Michael Gray Novels

by Henry Kuttner

  With an effort he kept his voice calm. In his mind he was swearing, but he said quietly, “I’m sorry, Eileen. Will you wait just a minute. I’ll see—”

  A voice called from the hall outside, heavy and muffled by the walls between.

  “Gray? Mr. Gray? Open up. It’s the police.”

  A violent shudder went over Eileen, her whole body shaken by the furious inward storm.

  “Now!” she said in a tight voice. “Now!”

  She pushed her right hand into the closely held purse. This time it came out with a small, flat automatic gripped so hard that hand and gun trembled. Almost as if she were trying to steady the trembling, she put the muzzle against her breast. Over it she looked at Gray, her face bleak with the familiar inward rage against herself risen to a climax now.

  Gray couldn’t reach her. The desk was between them. Before he could stop her she could pull the trigger. Making, his voice perfectly calm and level, he said, “Put down the gun, Eileen.”

  Her eyelids flickered. It was the first time he had ever given her a direct order. And it might have worked. It might have been as easy as that. Very tentatively she began to lower the gun…

  Then a heavy knocking rattled the outer door again.

  “Gray! Open up!”

  Eileen jumped convulsively. She pressed the gun tight again to her breast and Gray saw her finger begin to draw closer over the trigger.

  One last possibility flashed through his mind. He knew he had to try it.

  “God damn it, listen to me!” His voice was flat and arrogant, as like Philip Herrick’s as he could make it. “You little fool, haven’t you got any sense at all?”

  Eileen gasped. A dull flush of anger began to rise under her pallor and she stared at him in stunned surprise.

  Gray rose slowly to his feet. He knew he had to rivet her attention, keep her listening while he changed the direction of her hostility, diverted it away from herself and toward that other figure of hatred as well as love—her father.

  The danger of a course like this Gray realized very well. But he could think of no other answer.

  He reached for phrases Philip Herrick might have used to force her into rebellious submission. Deliberately he wakened memories of old anger and directed them upon himself.

  “I said listen, God damn it!” He almost shouted the words. “All you care about is yourself! How do you think this is going to look? What will your mother say when she knows—”

  Eileen’s face was suddenly scarlet.

  “Shut up!” she screamed at him. “I hate you!”

  The gun that had pressed so hard against her own breast wavered and began to swing toward Gray.

  He was two steps nearer now, and the desk was no longer between them. He dived for her hand.

  She could have squeezed the trigger. She didn’t. Gray’s hand closed over hers and he shoved the gun muzzle toward the ceiling.

  Eileen screamed, “Let go! Let go!” and wrestled to free her hand. But in his grip he felt her muscular tension slack. She was beginning to let go.

  His mind leaped ahead to the next step. The vital step. He had damaged the image of himself in her mind, built up so painfully over the months. Until now he had been to her the quiet, accepting listener who criticized nothing she might say or do.

  He would have to start to repair the damage.

  There was no time.

  “Eileen,” he said in her ear as she struggled against him, “it’s all right, Eileen…”

  The door crashed open against the wall. Two big men in uniform surged through it together—Sergeant Krantz with his bulldog face grim, and an officer Gray didn’t know. Their heavy tread made the floor shake. An instant later Krantz’s huge hand had closed over the double grip of Gray’s hand and Eileen’s on the gun. He wrenched it free and stood back, breathing heavily.

  “All right,” he snapped. “Gray, back up. Get out of the way. You”—he jerked his head at Eileen—“stand still!”

  Gray said quickly, “Eileen. It’s all right—”

  But it wasn’t all right. Things were going fatally wrong. Eileen gave him one swift look, terrified and hopeless. She was afraid of him now. He had failed her.

  “Okay,” Krantz said. “Now what happened?”

  Gray said, “What are you doing here?”

  In a flat, dead voice, Eileen said, “I phoned the police. I said I’d be here.” She gave Gray one last glance that had a remnant of appeal in it, as if she still hoped against hope he could save her from herself. Then, turning to Krantz, she said desolately, “I might as well tell you about it. I don’t care any more. I was the one who did it. I killed Beverly Bond.”

