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Authors: Dorothy B. Hughes
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Kitten.” It broke. “For God’s sake, why would you want to marry him? He’d be a rotten husband.”
He’d told Mike. And Mike had brought up the subject. Kitten said, “I wanted to be the first Mrs. Spender.” Now that the opening was made, Kitten was almost afraid to move towards it. She was forced to; she must know. But she was awkward, the shadow of death lay there. “I didn’t know there’d been one.”
Mike didn’t help; she sat motionless as the desert air outside.
Kitten spoke hushedly, as if he were listening. “Why does he never talk about it? Why does no one ever talk about her?”
Mike said heavily, “She’s dead.”
“You told me that. But why is it she’s—” She finished slowly, “It’s as if she never existed.”
“He doesn’t want to be reminded of her.”
Kitten stood there, trying to control curiosity that was more, and less, than curiosity. Not wanting to ask, not wanting to know, yet having to seek the answer. “How did she die?” Her whisper was terrible.
Mike said in that monotone, “An overdose of sleeping tablets.”
There was no implication beyond the statement, not in Mike’s face nor in her shoulders nor her quiet hands and feet. There was nothing said or unsaid to frost Kitten’s fingertips. Nothing to diminish her voice to whisper. “Why? Why?”
Mike touched her tongue to her lips. The words came hard. “She wasn’t happy.”
Kitten took a small breath. “You knew her.” She realized that now. Mike had been his secretary since he first started in pictures, while he was yet an unknown. Mike had been his secretary when there was a Mrs. Spender. “What was she like?”
Before Mike answered the room was so quiet you could hear the beat of your heart.
Mike said, “She was just an ordinary woman. She liked her home and meeting friends for lunch and going shopping, having her hair done and driving out in the Valley on Sunday afternoons. She wasn’t ambitious, she just wished to be happy. She wanted children. She was very much in love with her husband.”
He killed her. Kitten hadn’t spoken aloud but it screamed from her throat. He killed her! She knew it now. Knew it in the way Mike had shrunk, diminished to a green pinpoint before her eyes, it was what Mike had tried to tell her yesterday. Tried but failed, because the words wouldn’t come out of her mouth. The horror was like a fog before Kitten’s face. She repeated, “Why, why?”
The Chief stirred. It crept away from the station so quietly it might not be moving, only giving the illusion of moving. But the faces were going away.
“It was Rosaleen.” Mike didn’t look at Kitten, her fingers twisted together. “He isn’t like other men. He sees everything through a dream.”
Kitten’s voice was hard. “His dream.” Bitter and hard as green fruit. “For once he’s going to have to pay. Pay through the nose. He’s not going to kick me out the way he did the others. Maybe you can wake him up long enough to tell him that.”
She began penciling the pages rapidly.
Mike picked up the blotch from the floor, smoothed it out. She said, “I wish I could tell him.”
Kitten thrust the sheaf at her. She wasn’t going to think about it longer now. She knew enough to keep away from Viv Spender. There’d be no overdose of sleeping tablets for her. She rose from the seat.
“Thanks, Mike.”
“Kitten—”
She turned back at the door.
Mike said only, “Be careful.” It wasn’t what she’d started to say.
Kitten smiled, lifted her hand in salute. But there was no smile on her face as she stood in the corridor outside the compartment. She stood a moment, then fled back to the next car as if the hooded shadow were falling over her head.
THREE
H E HAD PLANNED AND KITTEN HAD ELUDED THE PLAN. He sat in the car tearing paper into small neat pieces. He didn’t know where the paper had come from but he tore it down, across, across again until the palm of his hand was filled with the small
He’d told Mike. And Mike had brought up the subject. Kitten said, “I wanted to be the first Mrs. Spender.” Now that the opening was made, Kitten was almost afraid to move towards it. She was forced to; she must know. But she was awkward, the shadow of death lay there. “I didn’t know there’d been one.”
Mike didn’t help; she sat motionless as the desert air outside.
Kitten spoke hushedly, as if he were listening. “Why does he never talk about it? Why does no one ever talk about her?”
Mike said heavily, “She’s dead.”
“You told me that. But why is it she’s—” She finished slowly, “It’s as if she never existed.”
“He doesn’t want to be reminded of her.”
Kitten stood there, trying to control curiosity that was more, and less, than curiosity. Not wanting to ask, not wanting to know, yet having to seek the answer. “How did she die?” Her whisper was terrible.
Mike said in that monotone, “An overdose of sleeping tablets.”
There was no implication beyond the statement, not in Mike’s face nor in her shoulders nor her quiet hands and feet. There was nothing said or unsaid to frost Kitten’s fingertips. Nothing to diminish her voice to whisper. “Why? Why?”
Mike touched her tongue to her lips. The words came hard. “She wasn’t happy.”
Kitten took a small breath. “You knew her.” She realized that now. Mike had been his secretary since he first started in pictures, while he was yet an unknown. Mike had been his secretary when there was a Mrs. Spender. “What was she like?”
Before Mike answered the room was so quiet you could hear the beat of your heart.
Mike said, “She was just an ordinary woman. She liked her home and meeting friends for lunch and going shopping, having her hair done and driving out in the Valley on Sunday afternoons. She wasn’t ambitious, she just wished to be happy. She wanted children. She was very much in love with her husband.”
He killed her. Kitten hadn’t spoken aloud but it screamed from her throat. He killed her! She knew it now. Knew it in the way Mike had shrunk, diminished to a green pinpoint before her eyes, it was what Mike had tried to tell her yesterday. Tried but failed, because the words wouldn’t come out of her mouth. The horror was like a fog before Kitten’s face. She repeated, “Why, why?”
The Chief stirred. It crept away from the station so quietly it might not be moving, only giving the illusion of moving. But the faces were going away.
“It was Rosaleen.” Mike didn’t look at Kitten, her fingers twisted together. “He isn’t like other men. He sees everything through a dream.”
Kitten’s voice was hard. “His dream.” Bitter and hard as green fruit. “For once he’s going to have to pay. Pay through the nose. He’s not going to kick me out the way he did the others. Maybe you can wake him up long enough to tell him that.”
She began penciling the pages rapidly.
Mike picked up the blotch from the floor, smoothed it out. She said, “I wish I could tell him.”
Kitten thrust the sheaf at her. She wasn’t going to think about it longer now. She knew enough to keep away from Viv Spender. There’d be no overdose of sleeping tablets for her. She rose from the seat.
“Thanks, Mike.”
“Kitten—”
She turned back at the door.
Mike said only, “Be careful.” It wasn’t what she’d started to say.
Kitten smiled, lifted her hand in salute. But there was no smile on her face as she stood in the corridor outside the compartment. She stood a moment, then fled back to the next car as if the hooded shadow were falling over her head.
THREE
H E HAD PLANNED AND KITTEN HAD ELUDED THE PLAN. He sat in the car tearing paper into small neat pieces. He didn’t know where the paper had come from but he tore it down, across, across again until the palm of his hand was filled with the small
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