! Driver! Are we nearly there?”

  The driver took his eyes off the road for a fraction of a second. “Few more miles to go.”

  He had a slight accent. A French-Canadian, Mrs. Vista decided, and was immediately impelled to heave herself out of her seat and stagger the few steps to the front of the bus. She fell into the seat opposite Paula and the red-haired young man and settled down to engage the bus driver in conversation. She had never talked to a French-Canadian and she thought it probable that French-Canadian culture could do with a jog.

  “A very bumpity road,” she said pleasantly. “Is there any danger, do you suppose?”

  The driver did not turn around. He had pulled his hat down and his coat collar up and his voice came out, muffled: “One of my tire chains is loose.”

  There did seem to be a queer, clanking noise, Mrs. Vista agreed.

  “I may have to adjust it,” the driver said. “I thought it would hold out but it will not.” He raised his voice. “Please remain in your seats, everyone. We are stopping for a minute.”

  The bus lurched to a stop. The driver squirmed out of his seat and wrenched the door open. A blast of fine sharp snow like tiny particles of steel was blown into the open door. It cut into Mrs. Vista’s face and stung her to tears.

  “Driver!” she shouted, covering her face with her hands.

  From the back of the bus Maudie Thropple’s sharp high voice demanded, “What’s wrong? Where’s he going?”

  Mrs. Vista shouted, “Driver!” again, but the door had closed and the wind howled against it with impotent rage.

  Miss Seton woke up and rubbed her neck. The warmth of her head had cleaned the ice from a small circle of window. She blinked gently and looked out. The snow had drifted, curved and sharp like scimitars, along the fences. She saw the driver plod past the window with his head bent against the wind.

  She leaned forward and tapped the red-haired young man on the shoulder.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  The young man scowled and said, “He’s just going to fix something.”

  “Oh.” Miss Seton smiled with relief. “I’m Isobel Seton. I suppose we’ll all going to the same place and might as well get acquainted.”

  “Chad Ross,” the young man said. “And this is Paula . . .”

  “Lashley,” the girl said quickly. “Paula Lashley.”

  They both turned away. Feeling properly snubbed Miss Seton looked at Mrs. Vista.

  “It’s the tire chains,” Mrs. Vista said loudly. “Don’t get excited, anyone. He’s simply gone to fix the chains.”

  Joyce Hunter snapped back to consciousness.

  “Well, why doesn’t he?”

  Every eye in the bus turned simultaneously to the back window, but like the others it was frozen solid.

  “He’s been gone,”
Joyce said calmly, “exactly five minutes. I’ve been counting. I don’t think it should take more than one minute to reach the chains, and if he’s fixing them why don’t we hear something?”

  “Because you’re talking too much,” Mr. Hunter said irritably. “It’s all nonsense.”

  Joyce smiled patiently and did not answer. The others were silent, staring at her, listening intently for any signs of the driver.

  “I hope,” Joyce said affably, after a time, “there are no wolves.”

  “You silly girl,” Mrs. Vista said, just as affably.

  Without a word Joyce went to the back window and began rubbing it with her handkerchief. She paid no attention to the man occupying the seat, though he watched her with quiet amusement.

  The others had broken into excited conversation about wolves. Miss Seton stepped into the aisle and stretched her arms.

  “I should be very surprised to see a wolf,” she murmured. “Very surprised.”

  Joyce turned around. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. I happen to know you’re an American.”

  Miss Seton nodded guiltily.

  “And you wouldn’t know about wolves in Canada. Canada is teeming with wolves.”

  Miss Seton conceded the wolves but refused to lose faith in the bus driver. “He may be having more difficulty than he . . .”

  “Look out,” Joyce said grimly, pointing to the small space she had cleared with her handkerchief. “Come and look out.”

  Miss Seton walked to the back of the bus and looked out.

  The bus driver had disappeared.

  2

  “He seems,” Miss Seton announced in a weak voice, pressing her nose right up against the pane, “to be gone.”

  The man in the back seat removed Miss Seton’s sable-covered elbow from his ribs and said dryly, “Would you mind? I’m rather ticklish.”

