Michael Gray Novels

by Henry Kuttner

  On the pale wheat-colored wood of the door a row of thin gold letters said POLLARD AND CARLISLE. Gray stood looking at it thoughtfully. Still thoughtful, he pushed the door open and went in.

  The receptionist told him that Pollard wasn’t free right now. “Will you wait?” she added. “It shouldn’t be long.”

  Gray said, “Maybe I could see his secretary first, then. My name’s Michael Gray.”

  Three minutes later he stepped into a small, richly carpeted office, its walls lined with satin-grained wood, its chairs deep and luxurious. A smooth-haired girl in a black dress looked up and smiled at him across her typewriter. Gray noticed with abstract interest that she wore earrings shaped apparently of enormous flat pearls.

  “Mr. Gray?” she said. “Mr. Pollard ought to be free in just a few minutes. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yes,” Gray said absently, gazing at her ears. “You can tell me if earrings like that fall off very easily.”

  The girl gave a startled laugh.

  “Surely you didn’t come all the way up here just to ask that”

  “I’m sorry,” Gray said. “I did want to ask something else, too. You see, I’m helping out with some research in connection with Eileen Herrick, and I—”

  “I know,” the girl said. “Mr. Pollard’s mentioned you. About the earrings, these are clip-ons and they do slip down on the ear lobes toward the end of the day. Sometimes one drops off. I’ve never lost one like that. You almost always feel it go or hear it fall.” She smiled. “Help any?”

  “I’m not sure,” Gray said. “It helps to know about it, anyhow. What I wanted to ask about was the business call Mr. Pollard got at the Silver Slipper Saturday night. Do you know about it? Or maybe you aren’t free to discuss it. I wouldn’t want to make trouble.”

  “I don’t see how you could,” the girl said. “I’m perfectly free. As it happens I made the call myself. The senator’s plane had been delayed and I phoned the night club to tell Mr. Pollard when it was finally due.”

  “Did he take the call himself?” Gray asked.

  “Yes, he did. He—wait a moment, though. Miss Herrick took it first. He came on before I’d said more than a few words to her, though. Is that what you wanted to know?” She looked at him alertly.

  Gray started to speak. Before he could answer a sudden, startling crash from beyond the inner door made the floor jolt briefly under them. Quickly after it came a yell, cut off short, and then a violent smashing sound like wood and breaking glass.

  “Jeepers!” the secretary gasped, jumping to her feet. She and Gray looked at each other with shocked speculation. Then the girl spun toward the door. She hesitated an instant before the wheat-colored panels. Then she knocked sharply and pushed the door open a little.

  “Mr. Pollard! What is it? Is anything wrong?”

  Gray looked over her head. Framed against windows that showed a heavy gray sky stood Neil Pollard, neat and small, but poised like a boxer on his toes. He was hunched forward a little, rubbing his clenched fist with the other hand, and scowling down at the floor.

  Sitting on the carpet among the ruins of a small table and a broken vase of flowers was a much larger man. He had a thin black mustache and smooth dark hair that stayed neatly plastered down even now. He turned his head as the door opened, looking up at them.

  Gray recognized the flamboyant, too-handsome features he had seen twice before—once on the stairs outside the apartment where the dead girl had sat, once in the color films of a bygone wedding party, a marriage now doubly canceled. His name was Chris Bond, Gray remembered. He had been more concerned about the loss of a cashmere coat than about his dead wife.

  The black eyes flickered from Gray’s face to the girl’s and then back to Pollard. The look of startled surprise still lingering on Bond’s features faded. For a moment he scowled up at Pollard. Then, unexpectedly, he began to grin. With a dancer’s muscular, lithe control he got to his feet, towering over Pollard.

  “I must be getting clumsy,” he said. “Next time I’ll lean on something solider.”

  Pollard swallowed. “All right,” he said shortly. “All right!”

  Bond dusted off his trousers. There was a false jauntiness in his manner now.

  “Well, thanks for the interview, anyhow,” he said. “If you should change your mind, you’ve got my number. There won’t be much time.” A note of warning sounded in the words. He turned toward the door. Over his shoulder he said, “Sorry about your table.” Then he slid deftly past Gray and crossed the office toward the outer door.