  6

  Captain Zucker shook his head stubbornly.

  “No,” he said. “You can’t see her and you can’t talk to her. We’ve got a routine here, in case you don’t know it.”

  Gray was pacing the office.

  “If Krantz hadn’t burst in when he did—”

  “You might be dead,” Zucker said.

  “Oh, the hell with that. She didn’t fire that gun.”

  “She didn’t have time. You grabbed it.”

  “She had plenty of time. Listen, Harry. Under enough pressure, almost anybody could kill. But Eileen Herrick was under a hell of a lot of pressure in my office today. When we were fighting for the gun, her finger was on the trigger all the time. She just had to squeeze once. She didn’t do it, Harry. She didn’t pull the trigger.”

  “All right,” Zucker said. “So she didn’t pull it. Maybe one killing a week end is all she needs. Or don’t you think she killed Beverly Bond?”

  Gray looked troubled. “If she says she did, then she did—I suppose. But there’s something phony here somewhere. Remember, I’ve worked with this girl for six months now. I know her pretty well. She’s hard to work with. We haven’t made as much progress as I’d like. But the one thing I do know is how she acts when she’s lying. She’s lying about something now.”

  Zucker snorted. “We’ve got her confession on record, and it checks. No, don’t ask me for details—I don’t trust you when one of your patients is in trouble. But we’ve got a damn solid case.”

  “You can tell me this much, anyhow,” Gray said. “Does her confession really check, right down the line? Did she know what kind of a knife it was, where she got it, whether the prints were wiped off, where the fires were set and how? Could she describe the room before it caught fire?”

  Zucker gave him a look of annoyance.

  “I know my business” was all he said. But something about the way he said it made Gray glance up sharply.

  “Well?” he said. “How about it? Did she know?”

  Zucker evaded his eye. “You answer me something,” he said. “If you hadn’t stopped her when you did, would Eileen have shot herself?”

  “I’m damned if I know,” Gray told him. “She’s sure as hell trying to commit suicide now. She might not have pulled the gun at all if Krantz hadn’t crashed in right then. Eileen was right on the verge of bringing out something that might have told me a lot. If I can ever get her back into that mood again I ought to know more about what I really do believe. Did she kill Beverly? Didn’t she?” He paused a moment, gazing blankly at nothing. “Some of it’s phony,” he said with decision. “But how much? What?”

  “Stay out of it, Mike,” Zucker advised him. “You’ve notified her folks. They’ll bring in a lawyer. You’re out of it. Stay out.”

  “I’m not out yet,” Gray said. “Not quite. Krantz broke in at a ticklish point. I’ve got to see Eileen again if it’s only to set things straight between us. I had to say some things to her that I hated to say. When can I see her, Harry?”

  “Later, later.” Zucker tapped the desk nervously. Gray thought he saw indecision and some doubt on the seamed face. Why? If Zucker were as sure as he pretended, why the doubt?

  “Harry, you didn’t answer a question I asked,” Gray reminded him. “Just how sure are you that Eileen’s confe
ssion isn’t phony? Did she know all the things the killer would have to know? About the knife and—”

  “She knows enough!” Zucker said, with unnecessary violence. “Hell, she was right there. She had a motive. And—there were one or two things we found that I can’t tell you about. The details she does know all check up fine.”

  “But there are details she doesn’t know? Things the killer would?”

  Zucker shrugged. “Who knows what the killer would notice? You muscle into somebody’s flat, get into a fight, stab her and run. How much detail do you take in? Eileen doesn’t remember everything, no. But she’s got the main things clear enough.”

  “Then what’s bothering you?” Gray persisted. “Something’s on your mind. Let’s have it.”

  “Oh, hell,” Zucker said. “A lot of red tape, that’s all. A bunch of crackpots. You’ve got to expect crackpots when a case like this one breaks. A real spectacular. Have you seen the papers?”

  “Come on, Harry,” Gray said. “Don’t keep dodging it.”

