Murder of a Mistress

By Henry Kuttner

A San Francisco psychoanalyst once again turns amateur sleuth when a playgirl patient is the prime suspect in a prostitute’s murder.
 
Dr. Michael Gray is constantly getting drawn into the lives, and murders, of his troubled clientele. His keen eye for human behavior leads him to meet some of San Francisco’s most memorable denizens—and to forever be in mortal danger.
 
Beverly Bond was the kind of girl men didn’t tell their wives about. She was blond, beautiful, and your friend—for a price. After she’s found with a knife in her chest and her apartment ablaze, four people confessed to her murder. The evidence, meanwhile, points to reckless heiress Eileen Herrick, one of Gray’s patients, who phoned Gray after fleeing Bond’s apartment building.
 
Believing Herrick is innocent, Gray sets out to solve the killing of a young woman who knew too much about too many men who had too damned much to lose . . .
 
Praise for Henry Kuttner
“A neglected master.” —Ray Bradbury
 
“Kuttner is magic.” —Joe R. Lansdale

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781626813793

Book preview

1

The doorbell shrilled angrily. Its clamor went on and on, jangling through the apartment. The girl slumped on the sofa didn’t move. She was sitting relaxed, her yellow hair swinging forward to hide her face. Her head was bent. She might have been looking steadily at something that lay almost at her feet, glittering against the pale cream carpet.

It was an earring shaped like a dolphin, made of gold and outlined with clustering brilliants.

The doorbell stopped ringing. Then it started again, with short, insistent jangles. Suddenly there came a furious pounding on the door.

Beverly! a high, hysterical voice called. Beverly! Let me in!

Beverly Bond did not move.

Damn you, Beverly! Beyond the door the girl’s voice broke. You bitch, I know you’re there! I know who’s with you! Let me in!

And then Beverly Bond moved.

A spring shifted in the sofa under her. That was all it took. Very slowly, Beverly Bond swayed to the right. Her head fell back against the sofa and her left hand dropped away from her breast to lie in her lap.

She didn’t move again—but there was movement in the room behind her.

Trickles of smoke had been curling outward around the edges of the bedroom door. Now a heavy billow of it rolled upward into the room, and the first red tongues of fire licked through.

The only other motion was red too. The trickle of blood.

Beverly Bond seemed to be smiling, with a quiet secret all her own, at the heavy knife hilt slanted outward between her breasts.

On the other side of the door stood the girl who wore one earring shaped like a dolphin of gold and brilliants.

Her fists hurt from hammering the panels. Her throat hurt from screaming out the ugly words. She didn’t know when she’d started crying, but the tears ran down her face now and her nose was so congested she had to breathe through her mouth.

Beverly! God damn you, let me in!

Doors had been opening up and down the hall. Now there were people gathering around her, voices asking questions she hardly heard. People watching her. She thought with obscure satisfaction, I must look terrible. I must sound terrible. I don’t care. Let them look.

Somebody had her wrists in a firm grip. A man she didn’t even look at. The voices were a clamor all around her. She hated this—and she liked it a little. She was Eileen Herrick and somebody was bound to recognize her. Then the papers would run her picture again with a story on how she had made another public spectacle of herself, and her father would say…he would say…

A woman screamed in the crowd, Fire—look there! Fire!

Eileen Herrick turned dazedly. Nobody was watching her now. All eyes stared at the edges of the door where thick smoke curled out. Now other voices took up the cry, Fire! Fire!

The man let go of Eileen’s wrists. He stepped back, brought his knee up and smashed hard with the sole of his foot against the panel beside the knob. He kicked three times. The third time the door burst open.

Eileen saw a gush of black smoke billowing toward her. She felt a wave of heat. The doorway framed a garden of flame, bursting with tongues of light

In the middle of the fiery garden the dead girl sat. The garment she wore was beautiful and terrible, for Beverly Bond by now was clothed in a shimmer of flame and her calm face had a coronet of fire.

