The Michael Gray Novels: The Murder of Eleanor Pope, The Murder of Ann Avery, Murder of a Mistress, and Murder of a Wife

By Henry Kuttner

From “a neglected master”: All four murder mysteries featuring the psychoanalyst turned sleuth in 1950s San Francisco (Ray Bradbury, author of Fahrenheit 451).
 
Dr. Michael Gray is constantly drawn into the lives, and murders, of his clientele. Fortunately, this unconventional detective’s eye for human behavior just might keep him out of mortal danger . . .
 
The Murder of Eleanor Pope: When a woman is killed in a foggy San Francisco park, the police suspect it was a robbery gone terribly wrong, but Dr. Gray’s troubled new patient may be the key to the truth.
 
The Murder of Ann Avery: Everyone thinks a juvenile delinquent murdered Ann Avery, but Dr. Gray has a whole list of potential suspects—if someone doesn’t kill them first.
 
Murder of a Mistress: When a call girl is murdered, four people confess to the deed. But the evidence points to one of Dr. Gray’s patients. Heiress Eileen Herrick may be a wild child, but Gray is out to prove she’s no killer.
 
Murder of a Wife: Dr. Gray’s new patient is housewife Karen Champion. He was warned she’s a pathological liar, but he finds it difficult to ignore her claim that her husband is trying to kill her . . .
 
“Kuttner is magic.” —Joe R. Lansdale, author of The Thicket

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Sep 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781626814523

Book preview

The Michael Gray Series

Henry Kuttner and C.L. Moore

The Murder of Eleanor Pope

The Murder of Ann Avery

Murder of a Mistress

Murder of a Wife

Copyright

Diversion Books

A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

New York, NY 10016

www.DiversionBooks.com

Copyright © Henry Kuttner and C.L. Moore

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 [e-mail]

Diversion Books Omnibus Edition 2014

ISBN: 978-1-62681-452-3

More from Henry Kuttner

The Time Trap

Book of Iod

Elak of Atlantis

Prince Raynor

Murder of Eleanor Pope

Murder of a Mistress

Murder of a Wife

Murder of Ann Avery

The Best of Henry Kuttner

Robots Have No Tails

Ahead of Time

Earth’s Last Citadel

Mask of Circe

Man Drowning

Copyright

Diversion Books

A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

New York, NY 10016

www.DiversionBooks.com

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 [e-mail]

First Diversion Books edition August 2014

ISBN: 978-1-62681-368-7

To

Albert W. Mason, Jr.

with thanks

1

T​he spinning hum of the roulette wheel was in her ears as the door closed softly behind her. Part of her mind was still upstairs in the casino, listening to the chime of ice in a glass, the clicking of chips on the tables, the hurried rattling of dice in their whirling cages. That memory kept her safe for a moment or two.

She walked along the driveway and through the open gates. She turned left and began to walk down the hill. There was a street lamp at the curb, but its glow was ghostly in the thick fog. Glittering drops of moisture showed already in the satiny sheen of her smooth, pale hair and on her lashes. She blinked quickly, trying to see beyond the shrouding darkness.

The fog pressed down on San Francisco from the Cliff House to the Ferry Building. It lay sluggishly down the length of Market Street. It heaved up until it wrapped around Coit Tower, high above the city. It drained away light and sound and swallowed them in a submarine abyss of empty blackness.

She was alone now.

She was alone with herself.

She paused to listen. That was an error. Now there was not even the echo of her high heels tapping hastily on the sloping sidewalk. There was no sound at all.

She might have been the only one alive in a dead city … a dead world.

The curves of her lips drew tight. She adjusted the strap of her handbag on her shoulder, brushed the fog drops from her lashes, and began to walk again. She walked faster now, but with a certain wariness.

She had parked her car too far away. There were two more blocks to walk. On her left, now, should be a park, but she could not see it. She could see nothing but the small patch of glistening sidewalk just before her, and the pale, clouded glow of the street lamps. Everything else was lost in the secret, empty folds of the shrouding night.

It was a mistake to be alone. It was always a mistake to be alone.

… Yet something stirred, deep within her, with a strangely guilty delight, as though somehow it saw and welcomed the death that burst through the fog in sudden, exploding violence.

The strong hand drove down and clamped bruisingly on her mouth. Like dancers in a nightmare two figures, writhing together, reeled from the street into the deeper blackness of the park.

The other strong hand rose, gripping something rough and hard. It hammered down.

There was a sound.

Then there was a silence. And after that came a quick, faint scratching, and a match flared, held low.

She lay on her back, watching the fog blindly, her lips parted a little. Near her head lay a rock, small enough to fit a hand, large enough to kill with. Its sharp edge glistened.

On the grass was the handbag where it had fallen. A cigarette lighter had spilled out of it, and as the match died, red light caught and flashed on the initials jeweled on the lighter’s side: E. P.

The jewels flared like fire in the fog.

The match went out.

2

​Gray stretched in his office chair, conscious of the ache along his back. He was a tall, thin man with rather untidy red hair and a casual ease of movement. But that wouldn’t last, he reflected glumly, unless he managed to squeeze some exercise into his overcrowded schedule. For a man who liked golf and swimming, it was surprising how little time he had for either.

The sounds of San Francisco came muffled into the office, a reminder to Gray’s patients of the world outside that must eventually be lived in. A ship’s mournful hooting sounded through the early evening.

Gray glanced at his wrist watch. It was nearly seven. He had time for a reasonably quick dinner before the meeting. He opened a desk drawer, took out the manuscript of the speech he was to give tonight, folded, and put it into his inside coat pocket. Little by little, his mind let go of the day’s work and problems and began to turn toward the evening’s program. He wondered how his speech would be received. The psychiatric society that was meeting tonight was one of the big ones, and very careful about choosing guest lecturers. Gray hoped for the best.

He opened the door, switched off the light, and stepped into the reception room. Then he saw the man who was waiting.

Trouble, he thought instantly.

He couldn’t have told why. But the buried, secret, sensitive part of the mind can react to signals that are not consciously understood, and Gray knew that very well. He looked at the man, searching for the source of the warning.

There was nothing unusual. Gray saw a strongly built man in a tweed suit; he was a blond with pale blue eyes, and his age might have been thirty. So far, an ordinary man.

But there were a few things faintly wrong.

