Michael Gray Novels

by Henry Kuttner

  Copyright © 1956 by Henry Kuttner

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition August 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-381-6

  1

  Under the pier it was pitch-dark. The boy clinging to the barnacle-crusted beam could hear only his own heavy gasps as he fought to slow his breathing. He could feel only the thud of his heart that seemed to shake his whole body.

  A wave splashed high and drenched him.

  He crept a few feet along the beam. His knee slipped on the wet, dragging weed, and he reached frantically for a better grip. A sharp pain sliced along his palm. For an instant he balanced dangerously over the unseen, sucking water.

  Then he found his balance and froze motionless. The planks above him were shaking with sudden, heavy footsteps.

  A deep voice said, “He isn’t out here.”

  “I think he went up Cabrillo Street,” a younger voice agreed. The footsteps stopped almost above the boy’s head.

  “Why the hell didn’t you shoot?” the deep voice asked angrily.

  “Well, look, Sergeant.” The younger voice sounded defensive. “I thought we had orders to keep things quiet. The Chief said anything can start trouble when these kids are in town.”

  The heavy voice said, “You’ve got a lot to learn. This Udall kid’s a killer. Don’t ever take chances with a boy like that. You’re lucky you’re still alive.” His voice roared out suddenly. “Peterson! Anything over there?”

  A distant shout answered him. Under the pier the boy shuddered as another wave splashed icy spray over him.

  “Come on,” the sergeant said, and the footsteps began to recede. “Next time, use your gun. You don’t have to put a bullet in him. Just fire in the air. But scare him so he’ll stop running. They don’t send out an A.P.B. unless they mean…”

  The voices faded. The planks overhead stopped vibrating. The footsteps were gone.

  The boy lifted his head, wiped the salt from his eyes, and looked ahead over the Pacific Ocean. The spars of boats swung back and forth, rocking with the waves. Inland, the lights of Newport Beach fought with the moonlight. It was noisy. Music and voices, an outburst of distant shouting.

  The Easter holiday was just beginning, and two thousand teen-agers had invaded the California coast from Newport Beach to San Diego.

  The boy had no destination. He was on the run, and something had caught him up in the young tide that was flowing from Los Angeles toward Newport. But that had been a mistake. The police were in Newport, too, ready for trouble.

  The boy shivered in his wet clothes, hugging the beam.

  Then, carefully, he reached into his pocket and brought out the ring. He moved his hand gently forward into the moonlight, cupping the bright thing in his palm.

  The sapphire was blue as peace.

  His fingers began to tremble. He was trying not to think at all. He was trying to forget everything but the blue sapphire and the way it could make everything all right again, somehow, if only…

  He closed his hand tight over it as his fingers began to tremble uncontrollably. When the trembling had passed and he opened his hand, the ring lay in a smear of blood that looked dark in the moonlight.

  He thought how red blood really is.

  He heard himself gasp and catch his breath, and then cry out thinly. He shut his eyes tight, but he couldn’t stop the memory from coming back.

  Now he was back in San Francisco three nights ago. Now he was fitting the key into the door, hearing the lock click over, walking across the threshold. He saw the blue rug, the green dress, the white throat, and the white face turned toward him. He saw her eyes open, watching him.

  But white skin, green dress, blue eyes, were all motionless there at his feet on the blue rug, and the only moving things were three winding crimson snakes that moved, sluggish and bright, down Ann Avery’s side.

  She was dead. He could never forget how red blood really is, or how sharp it smells, acrid as the smell from the salty, hissing water under the beam he gripped.

  Above him the planks shook suddenly.

  “…heard it, too,” the heavy voice said.

  “It came from out here.”

  A flashlight killed the moonlight, flooding his face.

  “There he is!”

  Cold and final, a voice said, “Don’t move, boy. Don’t you move an inch.”

  Another voice said with excitement in it, “That’s Udall, all right. That’s the kid they want for Ann Avery’s murder.”

