Dread Journey (11 page)

To Pringle, James Cobbett wasn’t a man, he was a mass, a problem. To James Cobbett, Pringle was a man and a man he wouldn’t care to invite to his home. Cobbett hall pride in himself, he didn’t consider a man equal to him unless he were equal in dignity and pride. Mary called him a snob. Well, he’d admit it. He was a snob. It hadn’t anything to do with what a man did or what a man possessed; it was what he was. Cobbett was a snob about the I am, He is.

The way I see it, Mary…Explaining in the night where the dark made words easy. There wouldn’t be any problems of race or religion if you could make men see the I am, He is. You’d take a man on what he was.

And where would the Pringles be in James Cobbett’s scheme of things? Well, maybe Pringle wouldn’t be such a miserable specimen if he didn’t have to compete in worldly ways for his place among men. If you could ease him up, he might turn out to be a nice little fellow. A nice little fellow in a world where a little fellow was just as wanted as a big fellow. The Pringles of the world could all be happy together. They wouldn’t have to try to squeeze in where they weren’t wanted if they were just as important being small as big. The trouble was that men were always trying to solve problems on an economic, political and emotional basis. Until they utilized reason, nothing would be solved. And sadly, he admitted, you must have rational men to employ reason.

You think too much, Cobbett. Why don’t you be like Rufe and the others, live for your wages and the layover? Do your thinking ready-made out of other men’s brains and bellies. You won’t live long enough to see the age of reason and all its decencies.

The chant riffled down the line. “Bo—ard.” The woman in green glasses, Spender’s secretary, stepped up into this car. She was out of sight before Cobbett had closed the vestibule trap. He didn’t think Mr. Spender would be calling her this early. Probably gone into her own car.

The neat elderly man and his neat gray wife were standing in their compartment, the door open, as he passed. The man said, “Would you make up our compartment, porter? We’re going in to breakfast.”

He said, “Yes, sir.”

Nothing any different from the usual run. Make up E, Mr. and Mrs. Shellabarger of Detroit. Make up Mr. and Mrs. Crandall, they’d got on board up by the diner. Wait around for the others, be afternoon. He came face to face with the girl who shared with Miss Agnew.

He hadn’t actually noticed her yesterday. Now he saw the pale heart of her face against the darkness of the room she was leaving. Her eyes meeting his were wide and wondering, as if he’d startled her out of a dream. He himself was startled into saying. “Good morning;” he who had learned to withhold greeting until it was offered.

She said, “Good morning,” gravely, sweetly.

This must be the something different he’d been seeking on this run, seeking unconsciously through his reiteration that all was the same. She was the different, a stranger in an alien world. She closed the door of her room and she stood there, outlined against it, unmoving. He saw her beauty then and he wondered at the ways of the white man that this girl should pass unnoticed, that the pattern of desire should be Kitten Agnew.

She spoke again, “Mr. Cobbett.”

The name was framed there on the wall, a small measure of dignity. The ones who called him Mr. Cobbett were few. He didn’t know her name, she wasn’t on the ticket list. He said, “Yes, Miss.”

She was hesitant. “Mr. Augustin asked me to breakfast with him this morning. Could you call him for me?”

He smiled. He advised, “You’re a little early for these Hollywood folks, Miss. They eat their breakfast about noon.”

She returned his smile. “That’s what I was afraid of,” she admitted. “That’s why I didn’t want to disturb him.” Her smile was confidential. “I’m hungry.” She turned and went towards the diner.

James Cobbett went in to make up the Shellabargers’ crumpled beds. He felt good. He’d have to tell Mary about this pretty girl. Mary was smarter than he about women. She’d be able to figure out what a girl like that was doing among strangers.

It had seemed a simple matter last night. Clear, straight-line planning with simplicity as its keynote. He hadn’t slept well. The metallic clatter of wheels on rails, the whor of trains counterpassing by night, the hoot of whistle, the ceaseless motion. Together, separately, each banished sleep. He’d been forced to take two sleeping tablets before sleep came; waking now, he resented the drug. His mouth was dry, his eyes heavy, his step sluggish as he walked to the bath for a bromo.

