Michael Gray Novels

by Henry Kuttner

  Zucker nodded. “No sign of forcible entry either time, which means somebody’s got a key. It’s reaching to figure there are two different unauthorized people with keys to that door.” He scratched his grizzled head, scowling. “She swore up and down it was Champion who attacked her that Wednesday. I wonder if she was right.”

  “I’m a little surprised she didn’t claim she saw him here this time,” Gray said. “Maybe she will, when she wakes up. You’d think she’d jump to the conclusion, whether she saw him or not, she was so sure he was the one last time.” Gray smiled a little. “Or maybe not,” he said. “At the hearing she wanted him slapped down for scaring her. But sending him to the gas chamber might be going a little too far, in her estimation, even if he’s guilty.”

  “She’s a girl in one hell of a spot, if that’s the truth,” Zucker said in a grim voice.

  Gray, starting to say something in answer, suddenly interrupted himself. “Wait a minute—I’ve remembered something.”

  Zucker stood in respectful silence, watching him. In a moment more Gray had it. Something about Albano in his office, ready to leave, talking about Karen and suddenly pausing, checking himself—coughing to cover up some kind of slip? About what?

  Ghostly, out of the vanished afternoon, Gray heard Albano’s remembered voice saying, “I wish to God Joyce had told me about Karen….”

  Joyce Quigley? And why had Albano checked himself like that, almost as if in embarrassment?

  “Look, Harry,” Gray said hesitantly. “This is just a hunch, but it might be worthwhile to ask a few questions around Albano’s apartment about any women he saw regularly. There’s a Joyce Quigley I think might—well, if her photograph were shown around the building it might lead to something.”

  “What have you got?” Zucker asked with interest.

  “Probably nothing. But Mrs. Quigley is one of Champion’s business partners, and Albano mentioned her name once—” He told Zucker the little episode.

  Zucker nodded. “Worth a try. You never know.”

  “There’s a shady private detective called Ira Fenn, too,” Gray said. “It might be interesting to see where he was tonight.”

  “Okay.” Zucker noted down the names. “I want to call Headquarters anyhow. I’ll get things moving.” He stumped heavily away.

  Gray stood looking quietly around the crowded kitchen. The floor by the refrigerator was a mass of broken glass and ruined food, with long skid-marks across it where Albano’s footing had so crucially failed him. Fingerprint men were patiently dusting and brushing and dusting, muttering to one another as they worked.

  Gray found himself wondering if Karen could hear all these sounds of activity out here. He hoped not. He hoped she was fathoms deep in oblivion. She needed what rest she could get. It might be a long time before she got any more.

  Zucker came back with a new haste in his manner.

  “Let’s go, Mike. They’ve picked up Champion.”

  “Where?”

  “At his house. He just now drove in. I wish you’d come with me while I talk to him. Hurry up. Thanks, Doc. Let me know what else you find out.”

  “What do you think I’ll find, cyanide?” Dr. Storm demanded. But Zucker and Gray were already out of the room.

  Crossing the living room toward the front door, Gray stopped for a moment, nodding toward the bedroom.

  “I want to look in on her,” he said. “She ought to have somebody with her, shouldn’t she?”

  “She has. A neighbor volunteered to sit up tonight.” Zucker sounded impatient. “Her doctor was here and he’ll stop in again before he goes to bed. God knows what he’s doing up at this hour at all.”

  “I doubt if Ettinger ever finds time to sleep,” Gray said. “Just a minute, Harry.” He tapped at the bedroom door and then pushed it gently open. A plump blonde was reading an exposé magazine in a chair beside the bed. She looked up, mouthed an elaborate, “She’s okay,” without making a sound, and gave Gray a comfortable, capable smile. She seemed thoroughly in charge of the situation and not unduly excited by the presence of murder next door. Perhaps, Gray thought, she found more excitement in the vicarious pages of her magazine than in the actual events of real life. It looked like it.

  Karen lay with her head turned to one side and the blankets smoothed to her chin. She was breathing heavily and regularly. Gray saluted the blonde politely and backed out.