Eileen Herrick wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. Then was no breath in her body. Inside her everything had ceased. What she looked at was unendurable.

Now the whole hallway was full of screaming. Eileen spun blindly away from the heat and the shock of that sight. She bumped into people she hardly saw. Nobody stopped her…

Somehow, somewhere, she found herself alone, in a little refuge she had discovered without knowing it. A little room no wider than a coffin. But its walls were glass and there was a telephone before her, so she must be intending to call somebody. Call for help. But who?

She had no one to turn to. The walls around her were glass and no protection. And she had nobody. She felt very young and small and terribly alone.

She found a coin in her handbag, dropped it, fumbled, found it again and pressed it fiat into the round coin well, heard it drop ringing out of sight. Whom could she call? Not her father. Not her mother. Not the man who said he loved her, and probably lied, because who could? Who could possibly love Eileen Herrick?

Her fingers shook so she could hardly find the dial numbers. She didn’t know what number she was calling, but when the phone at the other end rang and rang and nobody came to help her, the feeling of despair was very terrible. Nobody would ever hear her, crying in the dark. Nobody would ever come to help.

Then the line clicked and a man’s sleepy voice said, Hello?

She thought she was sobbing uncontrollably. In her own mind she was. But her voice said almost evenly, with only the slightest catch in it, I want Mr. Gray. I want Michael Gray…

2

Michael Gray, psychoanalyst, was in a hurry. Tall and easy-moving, he slipped through the crowd smoothly until a waist-high rope, hastily strung, stopped him. Without a pause he ducked under the rope and straightened on the other side. A uniformed officer shouted at him.

Hey, you! Get back there!

Gray went forward to meet him with long, quick strides. In the glare of lights from the fire trucks the scene was like a stage-set, all the colors unnaturally bright, all the faces wan with harsh shadows on them. Gray felt wan himself, not yet fully awake. His red hair was still rumpled and his hastily knotted necktie askew.

The policeman said briskly, Nobody allowed in here. You’ll have to get back.

Something in Gray’s assured manner made him hesitate.

No reporters yet, either, he added.

Gray had seen the man only twice before, the last time a year ago, but he said without hesitation, Hello, Hansen. My name’s Gray. Michael Gray. Weren’t you on the Ann Avery case last year?

Hansen said, Gray? Oh—yeah. But this is off your beat, Mr. Gray. Or did Captain Zucker ask you to come down?

Gray’s hesitation was imperceptible.

Zucker’s here now?

Hansen shook his head. Not yet. This thing just broke. The fire’s out, though. The boys are up inside. Sergeant Krantz is taking it.

Gray, who had until now still cherished a faint hope that Eileen Herrick was exaggerating on the telephone, let the hope die. Zucker and Krantz, he thought. Both from Homicide. But who was dead, and why? And what part had Eileen played? All he had been able to get on the telephone was this address and a frantically repeated, She’s dead, she’s dead. Oh, please come quick!

But where was Eileen now?

I’d better talk to Krantz, Gray said. Hansen nodded and waved to the young officer stationed at the apartment house entrance. Gray went by him and into a hall smelling of the wet, heavy stench of a quenched fire. The sinuous length of a fire hose went twisting up the stairs like a guiding line, and Gray followed its course upward. The smell of burning grew stronger. Mixed with it now was a new smell that made Gray’s nostrils pinch together. He had smelled burned flesh before.

Puzzled and alarmed, Gray followed the snaking hose. He got as far as the door of Beverly Bond’s apartment before he was stopped. Inside, the room seemed full of men in a hurry of controlled activity. There was still a heavy, choking odor, but the fire was out. Flash bulbs were going off, men were measuring and making notations. And everywhere, it seemed to Gray, were fingerprint men plying their little brushes with quick, soft, whisking speed over every surface that could have taken a print

A stout bald sergeant with a bulldog face stood before the sofa, talking to the assistant medical officer. The doctor stepped back and Gray saw for the first time the center of all this action—the dead girl on the sofa.