  Miss Seton looked down into a pair of amused brown eyes shaded by the brim of a grey fedora. Against the grey of his hat and overcoat, the man’s skin was deeply tanned and leathery. His mouth was twisted in a rather cynical half-smile.

  “My name’s Charles Crawford,” he said. “Remember me as Charles Crawford, a very ticklish man.”

  “The bus driver,” Miss Seton said coldly, “has disappeared.”

  “Well?” Mr. Crawford said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing at all.” Miss Seton turned away, blushing slightly. Obviously Mr. Crawford was not one of those people who are helpful in a crisis, if there was a crisis. A city slicker, she decided, who got his tan under a sun lamp and stood around making small talk.

  Still, he looked competent—more competent than the other men in the bus. She glanced worriedly at the cluster of men standing in the aisle talking. Neither Mr. Hunter nor Mr. Herbert Thropple would be capable of taking charge in an emergency. They were both good substantial citizens, but they couldn’t even manage their respective women. Mr. Goodwin was probably, if the magazine was correct, drunk, or if not drunk, crazy. As for the red-haired Chad Ross, he looked as though he was impatiently waiting for the rest of the bus to be devoured by wolves.

  Miss Gracie Morning’s voice rose above the babble:

  “Give the fellow time. Maybe he’s taking a walk or something.”

  “Taking a walk?” Maudie said shrilly. “In this blizzard?”

  “Well, you never can tell,” said Miss Morning, who had met many strange people in her short life and had learned not to be surprised.

  “This is so stupid!” Joyce cried with a withering glance around the group. “Here we are in a serious situation and all we do is talk! The driver has gone. Why should he disappear in a raging blizzard with no place to disappear to? What is there to talk about? We’ll have to follow him, now, before the snow fills in his tracks.”

  None of the others had thought of this possibility. A pregnant silence descended, broken finally by Miss Seton.

  She said in a quiet voice, “If we wait much longer we won’t have any choice. The driver must have gone some place. If we follow him now, we’ll be able to reach the same place. If we wait we’ll have to stay here in the bus all night.”

  “Why?” Charles Crawford demanded lazily from the back seat.

  “Talk, talk, talk,” Joyce said scathingly. “He’s been gone fifteen minutes now.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Crawford has a suggestion,” Miss Seton said.

  “Well,” Mr. Crawford said, “I have driven buses.”

  Mrs. Vista beamed in the direction of Mr. Crawford. “Splendid! I knew everything would come right in the end. ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men . . .’ ”

  “Evaline,” Mr. Goodwin said sadly, “it is bourgeois to quote Shakespeare.”

  “You can?” Miss Seton said sharply to Mr. Crawford. “You think you can drive it?”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Crawford.

  “Hadn’t you better hurry then? The snow may be drifting over the road.”

  Mr. Crawford rose from his seat. The others fell back to let him pass. He seated himself behind the wheel and reached for the ignition.

  “And what,” Joyce inquired with gentle irony, “if the driver comes back and finds us gone? He may freeze to death. I think we’re making a terrible mistake and I’ll bet two to one that Mr. Crawford couldn’t drive a camel.”

  “True,” said Mr. Crawford. The engine began to roar and Mrs. Vista began to roar, too, encouraging it.

  The others sat on the edge of their seats waiting for the lurch forward. The lurch came, and another, and another, and the bus was a few yards closer to the Chateau Neige. The engine raced and sputtered into silence.

  Mr. Crawford removed his hat and Miss Seton could see that he was sweating and his hands were clenched tightly on the steering wheel, almost desperately.

  Queer, Miss Seton thought. In an interval between lurches she moved up the aisle and took the front seat beside Mrs. Vista. Though the bus was extremely cold she saw that Mr. Crawford had unbuttoned his overcoat. Lurch. Mr. Crawford’s overcoat pocket swung and struck the back of his seat. There was a clang of metal, barely noticeable over the roar of the engine.