  11

  Dennis Champion paced his living room carpet angrily, his heavy shoulders hunched, his eyes burning behind the horn-rimmed glasses. He kept brushing impatiently at his stiff moustache.

  “I wish to God you’d tell me what this is all about,” he said. “If it’s more of Karen’s damned foolishness I’ll break her neck.” He looked at Gray. “What are you doing here with the police, anyhow?”

  Zucker said, “I asked Mr. Gray to come with me. He’s familiar with the background on this case.”

  “Case?” Champion echoed. “What case? What’s happened?” He swung from Gray to Zucker and back again, the old fighter facing his opponents, heavy with age but still on his feet, still ready for battle. It was hard to remember how comparatively young Dennis Champion really was.

  “Would you mind answering a few questions?” Zucker asked.

  “I certainly would. I asked questions first and I haven’t heard any answers. I think I’d better get in touch with my lawyer.”

  Zucker said, “All we want to know is where you were tonight at about twelve-thirty. Any objection to telling us that?”

  Champion glanced automatically at his wrist watch.

  “Three hours ago? I’m not sure. I was on my way to Santa Barbara.”

  “Changed your mind?” Zucker’s voice was heavy with incredulity.

  “Sure, I changed my mind. Any law against it? It was just an impulse.”

  Zucker asked, “When did you leave?”

  “Here? About ten, I guess.”

  “Why did you go?”

  “What the hell is this, anyhow? Why shouldn’t I go? Oh, all right—no reason. Just another impulse. I wanted to get a little rest. Figured I’d lie on the beach for a while and—stop worrying.”

  Zucker said, “Did anybody know you were leaving?”

  Champion blinked behind his glasses. “Well, sure, I guess so. I didn’t make any secret of it.”

  “Who did you tell about it?”

  Champion made a heavy gesture. “I phoned my secretary, said I’d be away for a few days. I phoned Roger Quigley. I called Wes Turk too, but he wasn’t in. His wife was, so I told her.”

  “You were driving?” Zucker said. “Alone?”

  “Alone,” Champion said, a touch of desolation in his voice.

  “Well,” Zucker went on, skepticism heavy in his tone, “if you left here at ten—alone—just about how far do you claim to have got by, say, twelve-thirty? You a fast driver?”

  “I’m pretty careful, if it’s any of your business,” Champion told him. “But tonight—well, I wasn’t careful. I got a ticket for speeding just beyond San Jose.”

  There was a sudden silence in the room. Zucker and Gray exchanged glances. Then Zucker said with reluctant respect, “Mind if I see it?”

  Champion fished in his pocket and brought out the somewhat crumpled slip. Zucker scrutinized it carefully. Then he handed it to Gray.

  The time was 12:05, the place, a town a few miles south of San Jose, more than sixty miles away from San Francisco.

  Zucker said in a milder voice, “I wish I’d seen this first, Mr. Champion. It changes a lot of things. There’ll still have to be a routine check on you, but—”

  “Check about what?” Champion demanded loudly.

  “There’s been a murder,” Zucker told him.

  Champion’s face turned white. He tried twice before he got his question out. “Not—Karen?”

  “No. A man named Oliver Albano. At Mrs. Champion’s apartment.”

  Champion’s pallor vanished under a wave of angry red.

&nbs
p; “That bastard! What was he doing at Karen’s at twelve-thirty?”

  “Bringing her home from a show, she told us. You knew him?”

  “I’ve—seen him. Big, Indian-looking guy. Keeps hanging around Karen. She—” Belatedly Champion’s understanding seemed to catch up with the situation. “Who killed him?” he demanded. “Are you sure Karen’s all right?”

  “We don’t know who killed him yet,” Zucker said.

  Gray added, “Your wife’s asleep, under a sedative. She almost witnessed the murder. It was—upsetting.”

  “But she wasn’t hurt?”

  Gray shook his head and Champion drew a long breath.

  “Thank God for that,” he said in a shaken voice. “Is there somebody with her? She shouldn’t be alone, after a shock like that.”