Such a man would usually have a ruddy complexion; this man was pale. His nails were carefully trimmed, but unusually short, as though they had been bitten down and then buffed. His left wrist had a pale strip where a wrist watch had been. He smelled of strong tobacco. And somehow it was the wrong smell. It didn’t belong to this man.

The little things are usually the most significant.

But there was something less tangible that flashed a warning signal to Gray and made the skin prickle along his back. He knew this reaction. It always came to him unexpectedly, and it was always the same acute sense of the uncanny. Yet the cause might be any one of a dozen or a hundred different things.

So he merely said, Were you waiting to see me?

The man glanced past Gray at the two inner doors. One said Michael Gray; the other, Nathan Elder, M.D. This was a double suite, and Gray shared it with Dr. Elder, a general practitioner. The arrangement was useful, since general medicine and psychotherapy work hand in hand.

You’re Gray—the psychoanalyst? the man asked.

That’s right, Gray said.

My name’s Dunne. Howard Dunne.

I thought I recognized your voice. But wasn’t our appointment for four o’clock?

Dunne said, I’m sorry. My watch was … it’s being repaired. I lost track of the time.

I see, Gray said. Well, could we make it tomorrow, then?

Dunne said quickly, I’ll be out of town for a week or so. If you’re busy now, I’ll phone when I get back.

Would you like to do that? Gray asked.

If you’re busy, Dunne said, and stood up. He was poised. His next movement, Gray realized, would be toward the outer door. And now the faint wrongness in the man’s attitude vanished as though it had never existed. The sense of hesitancy disappeared. Dunne looked relieved. Gray knew why. He had wanted an excuse to leave. Until he had got that, he had been anxious.

But why did he need an excuse to leave?

He doesn’t want to see me, Gray thought. He’s afraid to. But he needs my permission to go. Or is it really permission? How do I look to him?

Then, for an instant, he looked through Howard Dunne’s eyes at the tall red-haired man who was Michael Gray—who was much too busy to give a patient the help he needed. For an instant he thought with Dunne’s mind and felt with Dunne’s emotions. It was a guess, no more than that, at this stage. But at least it was based on one vital acceptance: Dunne was right. In the unknown world of Dunne’s mind, there was only one reality that could be accepted by the psychoanalyst as he searched for an answer. It was Dunne’s reality. So Gray, as he searched, forgot himself and gave the initial acceptance that must always be given.

It had taken no time at all. And Gray had learned very little. But the faint, warning prickle ran along his spine again. He felt surer than ever that he faced trouble.

He thought of the meeting and felt the manuscript of his speech rustle as he breathed. All right. He’d skip dinner. He’d make an exception. Because if he didn’t, he knew he’d worry about it.

Dunne was already turning toward the outer door.

Gray said, I’m not that busy, Mr. Dunne.

Dunne stopped moving. There was something close to panic in his abrupt pause. Then his eyes slid away from Gray’s and he said, I don’t want to interfere with your plans.

It’s a little after seven, Gray said. I can give you half an hour or so tonight. Would you like to do that?

It’ll take more than half an hour.

Much more, Gray agreed. We couldn’t finish the job tonight anyway. But we can make a start, if you like.

Dunne muttered something. Still, he turned toward the inner door, so Gray moved ahead of him, opened it, and switched on the lights again. He stepped back and let Dunne precede him. Then he followed, and, as he closed the door, the sounds of the city faded to a murmur.

Have a chair, Gray said. Dunne glanced toward the couch against the wall.

I thought you’d want me to lie down, he said.

Perhaps I will later. What’s the hurry?

Dunne sat down. So did Gray. The psychoanalyst waited. Dunne took out a pipe and a tobacco pouch and killed time filling and lighting the pipe. When he did, Gray understood why the strong tobacco smell had seemed wrong. Dunne didn’t like pipe tobacco. The way he smoked showed that.

Gray waited.

Dunne looked carefully around the office. It was a noncommittal room. There were a few pictures on the wall, a bookcase with a lamp and a metal statuette of a satyr on top of it, a small table bearing a vase of flowers and a replica of an Egyptian cat, sitting watchfully as though staring at the bronze satyr. Behind the desk was a metal filing cabinet. That was all, except for the couch.

Finally Dunne looked at Gray.

What time is it? he asked.

Why?

You’ll be late for that meeting, Dunne said. I might as well tell you. I read about it in the paper today. That’s why I came late.

Gray repressed a grin.

You must have had a good reason, he said blandly.

Dunne was startled. Whatever reaction he had expected, it wasn’t this matter-of-fact approach.

He tried again.

There wasn’t anything wrong with my watch. I’ve got it in my pocket. I came late on purpose. So I wouldn’t have to see you.

Gray said, But you did come to see me. You came late on purpose, but you needn’t have come at all, if you hadn’t wanted to. Why?

After a pause, Dunne said in a low voice, I can’t tell you that.

You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, Gray said. He watched Dunne lay his pipe, which had gone out, in the ashtray by his chair. Then Gray held out a pack of cigarettes.

Try one of these? he asked.

Dunne took a cigarette, lit it, and smoked silently. Finally Dunne shook his head almost savagely.

I can’t say anything, he told the analyst. I want to, but I can’t think. I don’t know how to start.

That’s natural enough, Gray said. Nobody finds it easy to talk to a stranger. That’s why I usually start by asking questions.

I don’t know if I can answer them, Dunne said. I’ve seen four people already, and one interview was enough. It’s so damn hard to talk about these things.

What do you feel I’d do if you talked about these things?

Dunne moistened his lips.

Almost inaudibly, he said, Have me locked up.

Where?

You know what I mean. A mental institution.

Ever been in one?

Of course not! Dunne snapped. I’m— He stopped.

Gray leaned back and blew a smoke ring.

I wonder if somebody’s been feeding you a line? he said thoughtfully. You know, it’s usually harder to get into a mental hospital than out of it.

You don’t know Sam. My brother-in-law. He’s got my wife to sign commitment papers already. It’s a frame-up. I’m sane enough. But I’m being railroaded into an asylum. Now what the hell can you do about that?

I can’t tell yet, Gray said.

Dunne said, "You see—I’m sane now. But I couldn’t stand being locked up. That’s one—the one thing I’m afraid of. If they locked me up, I wouldn’t stay sane long. There really isn’t anything you can do. You couldn’t treat me in an asylum, could you?"