  2

  Michael Gray unlocked his office door and walked across the carpet to the window. He pulled the blind cord to let in the foggy morning light. Between two buildings he could see a slice of San Francisco Bay, the choppy water steel-colored under lifting fog.

  Gray glanced at his watch. His first patient was due in twenty minutes. He unlocked his filing cabinet, ran his thumb along the folders inside, and pulled out the one he wanted. His eyes sharpening, he sat down at his desk and opened the folder.

  It was like opening up the mind of the patient whose psychoanalysis was in progress now. Slowly, patiently, the terrors and the secret hates come wavering to the surface as the work goes on. Gray could almost see the patient’s anxious face between him and the page.

  The office’s outer door opened and shut with a slam. Gray closed the folder and listened to heavy footsteps pound across the floor. Knuckles thudded impatiently at the inner door. Gray ran his fingers through his red hair, shrugged, and said, “Okay, Harry. Come on in.”

  Detective Captain Zucker marched into the office. His seamed and weather-beaten face was harsh with anger.

  “Look at this, Mike,” he said, slapping the morning paper down on the desk, face-up. Belatedly he added, “You busy?”

  “I’m free till nine,” Gray told him in a guarded voice. “What’s wrong?”

  Zucker repeated himself. “Look at that.”

  Gray looked. A cartoon on the front page glared up at him in the strong, harsh sweeps of an angry pencil. It showed a dozen heavy-jawed, grinning youths, armed with switchblades and swinging tire chains, running out the courthouse door. A bald man with heavy spectacles, a Vandyke beard, and a foolish simper, held the door open for them. The caption under the picture said:

  PSYCHIATRIST CURES TEEN-AGE CRIME

  Gray’s face tightened. “I saw it this morning. It’s the Avery killing, isn’t it? The Udall boy?”

  “That’s the one,” Zucker said. “Mike, you’ve got to help us out on this. Judge Sheffield—”

  “The answer is no,” Gray interrupted him. “I talked to Judge Sheffield last night.”

  “I know you did,” Zucker said. “Mike, I wish you’d think it over. There’s an emergency on this one. It’ll be just routine for you, because all the groundwork’s done. Dr. Mawson’s been seeing the kid for the last couple of weeks, ever since we picked him up at Newport Beach. All his records are available. But Mawson’s in the hospital right now with double pneumonia, and he may not be back in shape for several weeks. We can’t wait that long.”

  “That’s the trouble,” Gray said. “There’s too much rush.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You know what I mean. I don’t like being hurried on a case. And I don’t much like coming in at the tail end, either. I like to reach my own conclusions my own way.” Gray flicked the newspaper distastefully. “And another thing, I don’t like this kind of publicity. It whips up so much public emotion nobody can approach the thing impartially. Me or anybody. It’s just something I’d rather stay out of.”

  Zucker said, “You’re damn right it won�
�t be impartial. It’s been two weeks now since Ann Avery was killed. Public opinion’s got hotter every day. If we have to delay another couple of weeks, they’ll be ready to lynch the kid. If you’re so interested in impartiality, the smart thing for you to do is help us out in getting a quick disposition. Besides, there’s just one question the judge wants you to answer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This case is a hot potato,” Zucker said. “The Udall kid is seventeen. He could be tried in juvenile court or adult court, depending on just how mature he is. That’s all we need from you—an opinion on which court he belongs in.”

  Zucker grinned. “Just between ourselves, everything’s all wrapped up. We’ve got all the evidence we need for a conviction. Dr. Mawson’s gone into the whole background, and we’ve got psychiatric reports on the kid from six months ago when he was first put on probation. All we need is a psychoanalyst at the hearing so there won’t be any kickback later.”

  Gray said, “What do you mean, everything’s wrapped up?”

  Zucker shrugged. “The kid’s guilty. He killed Ann Avery. No question about that. It’s just a question of procedure now. The papers are blowing off so much about juvenile delinquents we want to make sure this case is handled just right. No loopholes.”

