Michael Gray Novels

by Henry Kuttner

  Gray said, “Mrs. Dunne, just before you rang the doorbell, I had a phone call from the police. They told me your husband was dead, and asked me to come immediately to your house. That’s all I know about the situation.”

  She said, “I shouldn’t have left. But … what am I going to do?”

  “I think we should both go to your home.”

  “I suppose so.” She shivered.

  Gray said, “I’ll get dressed in two minutes. Wait for me.”

  He went quickly into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and decided not to shave. He dressed hastily. He took a topcoat from the closet and was holding it ready when Mrs. Dunne appeared. There was a flurry of fur as Julia rushed across the room and darted out an open window. For some reason the sight of the cat gave Gray another twinge of that empty, desolate feeling.

  He said nothing until they were in a taxi, hurrying through the silent, glistening darkness of the streets.

  “Now tell me what happened tonight,” he said.

  She leaned back and closed her eyes.

  “I went out,” she said flatly. “About eight. I didn’t get back until after twelve. When I walked into the house, the police were there. So was Sam. But they wouldn’t let me talk to him. They didn’t even tell me what had happened. But I knew.”

  “You knew?”

  She turned her head and looked at him.

  “I knew Howard was dead. Why else would the police be there—and Howard not there? They kept asking me questions, too.” Gray saw her shiver. “I shouldn’t have gone out tonight.”

  “Where did you go?” Gray asked.

  “To the Purple Onion. Arnold phoned me—Arnold Farragut. He wanted me to meet him. You know what happened the other night. He and Howard had a fight … Arnold said I needed protection from Howard. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. He said that he was going to charge Howard with assault.”

  “Did Howard hear you on the phone?”

  “No. He wasn’t home yet. I didn’t see him—” Her voice wavered. “Not since this morning. I didn’t know what to do. Doctor Bronson told me I should try not to upset Howard. I thought if I could explain to Arnold how much depended on Howard’s being let alone now, he’d understand. He was worried about me. I knew I could convince him there was nothing to worry about. But I didn’t want Howard to know I was seeing Arnold tonight. He’s so jealous—”

  The taxi swung around a corner.

  Mrs. Dunne said, “Finally I told Arnold I’d meet him at the Purple Onion. I left a note for Howard. I said I’d gone to a show and I wouldn’t be very late. Then I caught a taxi and met Arnold. We talked for about three hours. But I finally got him to agree to—not to prefer charges against Howard.”

  “And then?”

  “He wanted to take me home, but I said no. We had trouble finding a cab. I … well, when I got home, the police were there.”

  There was a long silence. The cab turned another corner and began to slow down. Mary Dunne drew a shuddering breath.

  “I shouldn’t have gone out tonight,” she said. “Howard needed me. I could have … I could have done something to help him.”

  Gray said quietly, “We don’t know that. We don’t even know exactly what happened. The next thing to do is to find that out. Come on.”

  They got out of the taxi. The air was thick with the clammy fog before dawn. The headlights made cold spears through the darkness.

  “Let’s go in,” Gray said.

  15

  Captain Zucker always looked exactly the same. Even if he’d been on a case for days and nights without sleep, somehow he managed to be smoothly shaved, and his eyes never acquired the red-rimmed look Gray’s now had.

  The two men stood just inside the doorway of the Dunne living room. It reminded Gray of a set being arranged by stagehands. One man, standing at the little bar in one corner, was spraying, gray powder from an atomizer on several bottles. Another had a camera set up on its tripod for a high-angle shot of the body that lay motionless, sprawled face down on the carpet.

  Zucker’s voice came as a shock.

  “So Mrs. Dunne went to your place?”

  Gray nodded.

  “Thanks for bringing her back,” Zucker said. His gaze flickered around the room. “Now let’s have it straight, Mike. We know that Dunne was a patient of yours. Was he sane?”

  Gray was still looking at the dead man. He said sharply, “That’s a damned foolish question.”