He’d gone to sleep with Kitten irritation scraping his nerves; he woke to the same rasp. If it were not for her threats, he wouldn’t have had to undergo this transcontinental trip by train. If it were not for her, he wouldn’t have needed a bromide, nor would he need a bromo now.

It wasn’t fury at her that burned in him this morning; it was too early for the engendering of strong emotion. It was the nasty smallness of irritation. He drained the frothing glass and returned to bed.

It was when he closed his eyes hoping for a reprise of sleep, that there arose doubts of his plan. If Kitten was stricken after visiting his drawing room, a finger of suspicion might be leveled at him. Not that anything could be proved; of that he was certain. But a whisper could be as perilous as a scream. To visit Kitten in her own drawing room was out of the question now. Gratia must not figure in this. If it had happened last night there’d have been no question of Gratia having the finger pointed at her. The delay had changed that. Gratia had been seen too much yesterday. She and Kitten were linked.

He’d work it out. He had the day. It would be safe but how he didn’t know. It was bad luck that Augustin was in this particular car. The fellow had a reputation as a nosy gossip. And Kitten had been with the man yesterday; no telling how much she’d talked. There was no one else to bother about. An old businessman and his wife, a young fellow and his bride, somebody named Sidney Pringle. The name was faintly familiar and momentarily he tried to place it. It wasn’t important. If he’d had Mike check the passenger list before they came on board rather than after, he’d have had Augustin moved. It had never occurred to him. It didn’t occur to him now that a look at the list might have been denied him. He had ways of accomplishing the impossible.

He couldn’t sleep; the train was making an infernal din. He got out of bed, put on the maraschino tiesatin robe, knotted the black scarf about it and rang. His good smile was on his face when Cobbett tapped.

He said, “Wonder if you could make up that couch while I’m shaving, Cobbett? Hate to bother you but I’d like to do some work while I’m having breakfast.” The great Spender, courteous, pleasant, sure. A man who could pay for special service.

Cobbett said, “No trouble at all, Mr. Spender.”

Viv was finished with his shave when the seats clacked into place. He smiled again. “Now if you’d send along a waiter and get word to Miss Dana I want her, I’ll not bother you for a while.”

“No bother, Mr. Spender.”

What was it he’d planned for Cobbett yesterday? Oh yes, a secretary. The absurd idea still pleased him. Mike knew too much; if she added suspicion to knowledge, she’d have to be put to grass.

He felt better already as he lit a cigarette and looked out the window. The train was pulling into some frontier town. He took up the timetable. Las Vegas. Next stop Raton. He’d get a bit of air in Raton. La Junta five o’clock. Dodge City nine-thirty. It should be accomplished after Dodge City. Nothing but small towns then until Kansas City, four in the morning. Even if it were discovered, they wouldn’t be put off the Chief at that hour. It would be through to Chicago as he wanted it.

He called, “Come in.” It was Mike.

She said, “Morning, Viv. Have a good night?” She sat down, took out her book and poised her pencil.

“I had a rotten night,” he answered good-naturedly. He folded the timetable together. “Such an assortment of rackets. Finally got up, took nembutal and managed to go out.”

She dropped her pencil, retrieved it slowly.

He put down the timetable beside him. “It seems to take forever to cross Arizona and New Mexico.” The train was yet winding through the wasteland.

“Big states,” she said.

“If I ever decide to travel by train again, you have my permission to get out an order of restraint.” He smiled broadly. “Ready?”

Throw the dust of a few letters in her eyes before getting down to the business at hand. He began to dictate; it was mechanics, no necessity to keep his mind on the words his tongue spoke. He didn’t even hear the rap on the door until she lifted her eyes towards the sound.

“That’ll be the waiter,” he remembered. “I’m still fasting.” He called out and the small studious man entered, his whites glistening with starch.

Viv gave his pleasant good morning. Mike said dryly, “It’s afternoon.”

“Don’t reprimand,” he smiled. Those who remembered him this day would remember an important man who took time for pleasantries and pleasantness. A great man who hadn’t forgotten how to be a normal human being. He gave his order, asked, “How about lunch for you, Mike?”

“I had breakfast too late. I’ll lunch later.”

He raised his eyes to the silent waiter. “You might make that coffee a big pot and bring an extra cup. She’s an addict.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door was but half-closed when he asked, “Where was I now?” He dictated until breakfast was brought in.

