Michael Gray Novels

by Henry Kuttner

  “I don’t know how recently. I don’t keep books on Udall’s belongings. Yes, I think I noticed him with it only a day or two before the—” He paused. “Before he was picked up by the police,” he said. Then, savagely, he added, “He used it, didn’t he? Sure he had it.”

  Zucker, who had been jingling coins restlessly in his pocket, broke in suddenly.

  “About that key, Mr. Avery. The one Udall had in his possession—”

  “The one he claims Ann gave him? What about it?”

  “You’re sure Mrs. Avery never mentioned it to you?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Why should she give him a key?”

  “Any more thoughts on how he could have got it?”

  Avery held the razor under the running water. He pushed the stopper handle, and water gurgled noisily down the drain. “Only what I’ve already said. Of course he could have got hold of my key at the theater and had a duplicate made. I can’t think of any other way.”

  Zucker said, “I have the key here that was found on him. Mind if I try it in the door?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Zucker disappeared down the hall. The lock was heard to click several times from the living room. Zucker came back.

  “It’s the one, all right.” He looked down at it speculatively. “We’ve tried all the duplicate-key makers in the neighborhood,” he said. “No luck yet.”

  “It’s a big city,” Avery reminded him. They were all silent, thinking how big it was and how difficult to comb for lost items like a locksmith with a memory for faces, or a switchblade knife with blood traces inside the hilt.

  Avery opened the mirror cabinet and got out a blade cartridge. He jabbed it into the razor, and the old blade tinkled to the basin as the new one slid into place.

  “About the ring Eddie had,” Gray said. “You know he claims Mrs. Avery gave it to him.”

  Avery made a sound of violent disbelief.

  Gray went on, “Did Mrs. Avery wear the ring often?”

  “I never saw her wear it. She kept it with her other jewelry, in a box in her bureau.”

  “Mind showing us?”

  Avery had picked up the old blade. He stood looking at it blankly, not seeing anything in front of him. Now he laid it carefully down, swung the cabinet door open, and put his razor on the shelf. Gray had a glimpse of medicine bottles, hair tonic, a box of face powder with a plush puff on it. There were two toothbrushes side by side in glasses on the bottom shelf, one on each side of the razor-blade disposal slot in the back wall. Gray wondered pointlessly which one had been Ann’s.

  “No, I don’t mind,” Avery said. He picked up a cake of carnation-scented pink soap and washed his hands carefully. His face was set hard, and he did not seem to be fully aware of what he was doing. He dried his hands on a dingy yellow towel. “Come on,” he said. “This way.”

  The bedroom shades were drawn to the sill. The bed had been stripped; a folded spread lay at its foot. Here, too, a faint film of dust told of two weeks’ neglect.

  “I’ve been sleeping in the guest room,” Avery said. “Ever since—” He shrugged and crossed heavily to the bureau, pulled out a shallow upper drawer. The leather box inside was powdery with grayish film. Avery frowned at it.

  Zucker said apologetically, “We had to go over it for prints, of course. It makes a mess.”

  “Were Eddie’s on it?” Gray asked.

  Zucker hesitated. “We can’t make positive identification. The surface doesn’t take prints too well.”

  “They’re on it,” Avery stated flatly. “How else did he get the ring?” He opened the leather box. A bright welter of jewels winked up at them, brilliants, pearly surfaces, silver, gold.

  “Anything expensive here?” Zucker asked.

  Avery shook his head. “Costume jewelry. We’re not rich people. The sapphire ring was the only thing worth more than a few dollars. Udall knew what he was doing.”

  The bureau top held an untidy array of feminine belongings, gray with fingerprint powder and dulling with accumulated dust. Avery, his face tight, pushed a box of face tissues and a bottle of nail polish quickly aside and dumped the contents of the leather box onto the bureau. Morning light flashed from rhinestone facets and silvery surfaces. Avery probed among them with a lean forefinger.

  Gray was trying to picture Ann Avery’s face as he had seen it in the snapshot, with these earrings in the ears, those brilliants around the slender throat. How often she must have faced herself in this filmed mirror, meeting her own troubled glance, thinking her troubled thoughts. He remembered the sensuous mouth with the firmness of repression on it. He glanced curiously at Avery.

