Michael Gray Novels

by Henry Kuttner

  The horrifying automatism of those blows seemed more shattering to Brand than the blows themselves. Brand was completely helpless. He couldn’t tear free. He had started something he couldn’t control. He had lost his power. Somehow, he had lost his power. He had misjudged, and now the power had gone out of him. And his stunned brain was reeling under the impact of those incessant shocks that could not, would not halt.

  Brand’s legs crumpled. Turk held him up, apparently without effort, and kept on smashing back and forth with his open hand.

  Brand felt his throat unlock and he started to scream. He squeezed his eyes shut and strained his head back to get away from those awful blows he could not escape. He felt his waving forelock whip against his face, left and then right, left and then right. He screamed and screamed again.

  It went on forever.

  The nurse was bathing his face with a wet towel-end when he opened his eyes. Automatically he began to roll his head back and forth.

  “Dr. Brand! Are you all right? Shall I call the police? Shall I get a doctor?”

  He choked on a hoarse laugh. “I’m a doctor, remember?” But then the rest of the memory came back to him and he twisted his head sidewise in a panic, looking around for Turk. “Is he gone? Is he gone?”

  “Yes. Be careful, don’t try to—”

  He pushed her away. “Let me alone, you bitch!” He staggered to his feet and stood there weaving. The overturned desk caught his eye. “Here, help me!”

  Together they righted the desk. Brand ignored the stabs of pain in his side. A rib must be broken. He felt sure of that.

  The nurse picked up the swivel chair.

  Brand said thickly, “Get out. Shut the door. I’m all right.”

  She looked at him doubtfully. He glared at her and she put her head down and hurried out.

  Brand got the desk drawer open and took out his bottle. He tipped it up and drank a long draught. Then he put the bottle back, picked up the wet towel and dabbed at his face. It didn’t help. His face felt like raw meat.

  He rummaged in the confusion of his desk and found a box of codeine tablets, gulped two with another swig of brandy. Then he sat down at the desk.

  His rib hurt. He didn’t seem to mind it. Actually, the pain took his mind off what had happened a little bit. Not much. Not enough, but some.

  Brand’s head began to rock back and forth.

  He put his head down on his arms on the desk. He waited for the codeine to begin to work.

  He was still there nearly an hour later when the door opened and Ira Fenn came in. He was unshaved and his clothes looked as though he had slept in them.

  “Perry,” he said.

  Brand didn’t raise his head.

  “Get out,” he said.

  “Perry, it’s me. Ira Fenn. I need some more money.”

  Brand said to the dark space between his arm and the desk, “I told you to stay away from here. Get out!”

  Actually, Fenn had forgotten that. He threw more emphasis into his voice to make up for it. “My luck’s out, Perry. I got into a little game today and—well, you know how it is. I just need a little stake until something pays off. Things have been breaking wrong for me. I lost my one good account and I haven’t got another lined up yet. Come on, Perry.”

  Brand didn’t move.

  “You sick?” Fenn asked. He wasn’t very drunk. He had arrived at the stage where his skin was beginning to crawl and he needed another drink. He felt a little sick himself, and he knew he would be much sicker if he sobered up.

  “Come on, Perry,” he cajoled. “A little dough—”

  Brand’s head rocked a little, back and forth. Fenn took it for a negative sign. His voice grew ugly.

  “So I’m ahead of time,” he said. “You get off pretty easy, you know that? For a lousy payoff of a hundred a month I’ve been keeping my mouth shut. It’s worth more.”

  Something that sounded almost like a chuckle broke from Brand. Fenn’s voice rose.

  “Funny, is it? Suppose I went to the cops and told them who operated on that girl in Chicago? That’s a murder rap, Perry. One word from me and you’ll be extradited so fast you—” He stopped.

  Brand lifted his head. His face was contorted. Fenn stared in amazement. It took him a slow moment to realize that Brand was crying. His mouth was open in racking sobs, and tears ran down his swollen, streaked face and darkened the dirty medical jacket.

  “What—what the hell—!”

  “Wait!” Brand said chokingly. “Wait. Wait.”

