“I gather you know who I am. And I’ve got a question to ask. If I hadn’t got Mrs. Dunne to meet me last night, would Howard be alive now?”
Gray said, “Mr. Farragut, I’m not God. I can’t answer a question like that.”
Farragut grinned.
“Okay. That’s how I feel about it too. But Mary doesn’t. I’m not going to beat around the bush. I want to marry the girl. But if she feels I’m responsible for Howard’s death, she’ll say no.”
“Do you want me to tell her you weren’t responsible?” Gray asked.
“Just that,” Farragut said. “Personally, I don’t give a damn about my responsibility. I never have, and I’ve always got along. But right now, what’s important is what Mary believes. People believe what they want to, anyway,” he finished, his voice faintly angry.
“And you don’t?”
“Sure I do. Only I know it. Now—Mary deserves something better than what she’s been getting. With Howard, it was a bad bargain. I can give her a better one. What I’m afraid of now is that she’ll bounce away from me because of the way I played it last night.”
Gray said wearily, “I’m sorry. I can’t do any—”
The telephone rang from the inner office.
“Excuse me,” Gray said, and went in, closing the door behind him.
A dry, precise voice said, “This is Maurice Hoyle speaking. Mr. Gray?”
“Yes,” Gray said.
“Mr. Pope asked me to call you about your bill.”
“What bill?”
“On Mr. Dunne. Mr. Pope would like to send you a check for whatever amount Mr. Dunne owed you.”
Gray said gently, “That has nothing to do with Mr. Pope.”
Hoyle hesitated.
“I didn’t make myself clear. Mr. Pope doesn’t want you to send your bill to Mrs. Dunne.”
Gray said, “I’ll let you know.”
“If you could tell me the amount now, I can have a check in the mail tonight.”
“I’ll have to let you know later,” Gray said.
“But… very well. Tomorrow?”
“I’ll let you know,” Gray repeated inflexibly. “Good-by.”
“… Good-by.”
Gray hung up. He had acted on a hunch. As yet, he didn’t know why, but he’d find out later. Meanwhile he went back into the outer office.
Farragut was gone.
Gray felt relieved. He still had a few minutes before Mary Dunne was due.
Gray said, “The police will do everything they can, Mrs. Dunne.”
She shook her head slowly.
“I’ve got to know the truth,” she said.
Gray looked at her thoughtfully.
“Why?” he asked.
After a time Mary Dunne said, “So I’ll know how much I was really to blame.”
Gray said, “What difference will it make in your life? Really?”
“But … it will make all the difference in the world. Don’t you see that?”
“I mean specifically. Just what are your plans now?”
“I don’t have any. I can’t—it’s too soon. I—I don’t want to make any more mistakes. That’s why I have to know what really happened.”
“And you don’t think the police will find out?”
She hesitated.
“Even if they do, I won’t really be satisfied. It isn’t so much what happened as why it happened. I’ve got to find out.”
“So you won’t make any more mistakes, you said. What sort of mistakes?”
“Sam and Arnold have both been trying to see me. I—I’m afraid to. They’ll want me to make decisions, and I can’t. I’m so damned tired. I tried to fit myself to Howard… I know I shouldn’t say this. But when I first knew Howard was dead, I felt … the most blessed sense of relief.” She looked at her hands, folded in her lap. “And then I felt like some kind of monster!”
Gray said, “We all have these feelings, you know. You should realize that if Howard had lived, and if he had recovered from his illness, a divorce might have been desirable.”
“You mean he’d have wanted a divorce?”
“You might both have wanted it, eventually. Marriage is often used as an escape. One or both partners may marry for neurotic reasons. And if the neuroses are cured, sometimes there’s no real reason for the pair to stay together.”
She said, “I’ve heard that psychoanalysis often ends in divorce.”
Gray nodded.