  Gray looked at Pollard. He looked after Bond. Impulse stirred in his mind and he acted on it almost at once.

  “Look, Pollard,” he said hastily. “I want to talk to you—later. Will you be free in about an hour?”

  Mystified, Pollard said, “I guess so. But—”

  “I’ll explain later,” Gray told him, and without any more delay he went after Chris Bond with long, determined strides.

  Bond stood waiting by the elevators. His back was to Gray and he was softly snapping his fingers and doing an almost imperceptible dance step, his feet whispering on the hard, bright floor.

  Gray said, “Bond?”

  The man turned. The large, dark eyes searched Gray’s coldly.

  “I’d like to talk to you,” Gray said.

  “Who the hell are you? Wait a minute.” The black eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

  “We met on the stairs at Beverly Bond’s apartment,” Gray told him. “Late Saturday night.”

  He saw recognition, and no emotion, dawn on Chris Bond’s dark face. Bond nodded. “So?” he said. “You want to talk to me? Okay, what’s in it for me?”

  Gray smiled. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Okay for a starter,” Bond said. “Let’s go.”

  At one end of the bar a jukebox played something brassy and gay. A girl in a red dress, brassy and gay, too, was stretching her drink and scanning the customers hopefully.

  Gray tasted his drink, set it down.

  “You’ve got a beef with Pollard?” he asked.

  Bond weighed his glass and measured Gray thoughtfully.

  “Maybe,” he said. “What’s it worth to you to find out?”

  Gray didn’t want to seem too eager. He smiled again and dropped the subject for the moment. He found himself gazing at the rich, soft folds of the sport coat Bond was wearing. Memory stirred in his mind.

  “Is that cashmere?” he asked.

  Bond gave himself a gratified downward glance. “Sure is. Why?”

  “I was wondering how many cashmere coats you’ve got.”

  Bond looked surprised. His full lips started to shape the word “one.” Then recollection hit him and his face darkened angrily.

  “None of your God damn business,” he said.

  Gray drew a deep breath and paused a moment to keep his own excitement down. He had followed Bond on little more than a hunch. When two of the figures in a murder case clash as Bond and Pollard had just clashed, there may be reasons behind it worth following up. But here was an extra dividend. So the thing Bond had been so eager to find in Beverly’s place hadn’t been his wardrobe, after all? Gray looked at him and waited.

  “So I was wrong about the coat,” Bond said defensively. “I didn’t leave it at Beverly’s. You mixed up in this case?”

  Gray nodded. He asked no questions. Let Bond take the lead.

  “With the cops?”

  “Not exactly. I’m connected with it through the Herricks and their lawyer.”

  Bond seemed to meditate briefly. “Okay,” he said. “I got to figure the angles, you understand. The Herricks are loaded, right? You’re working for them. Okay. I’ll tell you what happened upstairs just now. What’s it worth?” He drummed nervously on the bar.

  “Not much,” Gray said. “I can just go back upstairs and ask Neil Pollard.”

  Bond shrugged, pursed his lips dispiritedly. Then he brightened with a new
thought.

  “Don’t you believe it. Pollard will just hand you a line. He’ll bull you. If you want the truth, you’ll have to come to me. But you better decide fast. I’ve got to take off. Soon—tonight, maybe. So how about it?” The nervous drumming grew more rapid.

  Gray said, “How about what? The fact that you were trying to shake Pollard down and he wouldn’t play along and took a swing at you?”

  Bond’s sleek head jerked up. He stared at Gray.

  “Pollard told you!” He slammed down his glass.

  “When? He didn’t have time to tell me anything. Besides, I doubt if he knows you need money fast because you’re in trouble. So much trouble you can’t stay in San Francisco unless—” Since Gray had no idea what came after “unless,” he merely paused and gazed at Bond with deep significance.

  Most of it was guesswork. It hadn’t taken much brilliance to draw a tentative conclusion in the light of what Gray already knew about Bond.

  The man’s startled glance told him he had hit near the truth. Bond took a quick drink and grinned shakily.