  He has a gun, Miss Seton thought, and the whole scene became suddenly unreal—the blizzard, the missing driver, Mr. Crawford bent over the wheel with his breath coming out of his mouth like puffs of smoke, the gun in his pocket . . .

  Lurch. The engine died again and Mr. Crawford’s mouth moved in silent cursing.

  “I think that settles it.” Joyce’s voice rang out clearly through the bus.

  “Shut up!” Mr. Crawford said savagely. He tried the engine again but it was dead for good this time. He put his head down on his arm for a second and Miss Seton saw that his face was the color of putty and the sweat stood out on his forehead like little drops of oil.

  No one spoke while he silently put on his hat and rebuttoned his overcoat and got out from behind the wheel.

  He said at last in a soft voice, “The little lady wins.”

  There was another silence. Then Joyce said crisply, “We’d better get started. We’ll have to leave all the luggage behind.”

  Maudie began to weep. “I can’t! Oh, I can’t! We may freeze . . .”

  “Hush, angel,” Herbert said masterfully. “Give me your hand.”

  “Let go of me!”

  “Do you want to stay here and die!”

  “Yes!” Maudie shrieked.

  “Well, all right,” Herbert said, and strode into the aisle and up to the door.

  “Coming, Goodwin?” said Mr. Hunter.

  Mr. Goodwin leaped up, struck his head sharply against the baggage rack and joined Herbert at the door.

  “Come, Evaline,” he said to Mrs. Vista.

  Mrs. Vista stared at him, annoyed. “Anthony, you don’t mean to say you’re going out into that storm with your weak chest? You
must be crazy!”

  Mr. Goodwin was always flattered by any aspersions cast on his sanity. He said almost gently, “Genius is to madness near allied. Come.”

  The door swung open and the wind trumpeted in. Herbert stepped out and sank in snow up to his knees. He cupped his mouth with his hand and yelled, “Hurry up! The tracks are nearly gone! Make it snappy!”

  Miss Morning scrambled out into the aisle and gave Maudie a good-natured push in the back. “Make it snappy, he says, dearie.”

  Maudie swung around and glared at her. “You take your hands off me!”

  “Phooey,” said Miss Morning pleasantly and followed Miss Seton and Joyce to the door.

  Mr. Crawford was the last to leave. He watched the others carefully as they passed him.

  There’s no danger from any of them, he thought. Bad luck for me, but they’re all harmless. I’ll just have to be more cautious. But what a filthy break!

  He stepped out of the door and closed it behind him. He was barely conscious of the intense cold and the blinding wind. He was accustomed to both, and his mind was working too fast to permit him to feel discomfort.

  Ahead of him Miss Seton tottered through the drifts, her eyes nearly closed. The wind needled her eyelids and stung them to tears which she wiped off with her stiffening gloves. There was nothing to hear. It was as if she was alone in a torture box with walls of wind, and sharp little knives of snow were being hurled from all sides.

  Her face was a dull steady ache and her legs in silk stockings were numbed. When she leaned over a little she could see tracks ahead of her, and slightly to the right of these, a single set of footprints growing fainter and fainter as she moved, the footprints of the bus driver.

  “Where could he have gone?” she gasped. “And why? Why?”

  She stopped a moment to put her sleeve against her throbbing forehead. Her coat was thick with snow but the sleeve felt warm against her skin. I’m freezing, she thought wildly, I’m already frozen.

  Then suddenly and miraculously the wind and snow vanished, as if a hole had opened in the sky and sucked them up and closed again. The silence was so sudden that she heard her own gasp of surprise and the heavy breathing of Mr. Crawford behind her. And she could see again; the bandages of snow had been lifted from her eyes, and in spite of the approaching dusk she saw everything with a new clarity and perspective—a column of strangers following some faint tracks in the snow: Mrs. Vista an enormous raccoon clinging to Mr. Goodwin’s coat, Mr. Goodwin taking off his hat and carefully shaking the snow from it, Mr. Hunter wiping his frosted mustache with a handkerchief, Paula Lashley standing beside Chad Ross, still not looking at him but staring out across the snow.