I do it sometimes, Gray said.

Dunne said quickly, But the place is down in Los Angeles. A private sanitarium. How about that? He was ready to get up and walk out. It was what he wanted.

Gray said nothing.

Dunne turned his head to stare at the analyst, and there was a challenge in his eyes.

What can you do for me? he asked. "Suppose I am crazy?"

Gray said, Emotional illness has to be diagnosed, like physical illness. I’d have to know quite a bit about you before I could answer your question. Right now, I don’t know. There isn’t much time left, so suppose I ask you a few questions. Okay?

… Okay.

How old are you?

Thirty-four.

Have you had a physical check-up lately?

Last month, Dunne said. Physically, I’m fine.

What business are you in?

Advertising.

What are you going to do when you leave this room?

Dunne opened his mouth and closed it. Then he said angrily, Pick up a girl in some bar and make a pass at her.

The psychoanalyst smiled.

All right, he said. We’ll have to stop now, I’m afraid. But I’ll need to ask a lot more questions.

Can you take me on?

I can’t tell yet, Gray repeated. First I’ll have to get enough information so I can try to decide whether analysis would benefit you. The diagnosis comes first. Your trouble may be psychological, physical, or social. For all I know, your brother-in-law may be the one who needs analysis, not you.

Dunne seemed surprised.

But suppose I need analysis? he asked.

I’ll tell you how the situation looks to me, and you can decide for yourself, Gray said. Now—when would you like to come in again?

Tomorrow?

Aren’t you going out of town?

No, Dunne said, with a distant challenge in his voice.

Then what about four o’clock?

But this was too definite. Dunne hesitated.

All right, he said at last, and stood up. So did Gray.

Four o’clock, the analyst repeated. Good-by.

Good-by, Dunne said, opening the door. But on the threshold he turned suddenly.

Suppose I told you I’d committed a murder? he asked.

Gray said calmly, We can talk about that tomorrow.

Dunne hesitated. Then he said sharply, I doubt if I’ll show up. He swung around and marched across the reception room. He jerked open the outer door and went out.

The psychoanalyst picked up Dunne’s pipe from the ashtray and laid it on his desk. Dunne would be back. Probably, right now, he didn’t intend to return. But under the fear and anger storming across the surface of his mind were the deep, powerful forces that really determined his actions. Something, far down in that secret place, like a prisoner locked in a black dungeon, had asked Gray for help. And had begun to accept help. The pipe was a token. I’ll be back, it seemed to say for its owner. I’ve left part of me here. So I’ll have to come back.

3

Gray got home late that night from the psychiatric society’s meeting. He lived in a small apartment on Telegraph Hill, and outside his living room window was a steep garden dominated by a pepper tree. Tonight the broad view was blanked out by fog that had rolled up from the bay.

On little cat feet, Gray thought, as a thump sounded from the bedroom and a fat gray cat rushed across the carpet. Sandburg wouldn’t have written that if he’d known Julia.

Julia had acquired her name when she was a demure kitten, so graceful that Gray had immediately thought of the liquefaction of her clothes and named her appropriately. Now, some years later, Julia was much more like the Wife of Bath. She was a handsome, unpredictable cat, with a low sense of humor and a deep interest in tomcats. She had kittens regularly, a great problem until Gray managed to find homes for them.

Gray lived alone, except for Julia. He had married when he was twenty-one, a medical student who had enlisted in the Air Force, and in a world altered by war, marriage had been a little too quick. He had never really regretted it, but he knew, in a coldly rational way, that he would be a happier man if he and Rosalind had never met—or married. She had been a nurse, and she had been killed by an exploding bomb less than six months after their marriage.

That changed the direction of Gray’s life when he put on civilian clothes again. He had seen and felt what war could do. He came back with a realization that the world itself had nearly died in the throes of a gigantic sickness. And Rosalind had died. There were other reasons for Gray’s decision, of course; after his own psychoanalysis, he knew more about these. But what he learned only confirmed his wish to practice healing in the area where the most help was needed.

It took a long time. The only instrument a psychoanalyst uses, ultimately, is his own personality, and this must be understood before it can be handled with the skilled precision with which a surgeon uses his instruments. Gray was still learning, as he knew he would always continue to learn.

Julia was stropping herself heavily against his legs. Gray bent down and rubbed the cat gently under her chin. Deeply offended, she went away and sat with her back toward him, her tail-tip twitching slightly.

When I understand your motives, I’ll consider myself graduated, Gray told the cat. She radared one ear contemptuously toward him. He Went into the kitchen, wanned some milk, and poured it into a blue crockery dish labeled Madam. The slight rattle brought Julia galloping in. Gray left his cat noisily drinking and wandered into the bedroom, discarding clothes as he went. He took a shower, but his muscles still ached. A sedentary life. Somehow, he’d find time for golf—perhaps tomorrow.

Suppose I told you I’d committed a murder?

Pajama-clad, Gray mixed himself a drink and sat by the window, watching the ghostly loom of the pepper tree through the glass.

He rubbed the back of his neck. He felt tired. Superficially, today’s interview with Howard Dunne had been a perfectly ordinary one. Actually, it had been a violent battle on the invisible level of emotion. And these campaigns could never be planned in advance. Moreover, Gray had no idea whether or not he could accept Howard Dunne as a patient.

The man needed help. He had a serious problem, although a good deal of his story was undoubtedly false. Still, part of the psychoanalyst’s skill lies in his willingness to be fooled in the early interviews.

What Dunne had wanted—part of him, anyway—had been rejection. He had tried desperately to gain that end, even to the point of suggesting that he had committed a murder.

Perhaps he had.

There was nothing Gray could do until tomorrow. But, watching the shrouding veils of fog, he felt a familiar surge of sympathy. Sickness of the soul … the sickness of the emotions, that has power to destroy a man or a world—or a woman, killed a long time ago by the mass neurosis of war.

That’s what I’m working for, Gray thought. Oh, I’ll marry again. I found out I couldn’t go on living with a ghost. But she’ll live, somehow, in my work.

Gray shut his eyes and let his thoughts swing idly, un-anchored.

Immediately, from the hidden depths of his mind, a word swam up.

Dangerous.