  Zucker asked, “Did Mrs. Avery ever give away jewelry?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Gray said, “What about other things? I mean, did she often make presents to people?”

  Avery looked at him coldly. “No.”

  “Have you any idea what she meant,” Gray said, “when she told Eddie the sapphire ring was Blanche Udall’s?”

  “She never told him that,” Avery said flatly. “How could she? He stole the ring. And she never met the Udall woman in her life.” His glance moved from Gray to Zucker and back again. Suddenly his hand clenched into a fist on the bureau top.

  “What’s the good of wasting your time like this?” he demanded, his voice tight. “We all know who did it. Let Udall take his medicine and be done with it, can’t you? If he gets off in spite of everything—” He struck the bureau top a heavy blow, making the bottles dance.

  “I understand now,” he said harshly, “why people sometimes take the law into their own hands. I’m just waiting to see what’s going to happen to that little bastard. Just waiting. And if he gets off—” He didn’t finish, but the clenched fist tightened. Avery was trembling a little.

  Zucker said in an uncomfortable voice, “We know how you feel, Avery. But—”

  “You don’t know how I feel. You don’t know at all.”

  Gray said quickly, “All right, Harry, I think we’ve done the job as well as we can. Mr. Avery, thanks for your time. We won’t keep you any longer.”

  He stood waiting a moment. But Avery made no move. So the two men said good-by and went out alone down the hall to the front door. Avery stood motionless and alone in the dusty bedroom with the jewels spilled out before him.

  Gray and Zucker stood by the police car and looked at each other questioningly. Neither had spoken a word since they left the Avery door. Finally Zucker asked,

  “Well, what do you say?”

  “I’m not sure,” Gray told him. “Avery’s in a bad way.”

  “Recognize his voice?”

  “I don’t know. A whisper’s such a good disguise. I’d say no, but I couldn’t swear it.” He shook his head. A breeze of biting freshness swept the street with a salty ocean smell, whipping Gray’s red hair on his forehead.

  “Everything about that ring bothers me,” he said. “How would a kid like Eddie know enough to pick the one valuable piece out of a collection of junk jewelry?”

  Zucker shrugged. “Maybe she mentioned to him once how valuable it is.”

  “Maybe,” Gray said. He thought a moment. “Avery certainly wants to see Eddie get the limit.”

  “Do you blame him?”

  “I’m just wondering. I wish I knew what Ann Avery really was to her husband.”

  “You’re off base,” Zucker told him. “Why wouldn’t the guy hate Udall? I’m married, Mike. I know how Avery feels.”

  Gray said, “Did you notice how Avery shoved Ann’s stuff aside on the bureau?”

  “He just moved it out of the way.”

  “Yes. But—” Gray hesitated. “After a person dies, the things that belonged to the person don’t suddenly become—just things. They’re the ghosts, Harry. You don’t just shove them aside without thinking. You do think. You remember who they belonged to.”

  Zucker shook his head. “Pretty thin.”

  “Maybe so. And yet his whole
attitude—there was real feeling in his voice when he mentioned Eddie. Strong, hostile feeling. I kept listening for a corresponding feeling about his wife. Didn’t you notice? He ought to react that strongly to the mention of Ann.”

  “You think he doesn’t?”

  “Oh, he reacts. But—I don’t know.” Gray shook his head doubtfully. “There’s something just a little wrong. Just a feeling.” He laughed at himself. “I’m reaching. I know it.”

  Zucker said in a brisk voice, “Well, I want to call in before we leave. Want me to drop you somewhere?”

  “I’ve got to get back to my office,” Gray said. “I’ve got a patient coming in. But I’m not through with this business yet, Harry. Not quite. I think I’ll talk to this man Quentin, for one thing, the teacher whose lab Eddie tore up.”

  Zucker said, “Suit yourself. Waste your time if you want to. Wait till I make my call and I’ll drop you off at your office.”

  Gray watched him down the street. In a few moments Zucker was back.