  He shoved back his chair and stumbled across the room, away from Fenn. He bent with a gasp of pain and picked up the pistol in the corner. Holding it aimed at Fenn’s belly, he came back, lurching a little.

  His voice was a shaking whisper.

  “Who am I? Come on—who do you think I am?”

  Fenn took a backward step. He felt much soberer.

  “Jesus, Perry, take it easy!”

  “Call me Dr. Brand, you bastard! That’s who I am. Dr. Brand!”

  “Listen—”

  “Call me Dr. Brand!”

  “Sure, Dr. Brand. Sure—”

  “I’m just as good as any of them!” Brand said indistinctly. “Suppose I made a mistake once! I’m still just as good—I can handle anybody any time! You hear me? I’m not dirt. I—” He focused through his bleared eyes at Fenn’s unshaven face. A spasm of disgust crossed his own.

  “If I ever see you again I’ll kill you,” he said. “You dirty little blackmailer—go to the police! Go on, God damn it! I don’t care what you do. I’m through with you. I’m a doctor!” His laugh was hysterical.

  “Get out of here!” he screamed at Fenn. “The party’s over. Hurry up!” His voice was urgent now. “Hurry up, before I shoot!” He was almost pleading.

  Fenn whirled and wrenched open the door. He didn’t take time to close it. His footsteps beat rapidly along the hall. Then the outer door opened and slammed shut.

  Brand stood still and watched his office door swing slowly shut too, like a delayed echo.

  Then, equally slowly, he began to turn the revolver until he was looking directly down the round black bore.

  After an eternity he moved his wrist again until the gun pointed at the floor.

  He drew a long, shuddering breath and looked across the room at the glitter of sunlight on the ornate gilt of the diplomas that meant nothing at all.

  22

  Fenn scrambled into his car, slammed the door and locked it, and then leaned back and waited for the shivering to stop. Who ever would have thought it—Perry Brand cracked up at last! Cracked like the nut he was. Well, that was the way it went. Fenn had been lucky to get out as easily as he had. He sat waiting for some while, half expecting the sound of a shot, ready to gun his motor and get out of there.

  But no shot came.

  After awhile Fenn pulled himself together and tugged a dog-eared little notebook out of his pocket. Bad as he felt, he would have to get moving on something and there was no time like the present to make up his mind. He had had a lifetime of experience in blackmail. He knew when a sucker was off the hook. Perry Brand was no good to him any more. He might as well draw a big black line through Perry Brand.

  But there were other fish in the sea.

  Fenn opened his notebook and licked a dirty finger, turning the pages slowly. A wise little grin began to dawn across his face, showing the yellow teeth. If Dennis Champion thought Fenn had dropped the Karen Champion shadowing job the minute Champion snapped his fingers, then he had another think coming. There had been a number of very interesting angles to the Champion case. Fenn was a man of experience, too wise to drop a potential gold mine quickly.

  Especially since the Albano killing. Oh, there were quite a few interesting angles here. Well worth exploring. Quite a few names on the list that would bear following up. You never knew just how guilty a person felt until you’d talked things over with them, tested things out. Seen just how much the traffic would bear.


  Maybe old Perry had done Fenn a favor, after all. What good was a lousy hundred bucks a month, anyway? Some of these people who had been involved with Albano ought to be good for a hell of a lot more than Perry Brand could pay. A hell of a lot more.

  Fenn licked his finger again and turned the pages over. Let’s see now, he thought. Which shall I call first….

  Champion said heavily, “—So Wes Turk is raising the money now. By this afternoon he’ll be in a position to make you a fair offer for your shares.” He stood between the desk and the closed door in Roger Quigley’s office, swinging his big head from Joyce to Quigley, impartially glowering at each. He had refused to sit down while he gave them his ultimatum. He was nearly finished now.

  “And you’ll take the offer,” he told them flatly. “I’m not trying to play politics in this deal. I’m laying my cards right on the table. You know just where Wes and I stand. Now’s your chance to get off my back and clear out without a loss. But if you say no—”

  He paused. He looked and sounded more than ever like a weary fighter, too stubborn to give up even in the face of defeat. From under his brows he gave the Quigleys a look of resolute hate.