Yes, that was it. But what was the danger?

The cat sprang to Gray’s lap, settled down, and lay purring gently. Gray stroked the silken fur. He followed his thoughts again, probing, searching for the associations that might lead him to the unconscious memory that troubled him.

He did not find the memory. He continued to search, adding all he had sensed or felt about Howard Dunne. And he saw something so obvious that he had almost overlooked it.

Why had this first interview left him so tired?

There had been even more strain involved than he had consciously recognized. But, unconsciously, his mind must have reached out to meet the secret part of Howard Dunne’s mind, and recognized something there that had instantly mobilized it into urgent action. Gray knew what could make him react in that way. It was part of his old dream of a girl standing waiting in the London blackout, while the drone of planes grew louder, and he could not move to save her. The dream no longer recurred, but the memory remained.

He had seen someone swaying on the edge of the abyss, and had reached out a hand to pull Dunne back from the brink of darkness.

So now Gray knew, and he also knew that tomorrow, or at least very soon, he would have to make the sort of decision he always hated to make, because so much depended on it. More than a man’s life was at stake. If Gray made the wrong move, he might very easily push Dunne over the edge, into the abyss that meant the ruin of a man’s mind.

I’ve got to be careful, he thought. No matter how much trouble he may be in, I’ve got to be very careful.

4

Howard Dunne walked into the office at four o’clock. He laid a typewritten yellow paper on Gray’s desk and sat down. So did Gray.

There it is, Dunne said. All the stuff about my background. Date of birth. Army record. Name of my doctor. Sorry about the lousy typing.

Thank you, Gray said, and picked up the paper. Dunne was apparently a good typist, but there were a good many strike-overs.

Howard Dunne had been an only child. And he was still a child when the depression of the Thirties clamped down. His mother had been a semi-invalid; his father had been killed fighting in the Spanish Civil War. Then Howard Dunne had gone to live with an uncle. When World War Two began, Dunne had enlisted, like Gray, in the Air Force. But, unlike Gray, Dunne had served in the European theatre. He had an excellent combat record. After the war, Dunne had drifted to San Francisco and got a job with an advertising agency. Five years ago, he had married. That was all.

Gray glanced across the desk at Dunne. The man sat rigidly in the chair, his hands clasped in his lap. The psychoanalyst said, This is helpful. But I’ve still got some questions to ask. Cigarette?

Thanks, Dunne said, his voice tense.

Gray pushed the typewritten paper away, noticed the almost imperceptible tightening of Dunne’s mouth, and picked up the paper again. He said, I notice you’ve x’d out a few words. After you mentioned going to live with your uncle, for example. It looks like— he held the paper up to the light, "—to stay out of trouble. Is that right?"

Dunne nodded.

And after your combat record, you’ve x’d out something about a court-martial.

Well, it never got that far. My C.O. hated my guts. He threatened me with a court-martial, but he knew he couldn’t make it stick. It was a personal thing. He got me transferred out instead.

I see. Then the next thing is I’d like to talk to your doctor. Is that all right with you?

Dunne hesitated.

I’m all right physically, he said. My doctor would just tell you the same thing. Doctors—

Yes?

I told you I’d seen four people already. A couple of psychiatrists and a psychoanalyst and a neurologist. One interview was enough. So damn many questions! I felt like a piece of machinery being tinkered with. A proximity fuse.

All Gray said was, What’s the matter? But his tone held a warmth and sympathy to which Dunne immediately responded.

Oh, there’s no way out, he said. I guess the trouble is marriage and settling down. I used to be able to blow off steam but now I’m a respectable member of the community. If I raised a little hell, there’d be publicity. I suppose I just want to find a safe way to blow off.

You’re doing it, Gray said.

Dunne blinked. Then he pushed his chair back a little from the desk. Gray leaned back in his own chair, and noted the slight flicker of relief cross Dunne’s face. Already the psychoanalyst was charting the pattern of Dunne’s unconscious reactions.

Oh, it’s no good, Dunne said. I can’t think. I can’t talk. I’m afraid….

What do you think I’ll do?

I don’t know. Have me locked up. He paused. Gray waited. Finally Dunne said flatly, My sister-in-law was killed five months ago. Eleanor Pope. Mrs. Samuel Pope.

What happened?

A mugging, Dunne said. Somebody smashed in her head and took her purse. And her jewelry. It was late at night. One of those foggy nights, near the Presidio. … It was my fault.

Why?

It always is, Dunne said. Wherever I am, people get hurt. It’s that damned proximity fuse. When I get too close to people, something’s apt to happen. It might even happen to you. He gave the analyst a curiously triumphant glance.

Gray showed no reaction at all, and Dunne seemed faintly disappointed. After a moment he said quickly, Anyway, Eleanor was killed. I’d promised to take her out that night, but I had to work. If I’d gone with her, she’d be alive now. So you see it was my fault. I killed her.

The argument rang hollow.

Gray said, Yesterday you asked me what I’d do if you told me you’d committed a murder. Is this what you meant?

Dunne nodded.

How did you feel about Eleanor?

It isn’t Eleanor. It’s Mary. My wife. I …

Yes?

"I’m afraid she’ll die."

Why?

Suddenly Dunne stood up, walked to the door, and opened it. He glanced back at Gray. The analyst hadn’t moved.

Where’s my pipe? Dunne asked.

In my desk. Do you want it?

No, Dunne said, and watched Gray intently. There was a sudden, violent tension in the air.

All right, Gray said easily. I’ll keep it for you, for a while.

The tension was gone. Dunne drew a long breath and let it out in a sigh. He came back and sat down again.

I wonder if I can talk to you, he said. I don’t suppose I can. But there’s nobody else. If they lock me up, it’ll be the finish. And if they don’t—I still can’t go on this way. I’ll tell you something.

Go ahead.

I was lying to you yesterday.

Most people do, at first, Gray said.

Dunne looked blank. Then he said, Don’t you give a damn?

The analyst said, Lying to others doesn’t usually cause as much trouble as lying to one’s self. But there’s always a good reason for a lie, if you can find it. That’s why a lie can often lead you to the truth, if you dig. Sometimes it takes a lot of digging.

