Michael Gray Novels

by Henry Kuttner

  Zucker, examining the certificates, said, “What are they worth? Anything?”

  Gray smiled rather wryly. “The Sc.D. and the D.D. degrees are probably honorary. They mean only as much as the institutions that grant them. These are both diploma mills. You pay about fifty dollars and get any degree you want. The M.D.D. is pure invention. There’s no such degree. But they look impressive to clients.” He grimaced. “I can’t call them patients.”

  “I never could figure how a guy like this gets away with it,” Zucker said. “I guess Barnum was right.”

  Gray shrugged. “The world’s full of lonesome, unhappy people. Brand listens to their troubles, flatters them, makes them feel important. They love it, naturally. A lot of them have aches and pains that come from the tensions of being unhappy. Brand soothes them down. He probably convinces them they’ve got mysterious ailments only he can cure.”

  “I had an aunt once,” Zucker said. “Went to every doctor in town and wound up with a guy like this. Swore by him, too.”

  “Quacks usually have very faithful followers,” Gray admitted. “If there’s nothing basically wrong with you, it often makes you feel much better just to have somebody to listen to your troubles. Brand banks on that. But of course he isn’t qualified to diagnose the real sickness. He’d just as soon take on a beginning cancer patient or somebody with a serious psychosis. And coddle them along till they’re past help. That’s where the element of real danger comes in.”

  A heavy step sounded in the hall. A hearty, resonant voice said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Brand was immaculate in his white coat today. The wavy gray hair was carefully combed, the big, jowled, handsome face looked confident. He closed the door behind him.

  “We can talk more comfortably in here,” he said. “I’ve told my nurse to put the patients in our other waiting room. Now then, what can I do for you?”

  He sat down in a deep chair and crossed his legs comfortably. Gray wondered what was in Brand’s office that he didn’t want them to see. Possibly elaborate pseudo-scientific machines he wouldn’t care to have examined very closely by the police.

  Zucker said, “Do you mind answering a few questions?”

  “That depends on the purpose of the questions,” Brand told him. “In my profession, I’m sometimes subjected to unwarranted attacks.” He glanced at Gray, who wondered if Brand had recognized his name. “If this involves my profession, I prefer to consult my attorney.”

  “Just what is your profession?” Zucker asked.

  Brand pushed out his lips and looked thoughtful. But Gray felt sure he wouldn’t fall into the trap. He didn’t.

  “First,” he said, “I’m not a doctor of medicine. I’ve never claimed to be. I do not practice medicine. I do not diagnose illness or treat it. Is that perfectly clear?”

  Gray repressed a smile. Obviously Brand had made a careful study of just how far the law allowed him to go without a reputable degree.

  Zucker said, “The sign on your door says you’re a dynamic psychologist. Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’ve developed a dynamic theory of approach to psychology. The opposite of client-centered therapy—not that I practice therapy. I am a counselor. I help people with their personal problems.”

  Zucker grunted. “All right.” He gazed at Brand measuringly. “You know a man named Oliver Albano?” he asked.

  Brand’s big, florid face twitched just a little. He leaned over and straightened the sock on the leg he had crossed over his knee.

  “Albano? I have so many contacts in my profession … but I don’t seem to recall anybody by that name. No, I think not. Why?”

  “Think again,” Zucker said. “Wasn’t Albano in this house night before last? Didn’t you have an argument with him?”

  Brand said, “Albano? Albano?” and his voice shook a little.

  “Come on, Mr. Brand,” Zucker said. “You can’t have forgotten an argument like that so fast. Isn’t it true that Oliver Albano left this house about a quarter of ten, night before last, after an argument in which you and he raised your voices very loudly? Didn’t he say as he left—” Zucker consulted a notebook in his hand—“‘Call off your dog or I’ll break your God-damned neck for you’?”

  A very light beading of sweat appeared on Brand’s forehead.

  “I think I know the source of your information,” he said. “I had a patient here at the time you mention. She was dozing in one of my consultation rooms. She may have confused what she thought she overheard with something she was dreaming. She’s a woman who does tend to confuse fact and fancy in her daily life, Captain Zucker. If I were you I wouldn’t put too much faith in what she says.”