  “God damn it!” Zucker said violently. “We’ve got four confessions! The last one just came in half an hour ago.” He smacked the desk with an angry blow. “It doesn’t mean a thing. Don’t look so damn happy about it! The Herrick girl was right there on the spot. The others just read about it. They’re phonies—they’re bound to be.”

  Gray had stopped his pacing. He drew a long breath.

  “Look, Harry,” he said. “If Eileen’s guilty, I don’t want to try to clear her. But if there’s even an outside chance that she isn’t, then you don’t want to frame her. Maybe one of these other confessors really has something. I’d like to know more about them.”

  Zucker gave him a weary look. “Phony confessions are a dime a dozen,” he said.

  “Then what’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing,” Zucker said. “Not a damn thing. Look. The last one’s being questioned now. I heard enough of his story to be pretty sure he’s another phony. But if it’ll pacify you any, we’ll go down to the interrogation room now and sit in. How about it?”

  The little man across the table reminded Gray irresistibly of a mouse. He was thin and nervous, with a narrow, worried, tight-lipped face, and he kept brushing his nose with a tobacco-stained forefinger as he glanced from face to face.

  “All right,” Zucker said in a tired voice. “Sit down, Mike. I’ll ask a few questions. First thing, what’s your name?”

  The little man shifted uneasily in his chair. “Ferguson,” he said and brushed at his nose. “Sidney Ferguson.”

  “Address?”

  “We don’t have to go through all this again, do we?” Ferguson demanded, glancing at the two plain-clothes men to whom he had been talking when Zucker and Gray came in. “I want to tell the truth, that’s all. Why won’t anybody listen to me?”

  Zucker said, “All right, I’m listening. What is it you want to tell?”

  Gray saw the faintest flicker of satisfaction cross Ferguson’s mouse-like face.

  “I’m a murderer,” he said. “I want to turn myself in. That’s what I want”

  “Go on,” Zucker said flatly.

  “Well…there was this girl. Beverly Bond. I killed her. I stabbed her to death and lit the fire in her apartment.”

  “Why?”

  “Robbery. We—I broke into her place and she started screaming. I had to shut her up somehow. So I stabbed her.”

  “Where did you get the knife?”

  “I had it with me.”

  “What time did this happen?”

  Ferguson looked slightly rattled. His eyes darted anxiously at the clock on the wall as if he might find an answer there.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “I didn’t notice. About nine o’clock, maybe. Or later.”

  Zucker sighed patiently. “Where was the victim when you left her? Facing which way? Can you describe the furniture in the room? Or what she was wearing? Was she blond or brunette?”

  Ferguson began to flounder. Over his head Zucker caught Gray’s eye. Gray shrugged. He was watching the little man’s face as he tried to answer. There was something on Ferguson’s mind. Maybe murder. Maybe not But the fact that he was here at all had its own significance. He had come to confess for a reason. If he wasn’t guilty of this crime, then what was he guilty of? Nothing more than a desire for importance? Maybe. Maybe not. There were a few questions of his own Gray would have liked to ask, but this wasn’t the time for it.

  The interrogation went on. After five minutes, Zucker turned it back to the two detectives, and sat listening and scowling. After ten minutes, he got up and jerked his head toward the door. Gray followed him out in silence.

  “Well?” Zucker said as they turned down the hall.

  “He’s got something on his mind,” Gray said. “I think—”

  Zucker’s office door opened ahead of them and a clerk looked out inquiringly.

  “Captain Zucker, I have a call here for a Mr. Gray.”

  “Here he is,” Zucker said, giving Gray a slight shove toward the door. “Go on, Mike, take it in there. I’ve got to leave you anyhow. Why not do yourself a favor for once and be smart, Mike? Keep your nose out of this.”

  Gray gave him a wry grin. “Maybe I will,” he said.

  A rich, thick voice on the telephone said, “Mr. Gray, this is Daley Quine. I’ve been retained by Philip Herrick to defend his daughter, Eileen. If you’re free for lunch, maybe we could have a talk.”