“Yes. Those are the cases you’re most apt to hear about. There are probably more cases where analysis saves a marriage, but that isn’t news. The real point is that when it’s a choice between a patient’s health and his marriage, it means the marriage is too neurotic. If neuroses were always cured before marriage—” Gray shrugged.
“Perhaps—” Mary Dunne hesitated. “Perhaps I should have had therapy. Not Howard.”
“Almost everybody has some neurotic tendencies,” Gray said. “But it isn’t unrealistic to feel under a strain when you have a sick husband. And Howard was sick. His illness had acquired a great deal of momentum.” Gray looked at the woman’s drawn mouth. “I can tell you now that his illness began when he was a child. Whether or not he had ever met you, I believe that he would have grown worse.”
“But all the police can hope to find is external evidence. That won’t tell me what I need to know. Whether Howard blamed me. …”
“For what?”
“Oh—everything.”
“That’s one question,” Gray said. “Did Howard blame you? But another question is whether you were to blame. He blamed me for many things, too, at times. That’s part of a neurosis. Don’t forget that objective evidence is important. That’s the only way to check on the truth of a story. There was a case of a man who believed he was an international spy, and that foreign agents were trying to kill him. He was diagnosed as psychotic—paranoia. But it turned out that he actually was a spy, and there had been attempts on his life.”
“What happened to him?”
“Well,” Gray said, “just before he was released, one of the doctors happened to ask him why foreign agents were trying to kill him. And he explained it was because his eyes were made of uranium.”
Mary Dunne gave a startled laugh.
“He was—crazy?”
“Psychotic, yes,” Gray said. “But the only way to make certain was by checking the objective evidence.”
She said, “I don’t know why I laughed. It isn’t really so funny. Is it?”
“No. Some things aren’t as funny as they seem. And some things aren’t quite as hopeless as they seem, either. Death is a fact everybody has to face.”
“Death? But … do you think Howard killed himself?”
“What are you afraid of?” Gray asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” she said. Her shoulders straightened. “I’m not even sure now why I wanted to see you. I guess I’m being a considerable nuisance.”
“No,” Gray said. “This is my job.”
“But I won’t keep you any longer now. Except that I’d like to know how much we owe you.”
“We?”
“Howard.”
“Oh, that,” Gray said. “There’s nothing owing.”
“But Howard paid you only for the first month, didn’t he?”
“After he was able to be more frank about his financial affairs, we readjusted the fees. So the first check really covered everything.”
“Well … if that’s the way you want it.”
“That’s the way it was arranged,” Gray said.
She stood up.
“I’d rather stay here,” she said helplessly.
Then her shoulders squared and she turned to the door.
Gray opened it for her and watched her go.
Three days later Sam Pope died.
17
“Cyanide. The same thing that killed Howard Dunne,” Captain Zucker said. “Mike, I wish you’d phoned before coming down. I’m so jammed up—”
“I want to know what happened.”
“Well, let me ask you something. Will you buy this? Pope killed his wife. Then he killed his brother-in-law, who knew too much, and then he got remorseful and killed himself.”
“How the hell do I know if I’ll buy it?” Gray asked angrily. “I don’t know the circumstances.”
“Well, do you see anything against that idea?”
“Yes, I do. Pope hated Howard Dunne. If he’d killed Dunne with cyanide, he’d probably have used some other method to kill himself. He wouldn’t want to identify himself with Dunne even in that way. There’s my answer, and it doesn’t mean a damn thing, because Pope equally well might have felt that the punishment should fit the crime.”
“In other words, you don’t know.”
“Who said I did?”
Zucker grunted. “Well, I’m damn sure we’ve got the killer anyway.”
“Who?” Gray asked.
“Mrs. Dunne. I think it’s wrapped up, motive and opportunity. She was in Pope’s apartment yesterday and had a hell of a fight with him. She could have slipped the poison into Pope’s medicine then—”
“What medicine?”
“Some belladonna prescription. He had stomach trouble. He carried a little bottle around with him, and refilled it when it ran low from a bigger bottle in his medicine cabinet. We found cyanide in both bottles.”