Dunne said, I know what the truth is. I told you my wife had signed commitment papers. Well, the truth is that she hasn’t. Not yet, anyway. But Sam Pope—my brother-in-law—wants her to. He keeps needling me. He wants me to take a nice rest in a sanitarium—and he knows what that would do to me!

Let’s see if I’ve got this straight, Gray said. You feel responsible for Eleanor Pope’s death. And Eleanor was married to Sam Pope, your brother-in-law, the one who keeps needling you. Is that right?

Dunne nodded.

"That’s right. Sam and Eleanor got married during World War Two. But that’s all water under the bridge now. The thing is, what am I going to do?"

Perhaps we can find out Let me ask you a question. Do you think you’re sick?

Oh, don’t soft-pedal it. You mean do I think I’m crazy?

Okay, Gray said. Do you think you’re crazy?

Hell, no!

Then do you think you’re emotionally healthy?

Dunne opened his mouth and closed it. Presently he said almost inaudibly, No. I’m … in trouble, all right.

Gray nodded.

Before we go on, he said, I’d like to know if you’d have any objection to my talking to your wife.

You wouldn’t try to make her sign—

Commitment papers? Gray asked. He laughed. Come along and listen in if you like. I just want to ask her some questions.

Dunne said, She can’t tell you anything I can’t. I don’t see why all this is necessary. What I’d hoped … I’d just as soon nobody knew I was being psychoanalyzed.

Why?

I want to … keep things separate. Those other people I saw—Sam arranged the appointments. But I found you myself.

Gray said, If we decide analysis would be helpful, is there anyone you wouldn’t mind knowing about it?

Dunne gave Gray a quick, wary look.

Why should anyone have to know? he asked.

"No one has to know except us, Gray said. But it seems to me there’s a pretty important question involved. It’s this. Exactly why do you want therapy?"

There was a long pause. Finally Dunne said slowly, "I guess I’m afraid. It’s this … pressure. It has to blow off. It keeps building. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Sometimes I think the only safe thing to do is stay still. But if I do that, the pressure keeps building, and I—I feel like two men. I can’t be sick and I can’t not be sick. I can’t love and I can’t hate. I am two men. I’ve got to—but I can’t!"

He stopped. His forehead glistened with beads of perspiration.

Gray waited.

Dunne went on in a thick, unsteady voice, Every time I blow off, Sam and Mary feel I’m—going insane. They push me. They say I need help. My God, I know I do. But the more they push, the more scared I get. I can’t go on much longer. And I don’t know what’s wrong. I don’t know!

Neither do I, Gray said. It isn’t easy. Psychoanalysis sometimes takes a long time. And usually the patient gets worse before he gets better.

He gets worse?

"Psychotherapy tries to make unconscious conflicts conscious. But these conflicts are suppressed in the first place because they’re too painful. Digging them up is a disturbing business at first. The other part is that a patient’s friends and relatives often don’t want him to change, especially when the change is disturbing. They may not know it—they may consciously think they’re trying to help—but that’s part of the problem. If they know in advance what to expect, it often helps."

Dunne nodded slowly.

I can see that, he said. You mean I’d be bucking Mary and Sam all the way?

Well, let’s say part of the way. If your doctor and your family knew what to expect, there’d be less chance of extra pressure being put on you.

Do you want to talk to Sam too?

It might help.

Dunne scowled at his hands. Oh, the hell with it. Go ahead. And my doctor’s name is Felix Bronson.

Gray made a note.

Any more questions? Dunne asked, rather resentfully.

Quite a few, the analyst said. He asked them, although he knew he could not entirely believe the answers. But they were necessary, and they could be checked later anyway. And, as he had mentioned, a lie is an important clue—perhaps more important than the truth—to understanding a man’s personality. For the mind is built of both reality and fantasy, and neurosis occurs when the distinction between them is lost.

Finally he said, You could see me three days a week, and you could pay twenty dollars a session without any financial problem coming up?

Yes. You’ll do it, then?

Gray hesitated.

I want you to understand what’s involved, he said. It won’t be an easy, simple job. Or a short one. If you were older, I’d advise something else. For there are risks. I may not be able to help you very much.

I don’t care, Dunne said. Anything will be easier than this. The way I’ve been going.

The psychoanalyst nodded.

It isn’t as easy as it looks, though, he pointed out. In this office, you’ll need to say everything that comes into your head. Very often, you won’t want to. But it’s necessary.

… Everything?

Yes, Gray said. That’s one of the most important things in this kind of therapy. If you hold out on me, I won’t be able to help you. So if you’ve any doubts about this, we ought to discuss them now.

But you’d find out anyway, wouldn’t you?

How could I? Gray asked. Psychoanalysts aren’t mind-readers. If they’re competent, they can usually tell when a patient is withholding information, but they’ve no way of knowing what the information is—unless the patient tells them. Do you see what I mean?

Dunne said, "Yes, I see. It’s up to me. It depends on whether I let you diagnose me, doesn’t it?"

That’s pretty close, Gray said.

Dunne said, I’ll tell you the truth.

It’s easier that way, in the long run, the analyst said. Then suppose we try a few sessions before we decide? What about Monday, at this same time?

All right.

One more thing. I’ll get in touch with your wife and your brother-in-law. And your doctor. Do you want to be present when I see them?

What do you think?

It’s up to you.

Dunne said, No. I’ll stay away. You might get more out of them that way.

Then I’ll see you Monday.

Yes, Dunne said, and stood up. He gave the analyst a half-frightened, half-pleading look.

You’ve got to find out what’s wrong, he said. You’ve got to. It’s up to you now.

5

Gray glanced at his watch. Nine-twenty-five. In a few minutes Mary Dunne should arrive to keep her appointment. Gray emptied the ashtrays and made sure his desk was clear. He picked up the metal statuette of the satyr, weighing it idly in his hand. Then he set it down and, on impulse, reached for the telephone and called downtown police headquarters.

Captain Zucker speaking, a deep voice said presently.

Morning, Harry, Gray said. This is—

I know. How’s everything, Mike?

Pretty good. You?

Oh, I’m still trying to catch ’em before you cure em.

I’ll put you out of business one of these days, Gray said. Meanwhile, how about lunch?

Fine idea. When?

Today? I’ve got to come down and testify in the Carroll case.

Oh, yeah, Zucker said. I’ll see you in court, then. I’d like to hear your testimony. That kid’s guilty.