  “What about all this, Harry?” Gray said. “Is there a really bad crime wave under way?”

  Zucker snorted. “You know the newspapers. When they’re short of news they’ve got to fill up the front page with something. Sure, we’ve had some trouble lately with teen-agers. We usually do around Easter and Christmas. That doesn’t mean a crime wave.”

  Gray looked at the cartoon on the paper before him.

  “It looks to me like this Udall kid’s getting a pretty raw deal,” he said. “The papers have decided beforehand he’s guilty. Maybe he is. If you say so, you ought to know. But it looks to me as if he won’t be tried for murder—he’ll be tried for being a juvenile.”

  Zucker said harshly, “Oh, for God’s sake, Mike. Don’t waste your sympathy. Turn that page, will you? There’s a picture of the boy and his victim on the second page. Take a look.”

  Gray spread the newspaper open. He stood looking down at the ink-blurred photograph. A heavy, sullen face gazed back at him, scowling at the camera under a low forehead with black hair that bristled.

  “He’s no beauty,” Gray admitted. “But the way the photographer got him underlighted doesn’t help, either. You’d look sinister yourself with lighting like that.”

  Zucker said, “Oh, well, you know how the newspapers work. They want him to look bad—they make him look bad. In this case, he is bad. Udall’s been in trouble ever since he was eight. He was on probation when we picked him up for the killing. Can’t blame the papers for blowing off about it. It looks like we coddled a delinquent until he thought he could get away with anything and turned into a killer.”

  Gray looked thoughtfully at the picture next to Eddie Udall’s. The dead woman’s face was lovely.

  “I wonder what her motive was?” he said.

  “What? You mean Udall’s motive. He’s the one—”

  “I mean her motive. The same conditions define the victim and the criminal. I wonder what Ann Avery’s motive was for being murdered.” He was still looking down, frowning a little. “That’s funny,” he murmured, and put his hand out to cover half the woman’s face. Then he took his hand away again and squinted at her with his eyes half-shut.

  The picture was a snapshot taken in sunshine against the wall of a house. Ann Avery’s dark hair blew in soft ringlets that curled against her forehead. She had wide-set eyes half-closed against the sun. Her mouth was richly curved, but even with the smile it had a repressed look, a sensuous mouth held under firm control. Watchfulness was in the whole face.

  Ann Avery must have been a woman with problems, Gray thought, and then smiled at himself. We all have problems. Ann Avery’s at least were over now. He wondered if she had looked like this, repressed and watchful, but not quite watchful enough, when the knife struck into her.

  “She was stabbed, wasn’t she?” he asked.

  Zucker nodded. “Udall had a switchblade knife like the one that killed her. He had a key to her apartment in his pocket, and a sapphire ring her husband identifies. His prints are all over her apartment. He was on the run when we picked him up. He was even seen leaving the building around the time of the killing.”

  “Does he admit he did it?”

  Zucker laughed shortly. “He isn’t crazy. Naturally he denies it. He tells a damn fool story nobody would believe. He’d be smarter if he just kept his mouth shut.”

  Gray looked down at the pictured face of Ann Avery. Again he laid his hand over half of it and gazed hard. “I wonder,” he said.

  “How about it, Mike?” Zucker said persuasively. “All you have to do is show up at the hearing and answer one question for Judge Sheffield—whether the kid’s suitable for handling by juvenile or not. You’ve got all the records to work from. You just talk to the boy once, that’s all. I know what you’ll decide. Five minutes with Udall and you’ll know damn well what answer you’ll have to give Sheffield.”

  Gray pinched his lip and gazed at the boy’s sullen face on the news page.

  “Does it make any difference, really, which court he goes to? Either way, he still has to take his medicine if he did the job.”

  “It makes a lot of difference to the public,” Zucker said. “Look here. This is right up your alley.”

  He flipped the newspaper back to the front page and thumped his finger on the boxed column under the cartoon. Gray leaned forward to read it.

