Michael Gray Novels

by Henry Kuttner

  “A few days. Does she know that?”

  Zucker shook his head.

  Gray said savagely, “One more hour is too long now. She’s sitting there—”

  “I said she was going to be released.”

  “But she doesn’t know it. How do you think she feels?”

  “It won’t hurt her,” Zucker said, and turned away.

  “Do you believe that?”

  “There’s nothing I can do.”

  Gray said, “All right. I’ll string along for a few days. Except that either Mrs. Dunne finds out immediately she’s going to be released, and voluntarily agrees to stay here—while I’m present—or I’ll be back in half an hour with a lawyer, a habeas corpus, and some dynamite.”

  Zucker said, “You can’t do a thing. This has been off the record.”

  Gray started toward the door.

  Zucker said angrily, “All right, we’ll both go see her. But I don’t want her talking to Farragut or anyone else till we’re ready. I’ll do this only on condition she agrees to have no visitors without my okay.”

  Gray thought for a moment.

  “I’ll go along with that,” he said. “If Mrs. Dunne will.”

  Three days later a thin, pale-haired, middle-aged man was arrested and charged with murder.

  Gray was present when Maurice Hoyle made his statement. The man sat primly in his chair and spoke in a dry, precise voice. He seemed to be talking about something that had happened to somebody else. He seemed strangely relieved, as though an enormous tension had been drained out of him.

  “I feel safe now,” he said. “That’s the main thing. I haven’t felt safe since it happened.”

  The assistant district attorney asked a question.

  “Since Eleanor,” Hoyle said. “Before then, everything was all right. But after Eleanor let me make love to her, I couldn’t stop. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. I had to have her. It was like some kind of addiction. Even when she started asking me for money—I gave it to her. She’d lose it gambling. She’d ask me for more money. If I didn’t let her have it, she wouldn’t see me.

  “Gambling was the trouble. So I worked out a system. Roulette can be worked out systematically, like everything else. The system was sound enough. But I didn’t have enough margin. So I borrowed money from the company. I knew I could return it after I’d perfected my system. All I needed was time.”

  Hoyle suddenly looked surprised.

  “When Eleanor died, I owed Carol Webster eighteen thousand dollars,” he said, in a wondering voice. “I don’t see how it could have happened. How things could have got so much out of control. And then—Carol wanted the money.”

  His tone became dry and brittle again.

  “I’d worked out such a foolproof bookkeeping system for Sam that even I couldn’t safely take out that much money all at once. But I could manage about a thousand a month safely. I talked to somebody named Oliver, and we worked it out together. I didn’t tell him where the money would come from, of course. He convinced me I shouldn’t do any more gambling. And—I knew I had to pay the money back. I had to.

  “But then Sam was killed. I didn’t want any auditors coming in. I couldn’t afford that I could have managed things if Mary Dunne had inherited the business. She trusted me. I didn’t want her convicted for murder. But I didn’t want her to marry Arnold Farragut either. Farragut wouldn’t have let me run the business my own way. He might have called in auditors….

  “I’m glad it’s over,” Hoyle said, in a dead voice. “I feel safe now.”

  “Do you want to tell us why you killed Pope?” the assistant district attorney asked.

  Hoyle said, “Mary Dunne killed him. Didn’t she?”

  “It’s too late to try that. Why did you kill Pope?”

  Suddenly Hoyle began to cry.

  Later, Gray talked to Zucker.

  “Where’s Mrs. Dunne?” he asked.

  “Released this morning. As soon as we got Hoyle. He’d juggled the company’s books like an expert, but we’ve got experts too. And he cracked fast—except he still won’t confess to murder. But he will.”

  “What about the evidence you had against Farragut?”

  Zucker grinned.

  “It smelled wrong,” he said. “I don’t know. It just smelled wrong. I kept checking. The picklock must have been planted in Farragut’s place. And that druggist in San Jose who had Farragut’s name in his poison book. Our boys weren’t too happy about Farragut’s signature. It could have been faked. Turned out it was. Can you believe it—the druggist just wanted publicity! He finally admitted that Some publicity!”