Have it your way, Gray said. I’ll bet he gets off, though.

This time maybe. But we can fight that out later. See you, Mike.

As Gray cradled the telephone he heard the door open. He got up quickly to usher Mary Dunne into his office.

She came in quietly, with a slight air of unsureness. She sat down, bent her dark head, and slowly stripped off her gloves. Gray could see only part of her profile. A small hat of warm tan perched on a cluster of loose curls. Her cheeks were a little flushed, and the light glittered on a tiny drop of perspiration upon her temple.

She lifted her head and looked steadily at Gray across the desk. Her eyes were dark, too. Her hands lay motionless, palms down, as though cooling themselves on the smooth plastic surface of the handbag in her lap. The tip of her tongue touched her lips. She watched Gray and waited, and, as usual, he suspended judgment. All he was seeing was the façade, the role which every person creates and lives, and which may have very little relation to the inner life that stays warily behind the mask.

After a fairly long conversation, Gray decided that Mrs. Dunne was carefully managing to say nothing significant. She agreed that her husband should begin psychotherapy. In fact, she agreed too easily. And like a theme through her talk ran the name of her brother, Sam Pope.

Gray found it easy to open that subject.

Sam? Mary Dunne asked. Oh, he’s the head of the family. At least, I’m all the family he’s got. But he was always like that, even before Dad died. He’s much older than I am and very competent

Oh?

Very. He started with nothing at all, and built up a big chain of restaurants. He could help Howard, but they don’t get along.

Why not? Gray asked.

It’s not Sam’s fault, she said. I guess it isn’t Howard’s fault either. He’s been so— She looked at Gray helplessly.

I don’t know, she said. Overseas, they were great friends. But not any more. I’m very glad Howard finally decided to take Sam’s advice and see you.

Did your brother recommend me, Mrs. Dunne?

Not exactly. He thought a sanitarium. He’s been worried about Howard.

When did your brother begin to worry? Gray asked. Mary Dunne bit her lower lip.

I’m not sure.

Can you pin it down to any particular time? Do you remember when your brother first suggested a sanitarium?

I think … well, Sam’s wife died, you know. Did Howard mention that? I think it was after that. Sam was so upset … I mean, after Eleanor died, he didn’t have anybody but us. So he started to worry about us.

Gray nodded.

Well, he said, if I’m to undertake your husband’s treatment, I’m going to need your cooperation.

I’ll do anything I can, she said. What, in particular?

Let him work things out for himself. He’ll need understanding and forbearance.

Mary Dunne looked slightly puzzled, and Gray went on to explain the problems involved in psychoanalytic treatment. He pointed out the inevitable risks involved in therapy, and the certainty that there would come a time when Howard’s emotional disturbance would temporarily increase, before genuine improvement could occur.

Anyway, come and see me if you feel like it, he finished But Mary Dunne frowned slightly at that.

"I don’t need psychoanalysis," she said.

I didn’t mean that, Gray said. But the emotionally ill person isn’t an isolated case, you know. As long as you’re living with Howard, he’s responding to you, and you to him.

But I thought problems like this usually started in the past?

Most of them do. But what’s happened to a man in the past pretty well determines what he’ll do in the present. So present situations are apt to reinforce problems that may have got started a long time ago.

Mary Dunne nodded.

I see. And I’ll do everything I can. I’ll never leave Howard. If he’s sick, he needs my help more than ever.

Gray looked at her steadily.

He doesn’t need to go to a sanitarium. At this time, it would harm him. Perhaps seriously. He shouldn’t have to be afraid of that.

But that’s up to Howard. Sam can’t force him to go if he doesn’t want to.

Has your brother asked you to sign commitment papers for Howard?

Why, that’s nonsense! Did Howard take that seriously?

Then it did happen?

But it was a joke, Mary Dunne said. Sam’s mentioned it to Howard, but—they were both laughing about it. I never thought Howard was really worried. I—I’d certainly never let him go to a sanitarium if he didn’t want to.

I see, Gray said noncommittally. Well, I’ve told you what I know about the situation—as much as I know about it yet. And I’d like you to make up your own mind about whether you want your husband to begin therapy with me. Don’t forget it won’t be easy for you.

I want to help Howard, she said. If he needs analysis, he ought to have it.

You understand you shouldn’t question him about his therapy?

She nodded, and the interview was over. There remained Sam Pope and Howard Dunne’s doctor.

A telephone call gave Gray the information he needed from Dr. Felix Bronson. And not long afterwards the phone rang again. It was Sam Pope.

Doctor Gray? This is Pope. I’m calling about my brother-in-law.

Oh, yes, Gray said. Incidentally, it’s not ‘doctor.’ I’m a lay analyst.

Yes, Pope said briskly. Mr. Gray, then. I called to say I can’t keep my appointment with you. Business. There’s always some emergency somewhere. But what I wanted to say was that my sister just phoned me, and if she’s satisfied, I am. I gather you want to be sure Mary and I will cooperate. I don’t need to see you to answer that one. I’ll certainly string along.

Thank you, Gray said. But I’d still like to see you, when it’s convenient.

What for?

I’d like to ask you some questions about Mr. Dunne.

Tell you the truth, I don’t want to get involved, Pope said. I’ll cooperate. But I’d rather stay clear.

I think it would—

There’s no use talking, the voice said thinly over the wire. If you want me to lay it on the line, I’ll do that too. Howard phoned me at eight this morning and managed to start an argument. What it boiled down to was that he didn’t want me to see you, but you weren’t supposed to know. What the hell can I do when that happens?

I see, Gray said thoughtfully. That changes things. I’ll discuss it with Mr. Dunne. But I’m—

What?

I’m glad that you feel you can cooperate.

Oh, the voice said blankly. Oh—yes. Anything I can do. That wraps it up for now?

Yes. Thanks for calling.

There was a grunt and a dick. Gray hung up and looked thoughtfully at the bronze satyr on his desk. He was increasingly curious about Sam Pope.

On his way down to police headquarters to have lunch with Captain Harry Zucker, Gray considered his program. Would it need rearranging?

He worked two afternoons a week in the mental hygiene clinic of the county hospital, and tomorrow was one of the afternoons. A man like Howard Dunne could afford to pay the fee, but plenty of people couldn’t, and there still weren’t enough therapists to go around. That was why so many psychiatrists and psychoanalysts contributed their services to clinics. It evened up. And it was one reason why the psychotherapist’s income was far from fabulous.