  “It’s the way the coroner will ask it.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  “Come over here,” Zucker said, moving forward as the photographer picked up his camera, tripod and all, and took it to where the other man was working. “Now look at the body. No, don’t touch it. Just take a look.”

  Gray knelt and stared at the half-concealed face of Howard Dunne, perhaps less of a mask now than it had ever been in life. The skin was lividly red.

  Gray stood up.

  “Cyanide?” he asked.

  “That’s my guess,” Zucker said. “Now how about answering my question? Was Dunne sane?”

  Gray was watching the photographer snap a larger lens on his camera. The latent prints on the bottles had been brought out now, so that they could be photographed. But the latent prints on Howard Dunne’s mind….

  Gray said abruptly, “He was on the edge, Harry. In fact, I’d arranged a consultation for tomorrow—today. The trouble is, I don’t know what’s happened. Something unexpected that put heavy pressure on Dunne might have thrown him into a psychotic state. But—this doesn’t fit.”

  “You think he wouldn’t have killed himself?”

  “Killed himself? He could have. But not this way.”

  Zucker said, “Sam Pope was here with him. Pope mixed the drinks. We lifted his prints from Dunne’s glass, but Pope admitted it anyway. We’re going to test the liquor, but so far it looks like the cyanide was put in a bottle of gin, and Pope used that to mix the drinks.”

  “His own too?”

  “No, he had bourbon and soda.”

  “And he’s all right?”

  Zucker nodded.

  Gray said slowly, “Maybe that’s what doesn’t fit. But something’s wrong.”

  “You’re damn right about that,” Zucker agreed. “Whether it’s suicide or homicide. How about sitting in when we take Pope’s statement downtown? We’ve had it once, but we’ll need it again with a stenographer.”

  Gray frowned. The photographer had finished his work, and the other man was filling out small identification labels and attaching them to the bottles. A car engine hummed and stopped outside.

  “That’ll be the coroner,” Zucker said.

  Gray said, “What about Mrs. Dunne?”

  Zucker started for the door. “The way she’s been talking, you’d think she killed her husband.”

  “She feels guilty. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  Zucker grunted.

  “Anybody could have poisoned that bottle of gin,” he said. “We can’t tell much yet. There was plenty of motive for murder, wasn’t there?”

  Gray said, “Almost anybody involved might have wanted Howard Dunne dead. Because he was getting well.”

  The coroner’s voice sounded in the hall. Zucker said, “Wait around a bit and then you can ride downtown with me.” He walked out through the doorway.

  “What about Mrs. Dunne?” Gray called.

  Zucker glanced over his shoulder.

  “We’re keeping an eye on her this time,” he said grimly.

  Sam Pope still had a face the color of roast beef, but now it was overdone instead of rare. He glared across the room at Gray and snapped, “I blame you for this!”

  Zucker said, “All we want is a statement, Mr. Pope.”

  Pope tried to control himself. He said curtly, “I telephoned my brother-in-law about eight-thirty last night. He sounded so—violent—that I told him I was coming over. When I got there, he aske
d me to mix drinks. He drank his and collapsed. I tried to revive him. He was dead, so I called the police. That’s all.”

  Zucker said, “Let’s take it from the beginning, in more detail, if you don’t mind. You say Howard Dunne sounded violent. In what way?”

  “He was raving,” Pope said.

  “Do you mean he was incoherent?”

  “No. He was—angry. Talking wildly.”

  “What was he talking about?”

  Pope hesitated briefly.

  “About Mary, my sister. She’d gone out. He was angry about that.”

  “Did he say where she’d gone?”

  The pause was longer this time. Pope looked quickly at Gray, and back at Zucker. His face regained its ruddiness.

  “Yes. She’d gone to see a man named Farragut.”

  “Arnold Farragut?”