She interrupted only once. “I’ve already wired Silverman about that. From Albuquerque.”

He poured coffee for her, indicated it. She came from the chair to sit opposite him. He relaxed at the breakfast table. She didn’t know that even his relaxation was a minute part of the mosaic he was assembling.

“You were up early,” he commented.

“I went to bed early.”

He spoke with his mouth full. “What about that—what’s his name, the newspaperman with Kitten at dinner?”

“No chance to see him yet. Kitten had him tied up last night.”

“I want to see Kitten today.” He let a faint scowl touch his forehead. Erased it with another forkful of omelette. “I want to get this thing settled before we reach New York.”

A good night’s sleep hadn’t banished the Cassandra in Mike. “And if she doesn’t settle?”

“She will.”

Mike didn’t press it; he’d expected more argument but she was quiet. He wanted talk about it now; she must know how rational he’d become about it.

“She’s not a fool. My offer’s generous.”

“It’s generous all right,” Mike agreed.

“I’ve been thinking it over, Mike. That suit she’s threatened, it can’t be any more than a bluff. It would pull her down with me. I don’t believe she’d want the pillars to crumble on her, do you?”

“Certainly not.” Mike was less apathetic now. Her eye was alive again.

“There wouldn’t be a studio that would touch her with a ten-foot pole, now or in the future, if she went into court. She’d be committing suicide. And she’s not the suicidal type.”

“Definitely not,” Mike agreed.

“It’s a brazen bluff and I’m calling it Make an appointment with her.”

“What time?”

Nine-thirty Dodge City. He gave pretense of considering. “After dinner. Her humor will be less foul.” He passed to the next matter. “And see if you can get that what’s his name.”

“Hank Cavanaugh.”

“See if you can get hold of him. Separately.”

She finished her coffee. “Anything else?”

Gratia Shawn. He wanted to see Gratia Shawn, the itch to look upon her, to hear her voice was tenfold increased over last night. He must not. He must not be coupled with her in any way until it was over.

“That’s all,” he said. “Thanks, Mike.”

She went out wondering. She could have been wrong. He was himself this morning, no destroying anger, no posturing of insulted ego. She couldn’t remember if she’d been wrong about him before. There was a first time for everything. The confinement of the train might have been his only ailment yesterday. The rest her own fantastic fear.

She rapped at Kitten’s door in passing. If Kitten weren’t awake by now, she ought to be. She’d be prowling all night if she slept all day. There was some response and Mike entered.

Kitten was still in bed, but she’d been out of it some time this morning. Her eyelashes and her hair were brushed, her mouth was painted. Mike wasn’t the one whom Kitten expected. The amber eyes were rude. “What do you want?”

Again Mike wondered why she’d wasted time yesterday worrying about this unpleasant little slut. Whatever Kitten received, she deserved. But not death. Even now, looking down at the white satin V that didn’t conceal Kitten’s breasts, seeing the red-tipped talons, smelling the esoteric perfume, disdaining Kitten and all that which she flaunted, the echo sounded.
But not death.

Mike said, “Viv wants to see you.”

“What for?”

Kitten wouldn’t let it be easy, civilized. Mike spoke carefully. “About your contract. He’s offering you a million to settle.”

Kitten’s lips curved away from her teeth. “Isn’t that too, too divine?” Her nails curved in until they touched the palms of her hand. “Tell him to go soak his head.”

“Now, Kitten.” She had the outward form of patience. She’d been forced to the humoring of temperament for so many years. A part of her job. “You should talk it over with him. How about after dinner tonight?”

“I won’t see him.” She spit out the words.

On Mike’s lips was the question, “Why not?” But her tongue was silent. She couldn’t ask it; she knew the answer. Her own fears rushed in again. He could have been deliberately misleading her this morning. She above all knew how he could fit a part to himself. At heart he had always been an actor. Perhaps he knew her as well as she knew him. If he had realized what had come into her mind yesterday, he would set out to dispel her suspicions. She didn’t ask the question. She said, “Surely you can spare a few minutes.”

“Not for him. If you’re afraid to tell him to go soak his head, tell him I’ve gone shopping. Tell him anything. Except that I’ll see him. Because I won’t.” She turned her shoulder on the pillow and closed her eyes.