  “You’d better call downtown,” Zucker said. “They’ve been trying to locate you.”

  “They’ve found that Whitey kid?” Gray asked.

  “No. It’s about Udall. Judge Sheffield’s moved the hearing up to this afternoon. They want you to be ready with your report on Udall today.”

  Gray said evenly, “This is pretty sudden. What’s behind it?”

  “Well, they don’t like delay on juvenile cases,” Zucker told him a little uneasily. “It’s been two weeks already since the pre-detention hearing.”

  “That’s not the only reason. Damn it, I can’t give a sound professional opinion this soon.”

  “I think they may take a statement from that other man, the psychiatrist in the hospital, the one on this case up to a few days ago. Sheffield wanted an extra opinion from you, but the responsibility isn’t entirely on you, Mike. He certainly isn’t giving you much time, I’ll have to admit.”

  Gray said angrily, “I’ve got my own patients. Even if I can change some appointments, I—well, I suppose it can’t be helped. I did want to talk to Eddie’s mother—”

  “She’ll be at the hearing. So will the Reiners, his foster parents.”

  “What good will that do? I won’t have a chance to talk. I promised Eddie I’d see him again before the hearing. Wait a minute. I’d better telephone. Then you can drop me off.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll let you know,” Gray said over his shoulder, and walked quickly toward the drugstore on the corner.

  7

  At two-fifteen that afternoon the bailiff led Gray through the courtroom, past the bench, and into the chambers of Judge Angus Sheffield. Court was not in session, but a number of children and adults were waiting uneasily in the spectators’ seats behind the rail until their turn came to be called into the chambers where the private hearings of the juvenile court were held. Eddie Udall was nowhere in sight.

  Gray had spent an uncomfortable twenty minutes with the boy at noon. He had rearranged his appointments to leave part of the afternoon free, and then he had hurried across town to his interview with Eddie Udall.

  It was wasted time.

  Eddie had been taciturn when he wasn’t actively hostile. He sat on the chair in the same office where they had met before, his hands clasped before him, his chin on his chest, not bothering to meet Gray’s eyes. It was probably the prospect of the hearing this afternoon that had soured the boy’s temper, Gray thought. He couldn’t blame him. Gray had gone away with large promises of further talks, promises he now couldn’t keep. Eddie felt rejected yet again. Nobody kept his promise. Nobody stayed with him. Carradine went to New York. Mawson came down with pneumonia. Gray lied about the hearing. Blanche Udall had never wanted him.

  And Ann Avery?

  Gray did his best. He explained and said he was sorry. He told Eddie the story of last night’s intruder, and got only the faintest flicker of interest. Nothing that happened to other people was of much importance to Eddie Udall just now. Gray thought he got a slight response when he mentioned the narcotics angle, but nothing more. If Eddie knew the boy named Whitey, he volunteered nothing. Gray had left the room with a feeling of complete frustration.

  The bailiff closed the door behind Gray. Judge Sheffield looked up from behind his desk. The judge’s chambers, with their suggestion of rich, impressive furnishings were nothing more than a smallish, neat office. Judge Sheffield himself was small and neat, gray-haired, with a quiet face and sharp eyes.

  He stood up and offered his hand as Gray came in. “Good afternoon, Mr. Gray. I’m glad you could make it, even on such short notice. Do you know Mr. Polk?”

  Gray had met the Public Defender before. They shook hands. The other man, Bill O’Donnelly, was the assistant probation officer who had handled Eddie before the murder. Gray had already had a brief talk with him.

  “Let’s sit down,” Sheffield said. He tapped a file of papers on his desk. “I’m sorry to rush things like this, but it became necessary. I hope you’ve been able to come to conclusions about Eddie Udall, Mr. Gray.”

  Gray said, “There hasn’t been enough time.”

  “But have you formed any opinion at all?”

  Gray hesitated. “It’s hard to say. I do think it’s important to investigate further.”

  Polk, the Public Defender, said, “Dr. Carradine and Dr Mawson are also being consulted.”