  “A neighbor’s with her, and Dr. Ettinger will stop back tonight,” Gray told him. “She’s—”

  The telephone rang. Champion swung around and glowered abstractedly at it for a moment before he lumbered across the room to pick it up.

  “It’s for you,” he said after a moment, holding it out to Zucker.

  They waited in silence while Zucker talked noncommittally, Gray and two police detectives and Champion all standing quiet trying to guess from Zucker’s brief words what the voice on the phone was saying.

  Gray glanced around the room. The heavy, conservative furniture had probably been in the family a long time. This was the house where Karen and Champion had lived five years together. It must be very quiet and solitary for Champion, now. Gray wondered why he stayed here, alone. A stubborn clinging to the old surroundings? A stubborn hope that if he stayed on, Karen would come back? Stubbornness was Champion’s chief characteristic, so far, Gray thought. He clung to the marriage, he clung to the partnership, he clung to his convictions and to this big, empty house. And if it had looked as if Albano were going to step between him and Karen—what would Champion do about it?

  Zucker said briskly into the telephone, “Okay, I’ll be right over. Don’t make a move until I get there.”

  He hung up and jerked his head at Gray. “Let’s go,” he said. “Mr. Champion—”

  “Yes?”

  “I said this is routine, but we have to do it. My men here will want to search your apartment and take away a few of your clothes for lab testing. I hope you won’t object. It’s for your own protection, actually.”

  “They can do what they want,” Champion said. “I’m going to see my wife. Where is she?”

  “At her apartment, but—”

  “Let’s go,” Gray said.

  Zucker gave him a quick look. He shook his head.

  “You can’t see her yet,” he told Champion. “She’s under sedation—she couldn’t talk anyhow.”

  “I could at least stay with her!” Champion insisted. “I’m going over there.”

  Zucker said, “I left orders to admit nobody but the doctor. They still stand. And incidentally, the locks are being changed right now.”

  Champion flushed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Zucker shrugged. “The killer had a key. That’s all. You can see your wife in the morning, if she’s agreeable. Don’t expect too much, though. The last I heard, she was still convinced you tried to kill her. In view of what’s happened, we’re going to have to start thinking all over again about what really went on in her bedroom that Wednesday night.”

  “Karen dreamed it,” Champion said. “One thing I do know—I wasn’t there.”

  “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Zucker assured him. “Come on, Mike, let’s go.”

  Outside at the curb, Zucker turned to Gray. “What were you starting to pull, back there?” he asked.

  “I just wanted to see what he’d do if you didn’t warn him his wife is unconscious,” Gray said.

  “What did you expect he’d do?”

  “I don’t know. The thing is, some people like to act on their own. Some like to act indirectly, through others. I wanted to find out which type Champion is.”

  “Well, I know damn well what he’d do if he’s really the killer,” Zucker said. “I’m not taking any chances with the Champion woman’s life this time.” He glanced at Gray as they got into the police car.

  “You don’t rely too much on his alibi?”

  “Do you?” Gray asked. “It’s probably genuine. But somebody else could have been driving his car, of course. The arresting officer probably ought to identify him, just to make sure.”

  “He signed the slip,” Zucker said. “That’s hard to fake.”

  “Even if he was in San Jose just before the murder,” Gray went on, “he still could have hired somebody else to take care of Albano for him. I wouldn’t say Champion’s in the clear yet.”

  Zucker chuckled grimly. “We’ve got another suspect, anyhow. Know where we’re going now?”

  “You tell me,” Gray suggested.

  “To see the Quigleys. Your hunch paid off, Mike. We showed a picture of Joyce Quigley to the elevator boy at Albano’s apartment. The service maid identified it too. The Quigley woman was spending a lot of her time with Albano up to about six months ago.”

  “Is that incriminating?”

  Zucker chuckled again. “You might say so. The maid walked in on them once. Very embarrassing. They were in bed together. She said she’d never forget Joyce Quigley.”

  12

  They stood on the Quigley doorstep, patiently ringing the bell. Inside the distant buzzing sounded back to them, muffled by doors between. The night was chilly and very dark. No lights showed anywhere within sight in this quiet Marina neighborhood, and no cars went by as they waited.