  “Okay, you can’t call your shots every time. I crapped out. So it happens. I’d like to know how the hell you knew. Has it got out already?”

  Gray said, “It just adds up that way. You started hitting me for money right away, didn’t you? If you’re clearing out, there’s got to be a reason. And up at Beverly’s apartment Saturday night, you sure as hell were worried about something more than a few suits getting burned. What was it?”

  Bond gave him a candid look.

  “I laid some bets with the wrong people. I lost. Now I can’t pay up. I like my face the way it is now. I’m not hanging around unless I can pick up my marker.”

  Gray said, “Well, I won’t spread it around. How much do you need?”

  “To pay up or get out of town? I’m really strapped.”

  “Either.”

  Bond weighed his drink again, narrowing his eyes at Gray.

  “You think maybe the Herricks might—”

  Gray said, “Everything depends on what information you’ve got. What was it you were looking for in Beverly’s apartment?”

  Bond ran his tongue along his lips nervously. “She had money. Off and on. She was going to split with me this time. When she didn’t phone the way she said she would, I went on around to see her. That’s all.”

  “Then it was money you were looking for?”

  Bond gave him a blank look. “Sure it was money. What else?”

  Gray said, “I wonder.” His mind felt blank, like Bond’s face. Money? Was that what the killer had been searching the apartment for? Maybe. And yet—then why set the lire? Why burn money?

  “Where was Beverly going to get money?” Gray asked.

  Bond said quickly, “She had ways. These old guys—they give her things. You know. Sometimes she’d—she’d pawn ’em.” He scowled darkly. “Somebody got it. Somebody sure as hell beat me to it.”

  “To what?”

  “The money, the money. You know what I think? The cops got it. Everything burned—like hell. Once the cops move in, just don’t leave any money laying around loose. Everybody in this God damned deal gets rich but me. Well, I want mine, understand? I don’t care how I get it. These Herricks, now—they’re loaded. Pollard’s loaded. Why doesn’t somebody pay off? Don’t they want their girl sprung?” His voice rose to a plaintive wail. Interested heads turned.

  Bond hunched his shoulders and lowered his voice guiltily. “Look, you tell the Herricks. I’ve got a good memory. I learn real easy. I was right on the spot, wasn’t I? I could remember things…”

  Gray shook his head. “That kind of testimony won’t hold up, Bond. You start faking testimony and the first thing you know, you’re in over your head.”

  “Everybody’s got money but me,” Bond insisted plaintively. “Just pass the word along, will you?”

  “Maybe. You help me, I’ll help you. I want to know about that fire. Why would anybody set it? How did it get started? What do you think?”

  A quick, speculative look crossed Bond’s swarthy face.

  “And make it the truth,” Gray added quickly.

  Bond grinned at him. “Hell, I don’t know. If I knew what you wanted, I could think something up.”

  “The truth,” Gray said in a patient voice.

  “Maybe she left a cigarette burning,” Bond suggested seriously. “Or it might have been a short circuit. Hell, what ever starts a fire?”

  Gray gave it up. He tried something else.

  “Do you know Martin McCreery?” he asked.

  Bond, who had caught the eye of the girl at the other end of the bar, said, “What?” in an absent voice. Then he swiveled his head around and gave Gray a look of sudden alarm. “Who?” he said.

  “Martin McCreery.”

  It was evidently on the tip of Bond’s tongue to deny that he had ever heard of the man. Then he thought better of it and said in a cautious voice, “I’ve heard of him. Why?”

  “He tried to get into Beverly’s apartment that night, after the fire.”

  Bond licked his lips again. “What for?” he asked.

  “His story was he’d loaned Beverly some furniture. He wanted it back. Do you know if that’s true?”

  Bond was staring before him into space. Thoughts seemed to be making rapid circuits through his mind.

  “Oh, he was, was he?” he murmured. “So that’s what—Oh, yeah, sure. I think he did loan Beverly a few odds and ends.”

  “Why would he do that? Did she know him well?”

  “I don’t know,” Bond said, still absently. “Maybe. Why?”