  Gray nodded. “Carradine hasn’t seen Eddie in six months,” he said. “Mawson had to drop out in the middle. Has he been heard from today?”

  “I talked to him on the telephone for nearly twenty minutes,” the judge said. “He’s given me his opinion. And like you, Mr. Gray, he’s had an opportunity to examine Dr. Carradine’s report on the boy.”

  There was a silence.

  Judge Sheffield spoke again. “I’m sorry you haven’t had more time, Mr. Gray. If you’d prefer not to give your opinion, under the circumstances, that is certainly your privilege. But what happens here today isn’t irrevocable, you know. I felt it important that a decision be reached at once, because of the very unfortunate publicity given to this case. The worst thing that can happen from every aspect is more delay. People feel, and have the right to feel, that justice must be prompt.”

  Gray glanced at the Public Defender.

  Polk said, “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Gray. A foregone conclusion? I’m here ex officio. I don’t know what Judge Sheffield will decide any more than you do. If Udall goes to juvenile, then I’ve wasted half an hour. If he goes as an adult to criminal court, my office will be representing him and the more I know about the whole situation the better. I want to observe Udall when he comes in. If I have to defend him I need to know him.”

  Gray said, “Of course. But isn’t it up to his mother to pay for the defense?”

  O’Donnelly, the probation officer, spoke up. “She says she’s broke. She isn’t working now and she has no income at all.”

  Judge Sheffield was turning over the papers on his desk. Studying them, he said, “Doesn’t she have a small income from a private legacy?”

  “Not any more—she says. It’s being checked, of course.”

  “All right,” the judge said. “Now, Mr. Gray, I’m afraid you missed some of this. Mr. O’Donnelly, do you want to summarize your points?”

  The assistant probation officer said, “Well, as I’ve been saying, Eddie’s made a pretty good adjustment since he’s been with the Reiners. They like him, and he seems to like them very much. It would have been better if we’d got him out of his old neighborhood completely, but it was the middle of the school term, and he’s had some pretty positive influences there, too. What it adds up to is that the murder took me completely by surprise.” He paused. “At least, Eddie was having ups and downs, but more ups than downs.”

  Gray said, “He doesn’t admit the murder. Has he tried to cover up much in the past by denials?”

  O’Donnelly said, “Yes, he has. Sometimes I could get through t
he defenses—I mean he was getting to trust me—but I think he’s been in a lot of trouble he’s never admitted.”

  Judge Sheffield said, “He should have had psychotherapy. That’s been one of the problems.” He shook his head. “We’re too understaffed.”

  O’Donnelly said, “We got him down for group therapy a few times, but it didn’t work.”

  Gray said, “It probably wouldn’t. Individual therapy would have been the best bet.”

  O’Donnelly said, “Well, the way the situation is now, I suppose he ought to be institutionalized. If he were younger it might be different. But seventeen’s awfully late—especially when it’s murder.”

  “What’s his attitude?” the judge asked.

  O’Donnelly shook his head glumly. The judge looked at Gray.

  Gray said, “Naturally, he’s very hostile.”

  “Suppose he’s institutionalized. What do you think his chances are for adjustment?”

  Gray said, “In a low-security, permissive place, with individual psychotherapy, I think he’d do all right. He’d probably run away four or five times, till he adjusted.”

  Sheffield asked, “Any danger involved if he did run away? Would the boy be apt to hurt anybody?”

  Everyone present was remembering Ann Avery.

  Gray said carefully, “Of course there’s danger. He’s seventeen. His background’s very poor. And if he has committed murder, it could happen again.”

  Sheffield said, “Yes. There’s the question of protecting society, too. Suppose he’s sent to Preston or Tracy?”

  “I think he’d make a bad adjustment. He regards them as prisons. He’d react accordingly.”

  Sheffield said, “I haven’t asked this directly, but what you’ve been saying seems to add up to the inference that you feel the boy has more of an adult’s attitude than a child’s. Am I right?”

  Gray didn’t answer directly. He said, “Something happened to me last night that made me want more than ever to investigate this case thoroughly.” He told them the story.

  When he had finished, O’Donnelly said, “The boy’s name was Whitey?”