  “Then Albano was here?” Zucker said doggedly.

  “A man was here. His name may have been Albano. I’d really forgotten his name until you brought this up. Actually, I believe he was an Oliver Albano.” Brand cleared his throat. “Why do you ask?”

  “Tell me what the argument was about,” Zucker said.

  Brand shrugged elaborately. “No argument. Just a little disagreement.”

  “What about?”

  Brand looked around the room as if for inspiration. “He was a—an ex-patient of mine. He—I had to terminate treatment of him several months ago. He wouldn’t cooperate and I was doing him no real good, so naturally I couldn’t go on accepting his money.” The florid face took on a virtuous look. “That was all,” he said.

  “The argument,” Zucker reminded him. “What was that about?”

  “He—he felt I ought to return his money,” Brand said rapidly.

  For the second time Gray repressed a grin. People who have to invent lies on the spur of the moment often flavor them heavily with truth in spite of themselves. Clients who wanted their money back were probably all too familiar to Brand.

  “A client, was he?” Zucker said. He glanced inquiringly at Gray. The glance said, Is this guy lying again?

  Gray thought quickly. Could Albano have been a client of Brand’s? Gray had known many people of the type who blindly accept men like Brand. Most of them seem a little lost, people whose unworldliness and loneliness show in their attitudes. But Albano—Gray remembered his firm sureness, his confidence. If Gray had to guess, he’d say Albano was the last man in the world to accept Brand’s cloudy generalities.

  There was another thing, too. Albano had been a professional debt collector. Would he have stamped out shouting futile threats, if collecting money had been his purpose here?

  Gray shook his head at Zucker. Zucker grinned faintly and nodded.

  “Try again, Brand,” he said flatly.

  Brand’s florid face flushed redder. “I assure you—”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Zucker interrupted. “Why would he say ‘call off your dog’ if all he wanted was his money back?”

  “He didn’t say that,” Brand said quickly. “You must have been misinformed. Probably Mrs. Turk didn’t understand very clearly. She—”

  Gray spoke up for the first time.

  “If Albano was a client of yours,” he said, “you’ll have records on him. Your notes, cancelled checks, something to show Albano was a client.”

  Zucker picked this up promptly. “You’ve got to keep records for income tax purposes,” he said. “If Albano paid you, you must have a record of it—”

  “He paid in cash. I don’t keep detailed records on every payment from a client.”

  “Uh-huh.” Zucker’s voice was a rumble. “You know, the Bureau of Internal Revenue might like to hear about how you keep records. Those boys do a pretty thorough job of digging when they start checking up. How about that Brand?”

  Brand uncrossed his legs and stood up slowly. He walked away from them down the room and stood with his back turned, looking out the end window at the wall and trees overgrown with ancient ivy.

  Zucker said, “Well?”

  Brand said, “All right!” in quite a new voice. It was coarse and abrupt, al
l the suavity gone from it. “I’m over a barrel, eh?”

  He turned to face them. His eyes were hot and angry.

  “I know Albano’s dead,” he said. “I read the papers. But if you think you’re going to pin it on me you’re crazy. You can’t—

  “We don’t want to pin it on anybody,” Zucker told him. “We want the truth, that’s all. Now why was Albano really here? What did you fight about?”

  “We didn’t fight!” Brand’s voice was a shout. “Maybe I don’t have an M.D. after my name like a lot of stuffed shirts I know, but I can handle my business just as well as they can. I don’t get into brawls with my patients! There wasn’t any fight!”

  Zucker said calmly, “Let’s have the story. Why was Albano here?”

  Brand drew a deep breath, smoothed back his hair, and returned to the chair facing Zucker and Gray. The color in his face was fading back to its normal ruddiness, but his voice and his attitude had a new aggressiveness now. And the look in his eyes was ugly.

  “All right. You want to know, I’ll tell you. Albano wanted me to treat his girl friend. The Champion woman. I wouldn’t do it. He got mad. That’s all there was to it.”