  “What about the person who saw Farragut the night Eleanor Pope was killed?”

  “That was Carol Webster,” Zucker said. “She won’t admit it, but she’s a liar. Hell, the whole thing was a frame. Carol does what Bruce Oliver tells her. Oliver wanted to avoid publicity, that was one thing. But he wanted that eighteen thousand back from Hoyle, too. Which meant arranging for Hoyle to stay in charge of the business, and getting Mrs. Dunne cleared—and Farragut framed.”

  “What about Oliver?” Gray asked.

  “Well, there’s a warrant out. It doesn’t mean much. Oliver covered his tracks.”

  “And Carol Webster?”

  “We can’t hold her for anything,” Zucker said. “These people are smart. But Hoyle’s the one we want; that’s the main point.”

  Gray nodded.

  “Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He didn’t kill anybody.”

  Zucker slammed his open palm on his desk. His face turned a deep red.

  “Get the hell out of here!” he shouted. “Next thing you’ll be saying I killed those people—or maybe the Mayor did. I’ve worked like a dog on this case, and we’ve got it cracked, and now you—you—” He was speechless.

  Gray said, “Hoyle didn’t kill anybody.”

  Zucker drew a long breath.

  “Now look, Mike,” he said, with tight patience. “Hoyle killed Eleanor Pope. She wouldn’t sleep with him unless he gave her dough, and the more he got the gambling fever, the less he was able to give—and the more he embezzled. That’s one motive. Second, he was jealous of her other affairs. When a cold-blooded guy like Hoyle blows off, he can’t stop. Third, she was blackmailing him—threatening to tell her husband about their affair. How long would he keep his job then? Okay. Now Hoyle killed Sam Pope, who was going to find out about the embezzling—”

  “How?”

  Zucker shrugged.

  “Hoyle hears about Dunne taking cyanide. Maybe he figures Dunne for a suicide. Maybe he figures Farragut did it. Anyway, he gets an idea. He buys some cyanide and signs Farragut’s name. He knows Pope keeps medicine in a little bottle, so he slips the poison in when Pope’s out of the office. Hoyle killed Pope, figuring Farragut would be blamed, Mary would inherit the business, and he’d be safe.”

  Gray shook his head.

  “Hoyle wouldn’t have used a plan with so many variables. There was too much that could go wrong. Not unless he was triggered by some strong excitement—and this is a coldblooded plan. Hoyle would have worked it out in careful detail, taking no risks.”

  “He didn’t know he was taking risks.”

  Gray said, “I can’t buy it. Hoyle didn’t kill anybody.”

  “What if we get a confession from him?”

  “You might. He’ll confess to murder, too, if that makes him feel safer.”

  “Safer?”

  “Yes,” Gray said slowly. “He isn’t afraid of death. He’s afraid of life.”

  “Oh, that’s double talk,” Zucker said. “We’ve got legal intent and motive, we’ve got evidence—and we’ll get more. Listen. If Hoyle didn’t kill Pope and the others, who the hell did?”

  Gray didn’t answer.

  “Then that’s it,” Zucker said.

  “Unless I can prove you’re wrong,” Gray countered.

  25

>   A woman sat with Gray in his office, and she was invisible.

  Eleanor Pope.

  “Who killed you?” Gray asked silently.

  Silence.

  “Your husband? Sam had to get power and hang on to it. But you broke away from him. He could have killed you. Jealousy is a strong motive.”

  There was no answer.

  “Did Mary kill you? You’d taken Sam away from her. And you’d have inherited when Sam died; Mary had a financial motive too.”

  Gray stared at the empty air.

  “Howard could have killed you. Arnold Farragut could have. Bruce Oliver would kill. And Maurice Hoyle. Carol Webster?”

  Gray closed his eyes, searching his mind for some hidden clue. Carol Webster … gambling … Dostoevsky … Raskolnikov, Crime and Punishment, sin and expiation … Russian—roulette. Suicide. The spinning of a roulette wheel, faster and faster….