  “If you say no—I’ll wreck the company,” he said. “I mean that, every word of it. I’ve got the controlling interest and I can do it. Understand me—Roger? Joyce? You sell at a fair price now or you lose every penny you’ve got in CQD. That’s my last word.”

  Without another glance at them he wheeled and stumped heavily to the door.

  The Quigleys sat in silence for a full minute after Champion had gone. Neither seemed to want to be the first to speak. Finally Roger Quigley hunched his shoulders a little and said, “Well?”

  Joyce said in her brittlest voice, “He’s bluffing. You know that.”

  “I’m not so sure. He could do it, too. Within a month he could scuttle the whole company.”

  “Within a month he may be in an insane asylum.” She gave her husband a look of cool distaste. From her manner you might have thought that he, and not she, was the partner who had been recently caught in infidelity. “My bet is something else will happen,” she said.

  “What?”

  “He’ll sell out to us.”

  “Oh, hell. Dennis never will sell one share in CQD. He’d rather sell his left arm.”

  “He’ll sell. He’s cracking. Can’t you see it?”

  “He’s just cracked enough to do something crazy. I can see that, all right. I think we’d better get the hell out, myself. Take the money and start all over somewhere. Locate a company that’s on its last legs, buy cheap and build it up. How about it, Joyce? We could do it. Then it’ll be all ours and the sky’s the limit.”

  Joyce’s eyes gleamed for a moment. Then her lips tightened and she said, “Are you sure you want to go on like that, Roger?”

  “Like what?”

  “You know—what you said. Together.”

  Quigley got to his feet abruptly, shoved his hands into his pockets with an oddly boyish gesture, and began to pace the carpet with long, quick strides.

  “If you mean because of what happened—”

  “That’s what I mean.” Her voice was like crackling ice.

  “Well, Joyce, I thought we’d been all over it. I thought we’d decided to wash out the whole thing. Start over. I thought—”

  “You never think.” She struck the wheel of her cigarette lighter with an angry briskness, held the light to her cigarette a little unsteadily. “I’m not so sure we can wash it out.”

  “My God, Joyce,” Quigley said, aggrieved. “You act as if you wanted me to raise a row about it.”

  She gave him a cool, distant look. “All right, forget it,” she said. “It’s not important. The big question is, do we sell or don’t we. I say we don’t Thank God we set up the voting the way we did at the start. If it didn’t have to be unanimous, you two idiots would break up a gold mine just because you’re scared.” She gave her husband a look of contempt.

  “What am I supposed to be scared of?”

  “The police. What else? For God’s sake, stop worrying, Roger.”

  “What the hell do you mean, the police?”

  “Figure it out for yourself, you stupid idiot. How does it look to the police? We’ve been trying to force Dennis out of CQD, haven’t we? Don’t you think they’ll figure maybe we killed Oliver Albano ourselves and framed Dennis, just to get rid of him?”

  “I never heard anything so damn silly,” Quigley said. “Who’d go that far just to squeeze a partner out?”

  “Not you, anyhow.” She gave him the contemptuous glance again. “But that’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? Only I won’t go along with it. I’m not scared, if you are.”

  “Wait a minute,” Quigley said. “I don’t quite get this. I—oh, you mean we’re supposed to have killed Albano and now we’ve got cold feet? We want to pretend the company isn’t that important to us, so we sell out to Dennis?” He laughed, a little weakly. “You don’t really believe the police think that?”

  “They have to think of everything, don’t they? If it occurred to me it’s occurred to them. Well, I’m not letting go of CQD no matter what the police may think.” She drew deeply on her cigarette.

  “Besides,” she said, “Wes hasn’t made an offer yet. He may not be able to raise the money. Anything can happen.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “How should I know? I just said maybe. Sometimes it’s hard on short notice, and I bet Dennis sprang this on Wes in a hurry. He’s right on the edge of cracking. You’re right about that, for once.” Her look had begun to brighten. “If by any chance Wes can’t swing the deal now, I’ll bet anything we could push Dennis into selling out to us.”