Tomorrow night he taught a class at the university—counseling techniques. Saturday he promised he’d remove his backache by at least one round of golf. Saturday night he had a date…. No, the golf must wait until Sunday. Since he had to be in court today, he’d postponed several appointments, and two of them would come up on Saturday. And tonight he had two students in their training analyses.

Why was he suddenly thinking about money? Like most people, Gray frequently did, but this time he connected it with the thought of Howard Dunne. Why?

6

Captain Harry Zucker was a big, broad man with a seamed face and steady gray eyes. He cut a slice of pastrami, scowled at Gray, and said, Probation, for God’s sake. You’ll never cure that Carroll kid.

Want to bet? Gray asked. He was feeling fine. He himself had been convinced, after an examination of the boy, that he could get to the root of the conflicts that had led to car-theft. And he had been equally convinced that reformatory would probably ruin the boy completely. He hoped that the judge would agree.

Behind bars, they’re safe, Zucker said.

Till they get out

Ten bucks that if Carroll gets off he’s picked up again within six months.

It’s a bet. You lost the last one, remember.

I’ve still got my eye on Brewster. He’ll repeat. He may have already, for all I know.

He’s got a good job, and I think he’ll stick to it, Gray said.

Is he still in analysis?

He’s tailing off now. He’ll be all right.

Zucker grunted. The conversation turned, until Gray managed to steer it to unsolved cases, thence to muggings, and finally to the murder of Eleanor Pope.

I remember that one, Zucker said. One of those still unsolved deals where everybody tried to cover up. You know the Pope House restaurants? Well, Pope was the woman’s husband.

Covering up what? Gray asked.

Nothing to do with the murder, Zucker said. The Pope woman had been sleeping around. Hell, she was twenty years younger than her husband. Wanted a good time. A real dish, too! You know Carol Webster?

"Runs a casino—La Noche."

"That’s right. Everything from roulette to horses. Her place is up on Russian Hill. Well, the Pope woman was on her way home from La Noche the night she got it."

Did she—

No, Zucker said. "She lost. Five hundred odd in cash, and she gave Carol Webster an I.O.U. for four hundred. But we checked up. Somebody could have followed Mrs. Pope from La Noche, figuring she’d won a wad. Zucker shrugged his heavy shoulders. It looks like a plain mugging, but we haven’t closed the case yet. Not by a long shot."

That sounds like you’ve got some leads, Gray said. Any suspects?

For a moment Zucker was silent, as though glancing through a card-file in his mind. He took a long drink of beer, drew a deep breath, and said, This is all off the record, Mike.

Yes.

We had three suspects. Carol Webster was one of them. I know this was a mugging. That labels the killer as a man—ordinarily. Only Carol isn’t ordinary. She acts like a real lady now, when she doesn’t forget, but it’s my guess she grew up with some slum gang where she learned all the dirty tricks. She’s a graduate juvenile delinquent. She’s gangster stuff, for all her looks.

Gray didn’t comment. Zucker drank more beer.

Carol’s got a lot of protection behind her, he said. There’s big money involved, somewhere. Racket money. And that means…. Do you know a guy named Bruce Oliver?

No. What’s his angle?

He plugs holes, Zucker said briefly. "With a gun. Or anything else that suits. Only we can’t prove it. He beat two homicide raps, and God knows how many minor charges. He’s in on the racket too. Most of the time he hangs out around La Noche. You might call him an errand boy. I’d call him a son of a bitch."

Is he a suspect?

Zucker nodded.

"I said he was an errand boy. He could have made a delivery to Eleanor Pope that night. He was at La Noche then."

A delivery? Dope, you mean?

Hell, no. I mean murder. Zucker glanced at his watch. The only other real suspect is Arnold Farragut. Know him? Well, he’s a hard guy to pin down. No regular job. Works when he feels like it, and doesn’t care what the job is. One month he’ll be painting a mural and the next he’ll be loading cargo on the docks. And in between he’ll be spending his wad as fast as he can. Farragut’s an oddball, all right. He spends too much for what he makes—I think.

Any motive there?

Could be, Zucker said. "He was at La Noche that night too. And—I can’t prove it—but I figure he’d been sleeping with Eleanor Pope. Might be a jealousy motive, when he found out she was on the town. That’s about the picture. Carol Webster—a female gangster. Bruce Oliver—a killer. Arnold Farragut—an oddball."

Where was Eleanor Pope killed? Gray asked.

"Not far from La Noche. Down the hill a ways. There’s a little park there, and somebody must have jumped her and dragged her into the park. It wasn’t past midnight, but it was foggy as hell. She was slugged from behind with a rock. Killed her instantly. I wasn’t on the case myself; Fishbein handled it. He said everybody concerned was scared to death of publicity."

Who’s everybody? Gray asked.

Well, the husband, mostly. Is he a patient of yours? Zucker didn’t wait for an answer. Okay, I know you won’t tell me. But did you ever try to psychoanalyze a bulldozer?

What was Pope afraid of?

I told you his wife was sleeping around. He didn’t want that to get in the papers. Why? Have you run across something?

Gray shook his head.

No, I’m just curious.

Yeah? Zucker said skeptically.

Gray decided not to ask any more questions.

7

On Monday Howard Dunne sat across the desk from Gray and said uncomfortably, I don’t know what to talk about. You can tell me to say anything that comes into my head, but I can’t think of a thing.

Take your time, Gray said easily.

Finally Dunne said, I’m glad you talked to my wife. But—I suppose Sam told you. I asked him not to see you.

Why was that, do you suppose? the analyst inquired.

Dunne shook his head quickly.

"I—well, I felt that if Sam talked to you, then I wouldn’t be able to see you any more. Do you have to see him?"

We might let it go a while and then see, Gray suggested.

I guess so, Dunne said. What I wanted to talk about, though, was a dream I had last night. Dreams are significant for this sort of thing, aren’t they?

They often are. What was the dream?

Well—I was coming to see you. But when I got to the door here, it was locked. He paused. The rest of it’s silly.

What was it?

Dunne sighed.