  Gray opened his eyes. He could not capture the clue. The key still eluded him.

  The key.

  Howard Dunne’s dreams of keys and doors. Somewhere, in the intricate structure of the dead man’s personality, was a missing factor that Gray sensed was vitally important.

  The analyst shook his head angrily. It eluded him. Perhaps he needed more information. He picked up the telephone and dialed Arnold Farragut’s number.

  “That man you were mentioning,” he said, after a few words. “The one who’d known Eleanor Pope. Did you ever locate him?”

  “No,” Farragut said. “I’ve been trying to remember his last name, but I couldn’t. Is it important now?”

  “I wish you’d let me know, if you do remember.”

  “All right,” Farragut said. “But I thought we were out of the woods, now that Hoyle’s been arrested. I’d never have suspected him.”

  “I wonder. You said he reminded you of Mr. Zero.”

  There was a blank pause. Then Farragut laughed.

  “I’ll be damned. The Elmer Rice play. Mr. Zero did commit a murder in that, didn’t he? But I wasn’t thinking of that part of it.”

  “He killed his employer,” Gray said.

  “That’s right, he did. Like Hoyle. But everything’s tied up now, isn’t it? I mean, the police have the right man.”

  “You sound a little doubtful,” Gray said.

  “I just want to relax,” Farragut answered. “I’m going to talk Mary into marrying me, and I want to be able to feel everything’s settled, for good.”

  “So should I,” Gray said. “The police are satisfied they’ve got the right man.”

  “But you’re not?”

  “I’m damned if I know. I wish you’d try to find that friend of Eleanor’s. Andy.”

  “Andy, yes. I still can’t remember his last name. But I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Thanks. Let me know,” Gray said. He hung up, wondering why he felt so uneasy. Finally he lit a cigarette and tried to reconstruct the personality of Howard Dunne. It didn’t seem difficult. A schizoid pattern, almost classical in its familiar pattern. But where did Eleanor Pope fit in?

  Almost everyone involved had a motive for killing her. She was a typical victim.

  The same conditions create the criminal and the victim.

  Where had that thought come from? Unbidden, it had leaped into Gray’s mind. He looked at the red ash of his cigarette. Hell, this wasn’t his responsibility now. It was up to the law. He wasn’t an enforcement officer or a judge; his job was to cure. He couldn’t judge. He could only help his patients to find the truth.

  Whatever truth was. But at least he knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t the crushing, warping sickness that bound the mind as the feet of Chinese girls were once bound, so that eventually they could not walk.

  It’s not my job now, he thought.

  But the troubling uneasiness would not leave him.

  By eight o’clock that night he was at Mary Dunne’s home.

  “Of course you can look around,” she said. “But I thought Hoyle—”

  “Maybe I’m just going around in circles,” Gray said, shrugging out of his topcoat.

  “I don’t know how to thank you for what you’ve done.”

  “The police did it, not me.”

  “You know what I mean,” Mary said, looking steadily at Gray.

  The analyst grinned.

  “You had a pretty tough time,” he said. “I hope things will be better for you now.”

  She said slowly, “I think they will. You know what I told you when I was in jail?”

  Gray looked inquiring.

  “About wanting to be myself,” she amplified. “I can do that now. I did my best for Howard—and for Sam, too. Now I’m going to marry Arnold.”

  Gray nodded. Mary Dunne gave him a questioning look.

  “What do you think about that? I mean, do you see anything against it?”

  “That’s an unfair question,” Gray said. “Especially as I can’t answer it. I don’t know enough about either of you. And if I did, I wouldn’t answer a question that you’ve got to decide for yourself. But I can say that I hope you’ll be very happy.”

  “I think he’ll let me be myself.”

  Gray nodded.

  “That’s important, If you need permission.”

  After a moment Mary said, “Would you like a drink?” Then she turned her head quickly and looked at the portable bar at the end of the room. Her breathing quickened.

  Gray said, “Don’t be afraid of it.”