  “He’ll never do it.” Quigley sounded stubborn. “There’s one way he could always raise money, anyhow.” He laughed a little. “The partnership insurance.”

  She gave him a cold glance. “That’s not funny.”

  “I think it is, kind of. If one of us dies, the surviving partners get the insurance.” His grin, faded slowly. “You know, Joyce, maybe you’re right. Maybe it isn’t so funny, at that.”

  She said, “Oh, Roger, don’t be a fool.”

  “Now wait, Joyce. Just think about it.”

  She thought. She said with a trace of uncertainty, “But, Roger—”

  “I’ll tell you what I think. I think Dennis tried to kill his wife that night when he broke into her place. For once, Karen wasn’t fooling. I think he killed Albano night before last. I think he’s crazy. I don’t give a damn what the courts or the psychiatrists say. I’m not going to turn my back on him any more. He had a hell of a good motive even for a sane man, as far as that goes.” Quigley blew out his breath with an angry sound. “I don’t want to stay in partnership with him any more. I don’t want to tempt him that much.”

  “Roger—” Joyce looked up at him with a little thoughtful frown denting her forehead. “Let’s think it over. There’s a time to let go, yes—but we have a tiger by the tail.”

  “Damn right we have. Just don’t forget about that insurance. If one of us dies—well, Dennis will be a lot richer. It might be just as well to keep it quiet that we’re disagreeing on what to do about selling.” Quigley grinned a wry grin. “Let him go on thinking he’d have to kill both of us to get control of CQD. We’d better make it harder for him. Just in case.”

  They looked at each other in wary speculation.

  23

  Ira Fenn, swaying slightly, closed the door of his office a little after nine-thirty and walked down the hall to the elevator. The building was old and smelled of dust and very old tobacco smoke. Fenn rang the bell. Nothing happened. He leaned on the bell determinedly, staring through the dirty glass panel at the swaying cables in the shaft. One group slid up as the other slid down. Their swaying made him rock a little on his feet.

  When the elevator finally reached his floor and clanged open Fenn said, “What the hell kept you?”

  The
elevator man looked sleepy. “I’m supposed to knock off at nine-thirty. You’re lucky I didn’t lock up and leave you.”

  “Oh, I’m lucky, all right.” Fenn chuckled. He reached for his wallet as the elevator ground to a stop.

  “Here’s the five I owe you, Mike. Surprised?”

  The elevator man peered at the bill. “That’s a ten.”

  Fenn examined it blearily. “So keep it,” he said. “On account of keeping you late.”

  Mike’s attitude underwent a quick change. “Thanks, Mr. Fenn. Thanks a lot. It’s only a few minutes late, anyhow.” He slid the door open and added genially, “Guess you worked late this evening too, didn’t you?”

  “I’m not through yet,” Fenn told him. He kissed the wallet and pocketed it with a flourish. “On the job morning, noon and night, that’s the life of the private dick. Oh, well, I’m not complaining. Got an appointment with a client right now.” He walked a few steps down the hall and then paused to say owlishly, “They think they can get along without me, but they find out different after a while.”

  “Yessir?”

  “So this fellow called me and wanted to hire me back again. What do you think of that?” Fenn scowled. “Who the hell says I can’t keep my clients, huh? Fires me one day and hires me back the next…” He reached for his wallet. “I owe you five bucks; don’t I?”

  “You already paid me, Mr. Fenn.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You think I haven’t got it? You think I can’t spare it?” He slapped his pocket. “It never rains but it pours, they say. Some days you can’t go wrong. Couple hours ago I found me a rich uncle.” Fenn winked elaborately. “He’s going to take care of me, kid. He sure is. And then on top of that, my old client calls up and wants me back. I tell you, I’m on my way up in the world. You sure I paid you?”

  “Yessir. Thanks.”

  “Well, what time is it?”

  “Twenty to ten.”

  “Jesus,” Fenn said. “I don’t want to be late. See you tomorrow.”