  Gray sighed briefly. Then he smiled to himself and said, “Yes, I’d like to. You name the place. About one-thirty? Fine…”

  The big, sunken restaurant room was full of white-clothed tables and hushed chatter. Gray stood looking out over the diners, searching for the famous, gray, leonine mane and the grim statesman’s face of Daley Quine, one of the best-known defense attorneys on the Coast. The headwaiter came majestically up and Gray asked if Quine had reserved a table.

  At the same moment, someone stood up in the room below and waved to Gray from a table by the wall. Gray saw a small, neat man with crisply curly chestnut hair.

  The headwaiter said, “Mr. Quine isn’t here yet. Mr. Pollard is waiting for him, too. Will you join him?”

  Gray crossed the carpeted floor between the tables. Neil Pollard gave him a wan smile. His clothing was as meticulous as ever, but his face was haggard and there was anxiety in his voice.

  “What is this about Eileen?” he demanded. “Her father told me what you told him, but I can’t believe it. Is she out of her mind, Gray?”

  “It is hard to believe,” Gray said. “Let’s sit down. What’s happened to Quine?”

  “He’s on his way. This thing broke so fast we haven’t caught up with ourselves yet. Yes, sit down, sit down. I’m going to have a martini. How about you?”

  They ordered cocktails. Pollard leaned forward anxiously over the white cloth.

  “I don’t understand any of this,” he said, his voice tight “Eileen must be out of her senses.”

  “You think she didn’t kill Beverly Bond?”

  “I don’t know what to think. But one thing I damn well know. There wasn’t a thing between Beverly Bond and me. Not a thing!”

  Gray narrowed his eyes a little, searching the haggard face.

  “Why would Eileen think there was?” he asked.

  Pollard made a gesture of despair. “God knows. She couldn’t have thought so. She must be raving mad.”

  “Did you know the girl at all?”

  “Oh, by sight, I suppose. I saw her around. She was a striking-looking girl and we went to some of the same places. But I never even spoke to her until that night—last night.” Pollard shut his eyes and rubbed the closed lids wearily. “It doesn’t seem possible it was only last night.”

  The cocktails came and Pollard downed his almost at a gulp.

  “It’s like a nightmare,” he said. “It’s all happened so fast. I can’t believe it’s real. Eileen was always—well, reckless. She’s been in and out of trouble a lot.
But nothing like—like this. And this story she tells about me…I can’t get it through my head she could even think it. The whole thing’s fantastic.” He caught the waiter’s eye and indicated his empty glass, making impatient motions.

  Gray watched him in silence. He was in no hurry to start asking questions. Maybe Pollard was telling the truth. Maybe he wasn’t. Gray could only listen and wait and watch. And Pollard seemed eager to talk.

  “You’ve done Eileen a lot of good,” he told Gray. “I’ve never had a chance to say so, but I’m damned grateful to you. She’s straightened out a lot since she started to work with you. And that—well, in my position, it means a lot to me. Well get this mess cleared up somehow and you can finish the job. I hope.”

  Gray said, “I’m going to order before I starve to death. How about you?”

  Pollard shook his head. “I’m not hungry. I had—I guess it was breakfast—a couple of hours ago. We were up most of the night, and then this thing broke. I—” He rubbed his eyes again. “It sounds selfish to mention it, but the scandal will be bad, coming right now. I’ll ride it out, but I wish—well, it can’t be helped. You see, my work’s mostly been in promotion. Lots of big publicity campaigns have come through our office. Last year I decided to do some promotion on myself. I went into politics. Right now I’m running for office, and this won’t look so good in print.”

  Gray said, “It’s a bad time for you. I can see that.”

  “Well, you have to expect to get smeared sometimes. That’s inevitable. Nobody likes it. I’ve lived an average kind of life, but the average man’s always done a few things that wouldn’t look good in print, hasn’t he?” ’

  Gray smiled.

  Pollard said, ’“Well, I don’t mind—much. Eileen’s worth it. She’s made a lot of difference in my life. Hell, that’s why I decided to go into politics. One day, after I’d known her awhile, I thought, ‘What am I really getting out of life?’ The answer was nothing. Nothing I wanted.”

  The second cocktail came. Pollard lifted the brimming glass, spilling a little over its wide, shallow rim because his hands were shaking slightly.