  “Then she told you about it, I suppose,” Pope said, after another pause. “Yes, that’s the man. Howard heard her making a date with him on the phone last night. She didn’t know Howard was home. He said he came in and heard her talking in the next room. He stayed out of sight and waited while she wrote him a note and went out. The note said she was going to a show,” Pope finished, scowling.

  “Mr. Dunne told you that over the telephone?”

  “That’s right. It was hard to understand him. I told him he was crazy. And I said I was coming over.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Damn it, because I was afraid of what the man might do! He was insane!”

  “What happened when you got there?”

  “I waited,” Pope said. “He didn’t answer the bell. I waited for nearly a quarter of an hour. I didn’t know what else to do. Finally he came along and let me in. We—”

  “He came along? From where?”

  “Along the street,” Pope said impatiently.

  “Did he say where he’d been?”

  “He’d been looking for Mary. But he hadn’t found her. We talked for quite a while. Finally he asked me to mix some drinks. He went into the next room and came back in a minute or two. He said he had to make an important phone call, but the line was busy. They’ve got a two-party line. He said he’d try again. He went out and started to, I suppose, because I heard him dialing. Then I finished mixing the drinks and went in after him, and he hung up as soon as he saw me.”

  “Was he talking to anyone on the phone?”

  Pope shook his head.

  “Did he say who he was calling?”

  “No… He did say he’d already given the man a message. I gave him his drink and we went back into the Living room. He started drinking. Then he dropped his glass and collapsed. I thought he was choking on the drink. I tried to help him, but … he must have died almost instantly. I couldn’t feel his pulse. So I called the police.”

  “What were you drinking?”

  “Bourbon and soda. I mixed gin and tonic for Howard.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what he asked for,” Pope snapped.

  “He specifically asked you to mix him a gin and tonic?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose idea was it that you drink bourbon and soda?”

  “My own,” Pope said.

  “Is that what you usually drink?”

  “I don’t usually drink anything,” Pope said. “My stomach is bad. Pylorospasm and everything else. I stick to whisky when I do drink.”

  “Do you drink gin at all?”

  Pope shook his head.

  “No. I don’t like it.”

  “Did Howard Dunne know you never drink gin?”

  “It’s no secret,” Pope said. “I suppose he did.”

  Zucker looked thoughtfully at the man.

  “Did Howard Dunne say anything that indicated he knew there was poison in the gin?”

  Pope pondered.

  “Nothing specific. He was—irrational. I mean, he was talking pretty wildly.”

  Zucker said, “Would you like to take a break for a few minutes? This is off the record.” He held out cigarettes to Pope, who grunted and got out a cigar. Gray rose and went out of the room. Zucker joined him in the hall outside.

  “Let’s go in here,” the detective said, opening an office door. “Now what did you signal me for?”

  “I thought of some questions you might want to ask Pope,” Gray said.

  “Hell, did you think I’d finished with him?”

  “No. But I wouldn’t wait too long. If he has time to think—you know what happens.”

  “Okay, what is it?”

  Gray told him. He finished: “I’d better stay away while you talk to him. He doesn’t like me. He’ll talk more freely if I’m not around.”

  “Well, it’ll be on the record,” Zucker said. “I’ll have it read back to you afterwards, if you want.”

  “I hoped you’d offer,” Gray said. He glanced at his wrist watch. “I’ve got to be at my office by nine.”

  “Plenty of time,” Zucker said, and went out.

  Later Gray talked to Zucker again.

  “You had it read back to you?”

  “Yes,” Gray said. “The time checks. Somebody phoned me just after eleven. But when I picked up the phone, the line was dead.”

  Zucker nodded.

  “Dunne.”

  “If Pope hadn’t interrupted him just then—hell!”

  “You think you could have stopped it?”

  Gray said, “If it’s suicide, then yes. I’m sure of that. I told Dunne to call me if he needed me. He did call. The whole thing—” He scowled. “And then Pope phoning to say he was moving in! The bastard promised me he’d postpone any decision on that till after the consultation.”

  “He didn’t push it till Dunne started talking irrationally.”