I unlocked the door with a—a bomb. At least, it was like a bomb. Some sort of torpedo. I know it had a proximity fuse on its nose, and I was scared to death that it would go off. I had to fit it in the keyhole without setting it off.

How did it end?

I think I unlocked the door and came in. That was about all. What does it mean?

What do you think? Gray asked.

Dunne considered.

Oh, I suppose I feel that coming to see you is like playing with dynamite. But you’re the one who understands dreams. Why ask me?

I don’t know what it means, Gray said. Everybody’s got his own private dream-language. A steeple isn’t always a symbol of the penis, for example. It might mean something entirely different to a steeplejack. When we know more about each other, we’ll learn more about what your dreams mean.

Dunne said, It was late at night, in my dream. I knew I shouldn’t be here. The door was locked. He swallowed. It was locked.

Gray said gently, Come on in.

Dunne’s mouth twitched. He drew a deep, uneven breath.

He said, I’ve got no sexual problems. Just the opposite. Mary isn’t enough. I need more than one woman. That’s why I feel I can’t kick when … I mean, you can’t have a double standard, can you?

Gray waited.

Dunne went on quickly, Mary didn’t mention a man named Arnold Farragut, did she? I suppose not. She wouldn’t She’s been sleeping with him for months.

Gray’s, Oh? sounded perfectly neutral, but his mind flashed back to his conversation with Zucker. Was this something the police should know? Again Gray felt the familiar sense of danger he had experienced before when listening to Howard Dunne.

But all he said was, Go on.

Dunne said, He wants Mary to divorce me and marry him.

What’s Farragut like?

He’s the kind of bastard who’ll never be neurotic, Dunne said viciously. Nothing ever bothers him. He’s broke half the time and doesn’t give a damn. He does everything he wants to. Including sleeping with Mary. If Sam ever found out about that … or maybe he does know. Dunne looked quickly at the psychoanalyst. Then he looked away, took out a new pipe, and began stuffing it with dark tobacco. His manner changed. Gray realized that he had missed a chance. Somehow, he had not responded in the right way.

Gray said casually, I’m not sure I understood what you meant. What is it you think Sam may know?

"Maybe he knows I’ve been running around. I told you I need more than one woman. He doesn’t. I don’t mean he’s impotent—but he’s sterile. He was wounded, when we were overseas." Dunne’s voice became more brisk as he moved away from disturbing subjects.

I met him in Italy. He was a major. I never got higher than captain. I couldn’t stay out of trouble. Women again. Sam was a lot older than I was, but we had a hell of a good time. After the war I didn’t have any family left. My mother died during the war. So when I reached San Francisco, I gave Sam a ring, and he said to come on out. But he was married. Dunne hesitated. It wasn’t the same. A family, a job, responsibilities … I guess that’s when I decided the war was over, and I’d have to settle down. So I got a job, and—well, after a while I married Mary. That’s all there was to it.

All? Gray asked mildly.

Dunne scowled.

You can’t trust women, he said. Mary’s sleeping with Farragut, and Eleanor—what a damn fool Sam was! Everybody else knew what a whore his wife was. But not Sam. I’m not going to let that happen to me. Mary’s not going to divorce me and marry Farragut. Even if she has me put in a sanitarium, she wouldn’t be free to marry that bastard.

Gray said, Is that why you’re afraid Mary might sign commitment papers?

Dunne sighed.

Sometimes I know there’s nothing to worry about, he admitted. She wouldn’t do that. Even if …

If what?

If Sam insisted. She almost thinks her brother’s God Almighty. But not quite. Oh, hell. Sam’s not as big as he thinks he is.

When did you find that out? Gray asked sympathetically.

I’ve been handling some advertising for the Pope House restaurants, Dunne said. You know, for a guy who’s supposed to be such a hot shot, Sam Pope’s a hell of a phony. Without Maurice, he’d get completely fouled up.

Who’s Maurice?

Maurice Hoyle—his general manager. A dried-up little man—a machine. But he’s the one who keeps Pope on the rails. I was talking to Hoyle today—I had to get some photographs for the layout—and he checked over my figures on expense and figured out a way to save two hundred bucks. That’s probably why Sam keeps him on. Usually Sam’s got to have yes-men around, but I guess Hoyle’s an exception.

Do you like Hoyle?

Not especially, Dunne said. Oh, well, compared to Sam, yes. Hoyle’s a quiet fellow. Whenever Sam starts yelling, he just gets quieter. I wish I could. But … my father used to blow off a lot. You’re pretty quiet yourself.

He stopped. The silence lengthened. Finally Gray said, Our time’s almost up for today.

Yeah, Dunne said. And I’ve wasted part of it just sitting here saying nothing.

You didn’t waste the other part of it.

But Dunne’s face was clouded. He stood up.

We haven’t done much so far, he said.

Gray had risen.

Perhaps we can get further next time.

Maybe, Dunne said. He hesitated. Then he said abruptly, I guess I was wrong in not wanting you to see Sam. He’s not…. If you want to talk to him, go ahead, as far as I’m concerned.

All right, Gray said. Thank you.

Gray closed the door behind his patient. He waited a moment, sorting his thoughts and gathering his impressions. They confirmed his earlier opinion. There was danger here. Dunne was precariously close to the edge, and the violent aggressions buried in his mind would be dangerous if the edge were crossed.

And it would have to be crossed. During the course of analysis, Gray would inevitably push Dunne into the so-called negative transference—negative, because the emotions involved were hostile ones; transference, because those emotions were transferred from their usual targets and aimed at the therapist, a human lightning-rod.

Before then, Gray would have to learn to understand Dunne so thoroughly that the danger, to both of them—and to others—could be minimized. It would still be there. But, when Gray pushed Dunne over the edge of darkness, as he must do in order to make him face the hidden forces that were crushing him, there must be a strong bond already forged—a rope by which he could draw Dunne back to safety and the clear light of reality. It would not be easy to do that. It might not even be possible.

Yet what other choice was there? Gray recalled Dunne’s fear of being locked up. So far, there was no evidence that the man needed institutionalization. No competent psychoanalyst or psychiatrist could recommend such a course in Dunne’s case. Yet Dunne himself clearly sensed the buried furies that would explode within him if restrictions were clamped down.

Gray shook his head slowly. If he accepted Howard Dunne as a patient, he had to feel perfectly sure that he was doing the best thing. And there was never