He stepped forward, involuntarily. An officer beside the door put out a blue arm to bar his way.

What do you want?

The sergeant in the room heard the challenge and looked up. Before Gray could answer Krantz called out, Gray! and came forward hurriedly. What the hell are you doing here? he asked. His sharp eyes flicked over Gray. You look like you got out of bed in a hurry. Why?

Gray said, I’m not just butting in, Ben. You in charge here?

Sergeant Krantz nodded. So far I am. You better wait around a little bit. We’re all loused up. The firemen probably played hell with all the evidence, putting the fire out We’re having ourselves a time.

Gray looked past Krantz into the murder room.

Is that Ramey? He’s Arson, isn’t he?

Think all this got started from a short circuit, maybe? Krantz asked sardonically. We’re falling over each other right now. Look, I can’t talk for a while. Stick around, though. I want to ask some questions. Like why are you here in the middle of the night before even the reporters know what’s happened?

A commotion on the stairs behind him relieved Gray of the need to answer. A man was stumbling upward, fighting to shake off the hand of the policeman beside him. He shouted, Damn you, let go! Beverly! Beverly!

Krantz’s bulldog face tightened at the name. With a sudden heave the man broke free of the officer and took the remaining steps in a rush, making straight for the open door. Sergeant Krantz put up a broad hand and moved to block him.

The policeman on the stairs said hastily, It’s the husband, Sergeant He said—

God damn it, let me in there, the man shouted. I’ve got to know what’s happened.

Krantz said, ‘Take it easy. What’s your name?"

Bond. Chris Bond. I heard the place was on fire. Is my wife—

Krantz said, Better wait. It isn’t pretty. A woman’s been killed—take it easy, now!

He blocked Bond from thrusting through the doorway but he couldn’t stop the man from seeing. Bond stared for a long minute, his face perfectly expressionless. Then he wrenched himself away, turned toward the wall and leaned his head against it, pressing one hand over his face tightly.

Gray watched him. Chris Bond was a big man, slender but strong, with the controlled, graceful motions of a dancer. His face was swarthy, his eyes lustrous and dark. His thin black mustache emphasized a full-lipped mouth almost brownish in tone. His black hair was sleek and even now not a strand of it had been displaced.

Krantz nodded to the officer behind Bond. Stay with him. You too, Gray—stick around. Two murders is plenty.

"Two murders? Gray’s eyes narrowed. Who else was killed?"

Krantz shook his head. Later, later. I’ve got to—

Chris Bond straightened suddenly, lifting his head. A new thought had struck him, and the black eyes looked wild.

The fire! he said. "Let me in there! Did everything burn?" And he started to plunge past Krantz into the apartment Officers jumped from all sides to restrain him. He fought them furiously, hard enough to drag the whole struggling group over the threshold.

I’ve got to get in! he was insisting in a choked voice. "God damn it, let me in! Everything can’t have burned. There must be something left. Let go! Let me in!"

Nobody was watching Gray. He turned his back on the commotion and went quietly down the stairs. No angry voices shouted at him to come back. By the time he reached the street he knew he had got safely away—for now. With relief he drew a long breath of the sharp night air.

Two murders? And where was Eileen? Was one of the victims—Eileen Herrick?

Fifteen miles south of San Francisco the suburb of Millbrae sprawled across Highway 101, and the huge Herrick house stood there in the shelter of its own walled grounds. Millbrae had changed very much since the war. All the expanding outskirts were new. But a few large estates remained, and three generations of Herricks had lived in Millbrae.

The first intimation that anything was wrong came to Millbrae at about the same time Michael Gray was turning away from the dead Beverly Bond’s apartment house. Two uniformed policemen rang at the Herrick door under its heavy portico. A surprised maid told them that Miss Eileen Herrick was not in.

Then who is at homer the officer who had rung asked her.