  THE INSIDE TRACK

  by Ross Sinnott

  The big decision is due to break any day now. Edward Udall’s hearing will come up before Judge Angus Sheffield. Is Udall a juvenile? The law says a juvenile can’t commit a crime. What you do while you’re under-age doesn’t really count. Udall should have started out in his career a little earlier if he wanted to be really safe. Because he’s at a precarious age now. He could be remanded to adult court, where a jury of adults would decide whether this hulking, sullen-looking kid broke into the Avery apartment on the night of March 27, and while robbing it, was caught by his boss’ wife.

  But he could be remanded to juvenile court, too. The worst that could happen then would be a quiet hitch at Preston, learning a trade, until he’s twenty-one and ready to come out into the world again. It’s up to Judge Sheffield, the probation people, and a psychiatrist or two.

  Is Sheffield going to pat Eddie on the head, the way he did six months ago, and say, ‘Well, now, sonny, if you say you’re sorry, we’ll just put you on probation again. Of course, you can’t have your switchblade back. You’ll have to get yourself another. But mind now, it’s only for cleaning your fingernails.’

  Looks like it.

  After all, don’t forget the psychiatrists. They’ll really have us crying in our beers. You know the routine. It wasn’t really Eddie’s fault. He got into bad company. His family life wasn’t happy. After all, there aren’t any bad kids. There are only unhappy kids.

  Well, let’s make the kids happy. What’s a little larceny? If murder makes ’em happy, let’s declare an open season once a year, when the kids can get out their zip-guns and switchblades and really have fun.

  Or do we need to bother?

  Is that what’s happening right now?

  It isn’t safe to go out on the streets at night. The poor unhappy kids are looking for happiness—in packs. Rat packs.

  Eddie Udall is just one example of what happens when teen-age criminals are coddled. He won’t go to the gas chamber—not at seventeen. But he can draw a life sentence.

  The court tried leniency on this young hoodlum. He’s got a record—vandalism, malicious mischief, theft, assault. Six months ago he was picked up for beating a helpless old man. A psychiatrist named Frank Carradine examined Eddie. We don’t know what happened. All this stuff is kept awfully confidential. But
we do know that Judge Angus Sheffield patted Eddie on the head and put him on probation.

  Well, coddling has been tried. It didn’t work. We need to get tough. We need tough laws—laws with teeth in them.

  Teeth sharper than the point of a switchblade!

  Gray whistled gently. “Is all this true?” he asked. “Beating the old man? Everything?”

  Zucker nodded. Then he hesitated. “Well, give the devil his due. Sinnott touched up the facts a little there. The helpless old man was forty-six and an ex-pug. Bigger than Eddie Udall. But you can’t get around it. Udall did start the fight.”

  Gray stretched. He was a long, lean, relaxed man, and he moved with a boneless ease. He pushed his hands into his pockets and turned toward the window.

  Zucker, watching him, said, “Sinnott’s a muckraker from way back, of course. He’ll climb on any bandwagon that looks good to him. But he’s never gone quite this far before about delinquents. The top brass will start leaning on us if we get much more bad publicity like this. You can see, Mike, why we’d rather try Udall in adult court, before a jury, with all the publicity an adult trial gets. Then the public will be satisfied. But this is your chance to make sure Udall belongs in adult court. If you turn it down I don’t want to hear any bellyaching from you later on about how the kid was railroaded. Put up or shut up, Mike.”

  Gray swung back to the desk and folded the newspaper page back to the two photographs of victim and accused. He looked long at Ann Avery, smiling in the sunlight of a bygone afternoon.

  “Okay, Harry,” he said. “I’ll talk to your boy.”

  Zucker started to speak. He was grinning broadly.

  “But—” Gray added, “one interview may not be enough. I want to feel sure of myself before I stick my neck out.”

  “Okay, okay,” Zucker said. “We’ve got all the records. You can look them over and do whatever you want. There isn’t a lot of time, Mike. You can see that.”