  Zucker and Gray gazed at him in silence for a moment.

  “Why wouldn’t you do it?” Zucker asked finally.

  Brand started to speak, stopped himself, glanced from one man to the other. “Because—” he said, and halted. “Because I knew too much about her.” He finished the sentence with a rush. “I had a damned good reason to steer clear of her. She’s homicidal!”

  There was an electric silence in the room. Then Gray said, “How did you know that?”

  Brand told him, “There are certain unmistakable signs. A layman wouldn’t realize their importance, of course. But anyone who’s studied abnormal psychology would always know. You can’t miss it.”

  Gray thought, So he hasn’t recognized me. Aloud he asked, “What particular signs did Mrs. Champion show?”

  “She—she’s physically a homicidal type. I knew it right away.”

  Gray kept his voice under control with considerable effort. To himself he was thinking, My God, Lombroso! That theory went out with the dodo. But what he said was, “You’ve read the papers today, Mr. Brand. You realize what kind of an accusation you’re bringing against Mrs. Champion? You ought to be very sure of yourself before you—”

  “God damn it, I am sure. For one thing, she’s a pathological liar. It’s obvious this is symbolic murder. Besides—”

  “In what way is it symbolic murder?” Gray demanded.

  “I’d have to give you a two-hour lecture to make it clear,” Brand said impatiently. “Take my word for it. I’ve studied the subject very thoroughly.”

  “Where?” Gray asked.

  “Eh?”

  “I want to know where you studied.”

  Brand waved vaguely toward his framed certificates.

  “I have a thorough background. But let’s stick to the subject. I refused to accept Mrs. Champion as a patient because I could tell she was homicidal. And that’s all I can tell you. Professional confidence, you know.”

  “How often did you see Mrs. Champion?” Gray asked.

  “Once,” Brand said firmly.

  “And on the strength of one visit, you decided she was homicidal?”

  “It was perfectly clear to a trained eye.” He looked at Zucker, who was regarding him impassively. He looked back at Gray. His gaze wavered a little. “If you don’t believe me,” he said, his voice defensive for the first time, “I can prove it. I know she’s homicidal. What would you say if I told you she—she attacked me with that poker over there?” He pointed to the fireplace, and Zucker and Gray turned automatically to look. The poker was dusty and a little bent.

  “If a woman comes into my office and makes a scene,” Brand went on, “—if she grabs up a poker and tries to kill me, I’ve got a damned good reason for thinking she’s homicidal. Besides my professional observations, of course.”

  “Did she?” Zucker asked bluntly.

  Brand raised his eyebrows. “I’m not making any accusations. I’m only saying if she did, I can back up my observations with experience.”

  “Why would she do a thing like that?” Gray asked, watching the man and wondering if this time Brand was verging on the truth in any way.

  “If a patient made a pass at me,” Brand said, preening himself a little, “of course I couldn’t have anything like that. And she could get mad enough to take a poker to me when I had to tell her I wasn’t interested. All this is hypothetical, you understand.” He added this last hastily, looking at Gray.

  “If she did it, her prints might still be on the poker,” Gray said, getting up. “Mind if I—”

  Brand got up before him and crossed quickly to the fireplace. “This was weeks ago. The poker’s dusted every day. Polished once a week. My housekeeper’s very conscientious.” He picked up the poker himself, spreading his hand over the ball-shaped grip. If there had been prints there before, they were obliterated now.

  Zucker said, “You reported this to the police?”

  “I said it was hypothetical!” Brand sounded sharp.

  Zucker exhaled heavily. “All right,” he said. He stood up and shoved back his chair. “Get your hat and coat,” he said to Brand. “We’re going downtown.”

  Brand whirled on him, the big, jowled face paling. “You can’t arrest me! I don’t know a God-damned thing about who killed Albano! I was right here in bed all last night!”

  “Okay,” Zucker said mildly. “Nobody’s arresting you. I just want your story for the record. You willing to tell it to a stenographer and sign it?”

  Brand paused, swallowed audibly. Then he said, “Well—yes, I guess so. I’m willing. But I can’t leave right now. I—”

  “Get your coat,” Zucker said.