  “Yeah. If that’s true.”

  Zucker said wearily, “Let’s see. We’ll have to find out who had access to cyanide. The routine check-up. I sent out a man to talk to Farragut and his story checks. In fact, everybody agrees that Dunne was dangerous. This consultation you were going to have—are you still going to have it?”

  “Why? Dunne’s dead.”

  “His sanity’s still a question, though. You’ll be asked if he seemed suicidal.”

  Gray said dully, “He had suicidal tendencies. And homicidal.”

  Zucker pushed back his chair.

  “Why in hell did you take on a patient like that?” he asked. “Didn’t you realize the danger?”

  “Half of my patients have those tendencies,” Gray pointed out. “And I knew what would probably happen if I refused to take Dunne. I knew it was a chance.”

  Zucker said, “There was a motive for suicide?”

  “Yes. But it still doesn’t really fit.”

  “Now that I know more about it,” Zucker said slowly, “I’d agree that there were motives for murder, too—good ones. Everybody had a motive for wanting Dunne dead. Mrs. Dunne. Pope. Farragut—”

  “Would Farragut have poisoned a bottle Mrs. Dunne might have used?”

  “He got her out of the house…. No, he couldn’t have known when Dunne would take a drink. Unless he drank gin and tonic every night.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “You’ve thought some more about Mrs. Pope’s death, haven’t you?”

  “Eleanor Pope? Naturally.”

  “Her skull crushed. On the surface, a mugging. But the method isn’t the same.”

  “I don’t know,” Gray said. “It might be.”

  “This was poison.”

  “I mean psychological patterns. There’s a method there, too.”

  “The trouble with that kind of evidence is that it cuts both ways. All right, Mike. If you think of anything, call me. We’ll see what happens.”

  “Sure,” Gray said drearily. “We’ll see what happens.”

  16

  Somehow he got through the day. But Gray badly needed time to consider his own emotional reactions. For the psychoanalyst is not without emotional problems of his own; at best, he can
understand more clearly their causes. Some are always insoluble.

  Part of the trouble lies in the very nature of psychoanalysis. Analyst and analysand become linked with a very real emotional tie, as they must if therapy is to be successful. Yet the analyst knows that, ultimately, he must make himself unnecessary to his patient, even though the patient usually fights against that final separation.

  But meanwhile, the analyst must assume not only a carefully gauged responsibility for his patient, but a genuine warmth of feeling for him. And this is not so much assumed, as part of the analyst’s personality. Ability to feel emotion for others is an important qualification for the training analyst. And, invariably, as the patient becomes important to the analyst, the latter must carefully balance this essential tool of technique with the equally important tool of detached objectivity.

  What Gray was feeling was a sense of deep loss. Inevitably, he found himself wondering how much he had been at fault. Should he have accepted Dunne as a patient at all?

  Mary Dunne telephoned during the afternoon and made an appointment for five-thirty. Gray could not refuse. The analyst’s responsibility extends not only toward his patient, but toward the patient’s family as well, and Gray felt anxious about Mary Dunne.

  He had cancelled the consultation on Howard Dunne; there was nothing else to do. And as he ushered his last patient out at five, he found himself disliking the thought of being alone now. Gray thought wryly that it was always easier to deal with others’ problems than with one’s own.

  The door clicked and opened. A tall, lean man came in. He had yellow hair and sharp blue eyes. For a moment Gray failed to recognize him.

  He said, “Mr. Gray?” His tone seemed to hold a remote amusement.

  “That’s right,” Gray said.

  “My name’s Farragut,” the yellow-haired man said. He glanced around the office. “I’ve been waiting till you were free. I sneaked a look in once or twice, but there was always somebody waiting.” The tone of faint amusement was habitual, Gray decided.

  He said, “Yes?” and noticed the sharpness in his own voice.

  Farragut said, “Can you spare ten minutes?”

  Gray said, “Well—what is it about?”