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slowly, delightfully. Les looked at Kitten. “Go get Kitten’s tumbler, Hank, while I open the quart.” His slim hand closed on hers. “Hank needs the exercise, pet. And I need you.” She was watching Hank, but she knew the look in Les’s eyes didn't match his voice.
    Hank rose grumpily. “Where the hell do I go? Compartment F?”
    “No,” she warned. “That’s Pringle or Priggle. I’m drawing room B.” She pointed. “That way. The tumbler’s in the bath cabinet.”
    Hank growled, “I warn you I shall return.” He banged the door.
    Les opened a valise.
    She leaned back, lazily. “Why did you deliberately give him the wrong impression?”
    He lifted out the pinch bottle. “What’s up, Kitten? What are you afraid of?” He spoke as she opened her mouth. “What’s up with you and Viv?”
    It couldn’t be that it was so obvious. He was fishing, with Hank Cavanaugh’s shot in the dark for bait.
    She shrugged. “I’m not afraid.”
    “You’re an E string turned too tight.”
    “Don’t be poetic.” She moved over to the window. “I’ve been working too hard. I need a vacation.”
    “A long one?” He measured Scotch into the glass.
    She said, “Viv and I are through. But I don’t have to worry. I have contracts, and a lawyer. He can’t throw me out. Either I play Clavdia, or he doesn’t produce his masterpiece.”
    Les tossed his head and laughed. “You mean there’s a new one.”
    She held out her fingers for the drink. “I mean there won’t be a new one.” She smiled.
    Her smile covered her inward tremors. Viv had never been thwarted since he came to power. He wouldn’t be thwarted. But he couldn’t stop her. Only by death.
    She wasn’t coming back from New York. Her ticket was marked one way. Gratia Shawn had a round-trip ticket. The conductors hadn’t thought it strange when they checked the tickets. Gratia hadn’t noticed.
    She took a drink. “Did you ever hear about Viv’s wife?” It wasn’t what she wanted to talk about; she’d come here to forget. But Les collected odd scandals; in his ragbag brain there might be a scrap of information.
    “You mean Viv’s married?”
    “He was once. Years ago.”
    “I never knew he’d been married. What about her?”
    She said, “I don’t know about her. I never heard about her until this week. She’s dead.” She sipped. He couldn’t know it was tasteless. “He’s never mentioned her.”
    Les said, “Maybe he still grieves.” He knew it was absurd. “Who told you? Mike?”
    “Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. He’d go to Mike. She shouldn’t have spoken. But it didn’t matter really; he’d be offhand, casual. Les was clever and careful. His ferreting might bring to light more information. She switched the subject. “Who is Hank Cavanaugh?”
    “Newspaperman.”
    “You’ve known him a long time.” She made it statement.
    “Yes. I knew him in New York when he was just another reporter.”
    She was curious. “What is he now?”
    “He’s a big shot. He’s won a lot of medals on his stuff.”
    She slanted her eyes.
    “He was a war correspondent. Was in Singapore before Pearl Harbor. He’s just back from China.” Leslie was strangely thoughtful. “He must have cracked up over something. The drinking—”
    She said, “Is he broke?”
    “No. He can’t afford you but he isn’t broke.”
    “He looks it.”
    Leslie smiled. “He always looks that way.” He settled himself. “Tell me your troubles, darling. That’s what you came for, isn’t it?”
    “Definitely not. I came to be amused. To forget. Tell me a story. About you and Hank Cavanaugh.”
    His eyes slitted. “You’re not serious.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “About Hank.” He tittered. “Oh no, Kitten!”
    “Why not?” She rounded her mouth thoughtfully. “Three days and nothing to do. Anything can happen in that time.”
    “Anything can,” he agreed pleasantly. “Except making hay with Hank Cavanaugh.”
    “A Krister