“When did he refill the small one?”
“Maybe last night. It was nearly full. He went into a downtown coffee shop for breakfast this morning, put some of his medicine in a glass of water, drank it, and keeled over.”
“Then the poison could have been planted before last night.”
“It could. But we lifted Mrs. Dunne’s prints from both bottles. There are a few other little points, too. Pope had quite a lot of dough. Plus his restaurant business. He phoned his lawyer yesterday about changing his will. He didn’t have time to, though. Mrs. Dunne still inherits.”
“Did Pope say why he wanted to change his will?
“Yes. He asked his lawyer if his reason would hold up in court. He didn’t want his sister to marry Arnold Farragut.” Zucker shrugged. “If things had worked out, she’d be free to marry Farragut and inherit Pope’s dough. Her husband died pretty conveniently, too. Right at a time when it would look like he’d flipped his lid and killed himself.”
“Are you charging her with Howard Dunne’s murder too?”
“I’m not,” Zucker said. “The D.A. is.”
“What about Eleanor Pope’s death?” Gray asked. “You think she did that too?”
“She had a motive. Dunne was sleeping with Eleanor Pope, wasn’t he?”
Gray said irritably, “I want to see Mrs. Dunne.”
“It can’t be done.”
“You’re going to have one hell of an uncooperative witness when I’m called to testify, Harry.”
“Okay, go see her,” Zucker said. “Maybe that’s what you need to convince yourself. Mary Dunne is a triple killer!”
18
When he came back, Gray’s face had changed. It was set and a little pale.
Zucker said, “Well?”
Gray gave him a slow stare.
“Just how sure are you that she’s guilty?” the analyst asked.
“I told you how it looked. Did she tell you another story?”
“She didn’t tell me much,” Gray said. “She couldn’t.” He shook his head. “Suppose she isn’t guilty. I’m not sure she can stand up to this kind of shock. She’s been blaming herself for Dunne’s death anyway, and this—I don’t like it at all.”
“She’ll get medical attention if she needs it.”
Gray said angrily, “She needs to feel somebody’s helping her. She’s lived with a very neurotic man for years, and she did her damnedest for him, and it was no joke for her. First her sister-in-law is murdered. Then her husband and her brother die, and she’s accused of killing all three.”
“She’s sane, isn’t she?”
“She’s perfectly sane. But if you put enough pressure on, anybody will crack.”
“We haven’t stopped the investigation. Do you think we’re trying to frame her?”
“No. But I’m concerned about her health. And I don’t believe she’s guilty.”
“Got any evidence?”
“Nothing that would hold up in court.”
“Psychoanalytic theory, eh?”
Gray said, “Yes. Call it that. But I know how these things work, Harry. Listen. I want permission to interview some of the people involved.”
“In what capacity?”
Gray shrugged.
Zucker said, “I can’t get you that kind of permission. If you want to talk to people, I can’t stop you, either. But you’re not representing the department.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say. Okay. Do you have any objection?”
“Suppose I did?”
Gray said, “Mrs. Dunne isn’t even a patient of mine. But her husband was. All I know is that I won’t get much sleep until—” Suddenly he slammed his fist into his palm. “Damn it, somebody’s got to do something for her!”
“Is that your job?”
“No,” Gray said. “I’m no detective. I’m a psychoanalyst. But this whole case depends on psychological patterns. If they can be figured out, we may know the right answer.” He hesitated. “Maybe it is my job. Nobody else is doing anything about it. Mrs. Dunne doesn’t have any money. She … well, where can she get help? And her husband was my patient. That makes it my job, somehow. I don’t know what I can do. But if Mary Dunne feels that somebody’s trying to help her—somebody who believes in her—it’ll make a hell of a lot of difference to her.”
“Maybe you could help her more by giving her treatment,” Zucker said ironically.