  “I’ll be damned if I do!” Anger made Brand’s voice suddenly shrill. “You can’t push me around like this. Just because I haven’t got an M.D.—I could have been a doctor if I’d wanted to! I’ve got a patient upstairs who needs me. I’m not going to jump when you snap your fingers. I’ll come when I’m God-damned good and ready. Not before!”

  Zucker, searching Brand’s face intently, nodded a slow nod.

  “All right, fair enough,” he said. “The car will wait for you outside. Half an hour time enough for you?”

  Brand gulped a little and nodded.

  Turning to follow Zucker toward the door, Gray paused and looked back. “About Albano,” he said casually to Brand, “—did you call off your dog?”

  Brand exhaled noisily. He turned his back and went into his office without a word, slamming the door. Gray shook his head and followed Zucker out of the room.

  15

  As Gray and Zucker went down the steps outside, between thick walls of ivy, the door to Brand’s office opened and Brand looked out. Seeing the room clear, he went hastily down the length of it to the front window and stood watching, breathing a little hard, until the two intruders were safely off the premises. Then Brand turned and ran back to his office, his heavy steps shaking the old house. He threw himself into his desk chair, snatched up the telephone and dialed with unsteady fingers.

  It seemed to him the ringing at the other end would never stop. In a hoarse whisper he found himself addressing some unseen power near the corner of the ceiling. Let him be in, let him be in this time! he urged this nameless being.

  And the prayer was answered. At the other end of the line a hoarse, creaking voice finally spoke.

  “Fenn Detective Agency. Fenn speaking.”

  “Thank God,” Brand said. “For Christ’s sake, Fenn, where have you been? I’ve been trying for two days to get you.”

  “Perry?” Fenn’s voice sounded disinterested. “What’s up?”

  “Plenty’s up. I want to know what the hell you did to Oliver Albano.”

  There was a gasp at the far end of the wire. Fenn cried indignantly, his voice gone squeaky with protest, “I n
ever did a God-damned thing to him! You can’t pin it on me!”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Brand paused, drew a deep breath. “Let’s calm down, now. I’ve got to find out where I stand. The cops just paid a call on me. Hold on a minute—I need a drink.”

  Brand cradled the telephone between shoulder and neck, and leaned sidewise to get a pint bottle out of the drawer. Fenn could hear the liquid gurgle as Brand tipped it to his mouth.

  “Okay.” Brand sounded happier. “Now listen to me. I don’t know what was with you and Albano, but I know it was something. You want to tell me before I go to the cops to make my statement?”

  Fenn said uncomfortably, “You wouldn’t dare talk. With what I know about you I could put you behind bars the rest of your life.”

  “Maybe I’ve got something on you, now,” Brand said. “Maybe you and I will start all over, Fenn. Maybe I’ll just quit the payoffs.”

  “You do and I’ll get to the cops with my story so fast I’ll—”

  “Hold it, hold it. We’re talking about Albano right now. The cops know he was here the night before he died. They want to know why. I haven’t mentioned you—yet. Maybe I will and maybe I won’t It all depends. Now, suppose you give me your side of the story so I’ll know just where we both stand. What happened with you and Albano?”

  Fenn was silent. Brand could hear his chair creak on the other side of the city as Fenn squirmed uncomfortably at his desk.

  “I was shadowing him,” Fenn said, finally. “That’s all. You know that Champion dame? Her husband hired me to find out how much was going on. In case she sues him for divorce, see? That’s all there is to it. Honest to God, Perry!”

  Brand snorted. “So you were so damned clumsy he found out and trailed you, is that it? Well, he trailed you here! That must have been the night you came for your handout. I tried to talk him out of it, but he thought he knew everything. Kept yelling at me to call off my dog before he broke my neck. Why would I hire anybody to trail Albano, for God’s sake? And if I did, would I hire a stumblebum like you?” Brand blew out his breath in a frenzy of irritation.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, and reached for the bottle again. Fenn, hearing it, licked his lips unconsciously.