  “It doesn’t seem very likely to me. What would they have in common? Did you ever see the inside of their house?”

  “What?” Bond asked.

  “I said did you ever—” Gray rephrased the question. “If the McCreery brothers are really hermits, I don’t see why they’d be on friendly terms with girls like Beverly and Melissa. Do the McCreerys really live in the middle of all that junk? Are they real hermits?”

  Bond pulled his attention back with an effort. “Sure they are. Screwballs, both of ’em. It runs in the family. I think their old man went batty. And they had a cousin who—no, I guess he had all his buttons, but he wasn’t smart.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He got caught. Died in the pen eight, nine years ago.” Bond shook his head. “Only served a year—on a fraud rap. That’s one time the State lost the pot.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Hell, they bet he’d last out his term, didn’t they?” Bond grinned and slipped off the stool. “Look, I’ve just thought of something I got to do.” He was suddenly quite brisk. “Thanks for the drink. You pass along what I said to the Herricks, will you? I’ll give you a ring later on.”

  Gray nodded thoughtfully.

  He finished his drink without tasting it.

  Who would burn money? Why?

  After a while he got off the bar stool and went back slowly across the street toward Pollard’s office building.

  15

  Chris Bond turned left on the street and walked briskly as far as the corner. Then he stepped into the shelter of a store front and stood waiting. He saw Gray come out of the bar, cross the street and disappear through the revolving glass doors of the office building.

  With his eyes still on the turning doors, he felt in his pocket for cigarettes, got one out and lit it with a match. He stood there smoking for about five minutes, frowning into space. Little flickers of anxiety twitched across his face now and then. But finally he felt in his pocket again, and this time took out a small gold cigarette lighter. It had the initials N.P. on the side. Bond hefted it in his hand a time or two. Suddenly he grinned, swung around in a single, balanced motion, and set off for Market Street with long, smooth strides.

  He swung aboard a streetcar and rode for a noisy, jolting ten minutes or so, still looking into space with a preoccupied stare, nervously biting his Up now and then
.

  When he swung off again, the first spatterings of rain had begun to fall, and he moved rapidly uphill through a district of old houses, once elegant, now fallen on very evil ways. The McCreery place looked even more ruinous than usual with its walls unevenly stained with rain.

  Bond turned left at the front steps and walked along the overgrown path between house and shrubbery over the slippery green moss. He came to the same door Gray had found open to his knock two days ago. But Chris Bond didn’t knock. He tried the door. This time it was locked. He reached upward and felt carefully along the upper edge of the doorframe, found the button there and pressed it twice. Deep inside the house he heard a buzzer sound.

  He stood there waiting in the down-spattering rain, shoulders hunched, whistling softly to himself between his teeth and doing a silent dance shuffle on the mossy ground.

  A slow, deliberate tap of footsteps approached inside the closed door. A peevish voice just inside said, “Go away. We’re not open for business today.”

  Chris Bond laughed. “Open up, Martin. It’s Chris.”

  “I know who it is. Go away.”

  “I’ve got something for you,” Bond said. “Open up. It’s raining.” He had been grinning, but now suddenly he beat on the door with the side of his closed fist, awakening muffled thunder. “Come on,” he called impatiently. “There’s trouble.”

  From inside came only silence for a moment. Then the lock rattled and the door creaked reluctantly open. Martin McCreery’s sallow face peered at him, the reddish eyes narrow, the mouth turned downward in a scowl.

  “With you it’s always trouble,” he said. “What now?”

  “I’ve got to talk to you. Inside. Privately.” Bond held up the gold lighter. “Besides, we might do a little business.”

  McCreery gave it a calm, appraising look. Then he shrugged and stepped back.

  “All right. But no funny business.” He turned and led the way down the aisle of baled newspapers. Bond grinned wisely at his bent back as he followed.

  They went in silence down the passage Gray had explored two days before. At the end of it two paths branched off. The left-hand way led under the mantrap. Martin McCreery turned right and mounted a flight of stairs at the end. Mounting at his heels, Bond shivered in the clammy dankness of the cellar. The air smelled overpoweringly of mold and damp and old paper.