  On the fourth ring the door opened at last. Joyce Quigley in a thick pink robe peered out at them, her spun-metal hair disordered from the pillow. She looked much younger than the last time Gray had seen her. That made her seem very young indeed.

  Zucker was unexpectedly deft. Somehow, in the process of apologizing for disturbing her, he managed to get both himself and Gray inside the house. He was already questioning Joyce before the soft, relaxed look of sleep had vanished from her face. Gray told himself that perhaps she had looked like this when Albano saw her. He found himself wondering if she ever turned this look on Roger Quigley. It was pure assumption, but somehow he thought not.

  Zucker was asking where her husband was.

  “Roger?” she echoed blankly. “He’s asleep. Why? What—”

  “Has he been out this evening?”

  Joyce shut her eyes and rubbed her face with both hands. When she took them down again some of the hard, sharp brightness had begun to return. Already she seemed older, surer of herself. But she answered docilely enough.

  “Yes, he stayed at the plant. He had to work late.”

  “Do you know when he got in?”

  “No, I—oh yes. I remember. He woke me, getting undressed. It was a little after twelve.”

  “Sure?” Zucker asked.

  She frowned, the brittleness more evident. “Certainly I’m sure. I could see the clock perfectly.”

  “What about you?” Zucker pursued. “Were you out tonight at any time?”

  She was beginning to balk. Now her face was the same steely, confident mask Gray had first seen.

  “I was in all evening,” she said firmly. “I had some correspondence to write. I went to bed early, about ten-thirty. And that’s the very last answer you get until you tell me what’s up. Is something wrong?”

  Zucker said, “I’d like to talk to your husband, please.”

  She measured him with a frowning look. Then she shrugged and went out of the room.

  When she came back she said calmly, “He’s dead.”

  Zucker and Gray were both caught in the midst of sudden shock before they realized she didn’t mean it literally. “Dead beat, I mean,” she explained. “I almost had to throw cold water in his face to wake him up. He’ll be out in a minute.”

  Gray found himself remembering the curious pattern
of sleep that runs through emotionally caused crimes of violence. After such a crime, the criminal, relieved and drained of his tremendous tensions, will very often sleep the deep sleep of exhaustion for a long time.

  Then Quigley came into the living room, big and young and rather clumsy in a blue flannel robe. He was tying its cord fumblingly and yawning a tremendous yawn. Like his wife, he seemed different when suddenly awakened. Joyce had simply reverted to childish softness, but Quigley seemed listless and lethargic. Dully he looked from face to face.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “What time is it? Something happen?” Even his voice had no expression.

  Zucker said, with a glance at Joyce, “I’d like to talk to Mr. Quigley alone, please.”

  She gave him an exasperated look. “All right. I’ll make some coffee,” she said, and went out, closing the door carefully.

  Quigley sank into a chair and lit a cigarette automatically. But with the first few puffs the lethargy began to slip away and the feeling of vigorous aliveness came back a little. His eyes lost their distant look.

  He answered Zucker’s questions with increasing firmness. Yes, he had been working late at the CQD plant. No, there were no witnesses to prove he was there, unless the watchman had seen him. He hadn’t seen the watchman, at any rate. He hadn’t noticed when he got home. Between twelve and one, he thought. He couldn’t pin it down any closer. No, no one had seen him enter his house that he remembered.

  Zucker said, “Do you know a man named Oliver Albano?”

  “Sure,” Quigley said. “We’ve met a few times. He goes around with Karen Champion.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yeah. Why?” He seemed only mildly interested. “What’s happened, anyhow?”

  Joyce came back, combed and calm, the thick pink robe looking oddly incongruous on the fragile-steel body. She carried a tray with cups and a pot of steaming coffee.

  Zucker turned to her. “Mrs. Quigley, could you make a closer guess now at what time your husband got in?”

  “If I tell you,” she said, putting down the tray, “will you let us in on your little secret, whatever it is? I hate guessing games.”