I’ll see, she said, and closed the door. The two men waited in the cold night wind blowing westward from the bay. They looked at each other.

They identified the girl for surer the younger man asked in a low voice. His companion nodded.

That’s the ticket, he said. Her face has been in the papers pretty often. Not only the society column, either. She likes trouble."

She’s got it, the younger man said grimly.

There was a long silence before the door opened again. This time a small, wiry, gray-haired man stood there. He wore a dressing gown over silk pajamas. He looked at them with hard, intolerant eyes.

Come in, he said. And keep quiet. I don’t want my wife bothered. She’s asleep—I hope. Come in here. He led them into a big square library, tugging at a cord that brought long curtains sweeping shut across the windows. Well? he said.

You’re Mr. Herrick?

I’m Philip Herrick. What’s this all about?

We’d like to talk to your daughter.

"She isn’t home. What’s the matter this timer

Do you know where she is?

Herrick said angrily, If I knew I’d tell you. I haven’t seen her since dinner. She said she had a date in town. Now what’s this all about?

We just want to ask her a few questions, the older officer said cagily. Herrick grunted. Will you notify us as soon as she comes in? the officer went on. Herrick grunted again. He nodded.

The officers thanked him and left.

After Herrick had shut the door behind them, he stood looking into space a while, frowning anxiously. Then he went to a telephone and dialed with quick, nervous jabs of his finger. Presently an annoyed masculine voice answered the call.

Neil? Herrick said. Philip Herrick. Where’s Eileen?

I don’t know. With the Donnellys, I suppose. Why?

I thought she had a date with you.

She did. Something came up and I had to leave early. Eileen wanted to stay on with the Donnellys. Nothing’s wrong, is it?

In a strained voice Herrick told Neil Pollard just what had happened.

Pollard’s voice sharpened. Oh, God. Just as my campaign’s getting under way, too. Think it’s drunk driving again?

I don’t think so. She’s kept out of trouble for nearly six months this time. I’d hoped maybe—Well, I’ll call the Donnellys. Or will you?

Pollard said, "I’ll do better than that I know the night editor of the Chronicle. I’ll see what I can find out."

Herrick said quickly, Play it safe, for God’s sake. We don’t want to get the papers interested.

Don’t worry. I’ll call you back. Pollard hung up.

Herrick, scowling, clipped a cigar and lit it. It was half smoked when the telephone rang. This time Pollard’s voice on the wire was tense.

Philip? I’m coming out I’ll be there in half an hour. Don’t talk to any reporters. When Eileen shows up—Well, better call your lawyer.

What’s happened?

Somebody was killed, Pollard said, his voice strained, murdered.

Herrick swallowed hard. When he tried to speak, his voice failed him on the first try. He cleared his throat Not—not Eileen?

No. All I can find out is the police want her for questioning. She was recognized at the scene of the crime.

A witness? Herrick was relieved. If that’s all—

It isn’t. I don’t know much yet, but—Listen, Philip, just sit tight and wait for me. I’m on my way.

Wait a minute. Who was murdered?

There was silence on the line for a moment. Then Pollard’s voice said without any expression in it, A girl named Beverly Bond.

Herrick lowered the receiver into its cradle with a careful hand. He stood there motionless, hardly seeming to breathe. His face was like wet clay.

3

When Michael Gray drove up to the front of the Herrick house, he saw that most of the lower floor was lighted. A big Lincoln stood blocking the drive that led to the front door, as if somebody had parked fast and hurried inside without caring. Gray drew up at the curb. He had noticed a squad car with two men in it sitting quietly, without lights, under the trees at the corner. But nobody tried to stop him. The door opened reluctantly at his ring.

A middle-aged woman in a maid’s uniform gave him a hard stare.

No reporters, she said and started to close the door.

Gray said, Wait a minute. My name’s Michael Gray. I just had a call from Miss Herrick. Ask her father if he’ll see me.

The maid looked