“Even if that were possible, it’s no answer now. You can’t cure an emotional conflict if the external causes are too strong. Mary Dunne’s in jail because two people died—”
“Three. Don’t forget Eleanor Pope. I’m not.”
“All right. The way to help Mary Dunne is to find out how those deaths really occurred. And that means finding out why they occurred.”
Zucker said, “I think you’re making a mistake, Mike. This isn’t your kind of work. I know we’ve often asked your professional advice, but that’s different. In your shoes, I’d stay clear.”
“Two months ago I might have been able to,” Gray said. “Now it’s too late.”
Zucker said, “Keep me posted, just in case you turn up anything. But I still think it’s a mistake—and it could be dangerous.”
“How do you mean that?” Gray asked.
“I mean dangerous to you, Mike. Don’t forget you’ll be looking for a killer.”
19
Gray needed to talk to Mary Dunne, but that would have to wait. By tomorrow, probably, she would have lost the protective numbness that had made her so unresponsive, and then she could talk more freely. Gray went back to his office and his duties, but that evening he saw Maurice Hoyle.
The thin, pale-haired, middle-aged general manager seemed completely untouched by the violence that had passed so close to him. His dry, precise voice was even more controlled than usual, and, though their booth in the cocktail lounge was toward the back and fairly quiet, Hoyle seemed to hesitate whenever an outburst of voices came.
“I don’t know what to think,” Hoyle said. “This is a terrible thing. I don’t quite see how you enter into it, Mr. Gray, but I’ll be glad to help in any way I can.”
“I don’t come into it, officially,” Gray said. “In a way, I’m continuing the psychoanalysis of Howard Dunne.”
Hoyle looked blank.
“All I can tell you is what I’ve already told the police, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Not quite. I’m not going to ask you the same questions. For example, I’d like to know how you felt toward Dunne.”
Hoyle sipped his sherry as though he didn’t like it.
“Tha
t’s rather vague,” he said. “Can you be more specific?”
“Did you like him? Or dislike him?”
Hoyle thought that over carefully.
“I really couldn’t say. I scarcely knew him.”
“He gave you no impression, favorable or unfavorable?”
Hoyle said, “I really didn’t know him.” He considered his sherry. “I didn’t like or dislike him. I suppose I felt neutral.”
“What about Mrs. Dunne?”
Hoyle said, “Do you think she’s guilty?”
“Do you?”
Hoyle was silent.
Gray said, “Do you like her? Or not?”
Hoyle gave a helpless shrug.
“I didn’t know her either,” he said. “You don’t like or dislike people you don’t know.”
“What about Pope?”
Hoyle said, “I don’t—”
“Don’t tell me you had no feelings about him,” Gray said, with a faint smile.
Hoyle gave him a solemn look.
“I wasn’t going to. Sam was a good man to work for. His only real fault was his recklessness.”
“How’s that?”
“He never learned how to cut his losses,” Hoyle said, with a strange, distant enthusiasm. “Business is a science, you know. It can be quantified, like most things. But that means you have to follow certain plans, once they’re worked out, and Sam couldn’t stick to a plan when he felt there was a risk. He’d overextend and risk a much larger loss rather than take a small one. He came to depend on me because”—Hoyle smiled dryly—“he felt I was an old fogey. I am conservative. And I’ve worked hard. It’s a substitute for other assets I don’t have.”
“Pope was reckless? Can you tell me what shape his business is in, or isn’t that a fair question?”
“Well, naturally I can’t give you private information. I can say that the business is in excellent shape. Sam was worth a good deal of money, and since I suppose the business will keep on operating, that’s worth a considerable amount too.”
“How does that fit in with his not wanting to take any losses?”
“That’s where I fit in,” Hoyle said, ignoring a waiter who had materialized by the table. “I went to work for him soon after he started the business. I knew he was going to be very successful. He was a born entrepreneur, except for his recklessness. And after Sam learned to use me as a counterbalance, that problem was solved.”
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