  “I’ll have to move,” she said. “I can’t even offer you a drink without remembering how Howard died.”

  “I think it’s a good idea for you to move.”

  “It isn’t running away?”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” Gray said. “This part of your life is over. Why stay with it?”

  “I like that,” she said. “And—how about that drink?”

  “What I’d really like,” Gray said, “is coffee, if you have any around.”

  “Of course. I’ll get it.”

  “May I look the place over?”

  “Anywhere you like,” she said, and went out. Gray stood there, glancing around the room.

  It was here that Howard Dunne had lived and died.

  Gray closed his eyes and remembered Dunne. He had shared the dead man’s emotions often enough so that now he could summon them up as though they were almost his own. He was trying to be Dunne.

  When he opened his eyes, the room had a strange familiarity. It had begun to feel like home.

  Gray began to walk slowly around the room, picking up an ashtray, a pencil, a vase, letting his senses absorb the living reality of the room.

  Soon he turned and began to walk through the house. He entered what he knew immediately was Howard Dunne’s bedroom.

  Again he emptied his mind. From Gray’s memory, the ghost of the dead man rose and stood again in this familiar room.

  Suddenly Gray felt an overpowering sense of panic. It was not his own. It was the nightmare of the man who had lived within these walls and—

  Gray’s self stood back, distantly watching.

  The panic mounted. There was a feeling of imprisonment, of a clamping helplessness, and with that a rising tension and pressure. The walls began to close in tightly. A slow violence began to move toward the taut surface, a rage that could shatter the prisoning walls, unless a door—a forbidden door—a key—a secret, hidden key….

  As Gray tried to follow the thought, it was gone, and he stood confused in the room that was now a strange one. He shook his head, a little dazed. He had not actually been Howard Dunne, of course, but Gray knew that he had felt very much as Dunne had often felt, in this very room.

  He wandered out, paused in the dining room, and stared thoughtfully at the telephone. It was from here that Dunne had phoned while Sam Pope was mixing the drinks, just beyond the door. On a stand by the window an African violet, in a brick-colored pot, was not blooming. Gray considered it.

  Mary Dunne called, “Sugar or cre
am?”

  “Black, please,” Gray said abstractedly. He lifted the telephone, and the curved cylinder sent its tactile messages through his nerves. What had this meant to Dunne? Anything more than—a telephone?

  Mary appeared with the coffee.

  “Let’s go into the front room,” she said, and led the way. They settled near the empty fireplace.

  “Don’t you think Hoyle’s the right man?” Mary asked.

  Gray sighed.

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Do you … who do you think it might be?”

  “Hoyle, for all I know,” Gray said.

  “I hope nothing will go wrong,” she said.

  Gray said, “I know. But what could go wrong?”

  She was silent.

  Gray said, “You see, Maurice Hoyle’s valuable. He’s important.”

  Mary Dunne looked at him questioningly.

  The psychoanalyst moved uneasily in his chair.

  “I may dislike him personally. I do, really. But that hasn’t anything to do with—how the hell can I put it?—with the fact that he’s important. He’s a human being. He’s alive. I don’t know.”

  She said, “Isn’t there a limit to what a human being can do?”

  “The trouble is to know the limit,” Gray said unhappily. “You want me to stop prying, don’t you? If things went on just the way they are now, everybody would be satisfied, except Hoyle … only I can’t look at it that way.” He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “You see, I’ve got to save him, if he isn’t guilty. And if I can.”

  “But is there any reason to think he isn’t guilty?”

  “I haven’t a leg to stand on legally,” Gray told her.

  Mary said, “Arnold wants you to leave things as they are.”

  “I suppose he does.”

  “But Arnold … he isn’t the one. He didn’t kill anybody. It must be Hoyle.”

  Gray said irritably, “All I want from Arnold is the name of that friend of Eleanor Pope’s—Andy something.”

  “Andy Crain?” Mary said.

  Gray stared at her.

  “You know the guy?”

  “I met him once, just before he left for Europe. I don’t know whether Arnold met him or not. Had he forgotten the name?”