Murder of a Wife

By Henry Kuttner

A San Francisco psychoanalyst turned amateur sleuth takes on the perplexing case of a pathological liar who thinks her husband wants to kill her.
 
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.
 
After a shadowy figure attempts to bludgeon her in her bed, housewife Karen Champion believes her husband is out to get her. The problem is no one will believe anything Karen says.
 
A known pathological liar, Karen can’t turn to the police—so she goes to the famous psychoanalyst Michael Gray for help. When she tells Gray what her husband is plotting, Gray is pulled deep into a world of quack doctors, a blackmailing private eye, and a killer who found that one vicious murder was only the beginning.
 
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: 9781626813809

Book preview

1

Karen Champion tried to open her eyes. If she could just wake up in time, everything could still be all right. She would be here in bed in her apartment, the shades down, the doors locked, the black night shut out.

But the dream, the nightmare, was on its way.

She was hurrying along a silent street, and something was coming after her, very fast. It was dark, this follower, and when she looked back she could see that it was quite small. It seemed to be wearing a dress; she could see the whipping fabric in the wind. But the face was hairy, an animal muzzle glistening wetly with foam.

In a moment its outstretched hand, palm forward, would touch her, the animal face would laugh, the foam would spray about her. She had to get away. But she couldn’t. If she took one backward step she would fall and fall and die …

Now she wanted terribly to wake up. She made one tremendous, convulsive effort without moving a muscle. Karen tried to scream.

A heavy crash in the bedroom released her from her bondage. She leaped awake in a single second. She was sitting upright in bed, her eyes wide open, her heart thudding with triphammer blows.

What had the noise been? A crash? Had she dreamed it? The window shade was up, flooding the bed with moonlight. She shivered as the cold air flowed around her. Was it the shade, flying up, that woke her? And why was she so frightened?

It must have been a dream, she told herself shakily, swinging her feet out of bed. She couldn’t sleep with all that moonlight shining on her face. She would close the shade again. Groping after the dream, she threw the bedclothes aside. A terrifying dream about—what? Something chasing her, that much she knew. Something too awful to look at. For some reason she found herself thinking of poor old Spot, dead and buried twenty years at least. Whatever had been in the nightmare, it certainly wasn’t Spot. The dream seemed to tatter into fragments as she tried to recapture it.

Groping with one bare foot for her slippers, she felt her toe touch something slick and cold. She said aloud, What in the world— and bent to look. In absolute disbelief she saw the shattered fragments of a little glass lamp scattered across the carpet, broken edges gleaming wickedly in the moonlight.

She thought dazedly, I must be dreaming, and turned toward the bureau where the two glass lamps should be standing.

A dark shape moved between her and the bureau.

This was the nightmare come to life, the dark follower moving into reality at last. Her heart contracted and seemed to stop. She tried to scream, but her throat wouldn’t open. She could only stare.

She knew she wasn’t dreaming. This time it was real.

The figure loomed toward her in the shadow, a black thing with eyes that seemed to strike sparks from the moonlight. The breath came so short in her throat that she couldn’t get air enough down into her lungs. One of the dark arms was raised, holding something that glittered from a dozen trembling points of light.

Then it came toward her into the moonlight.

She had one glimpse of a face she surely knew. The glint of the eyes was from horn-rimmed glasses. The moustache and the shadows hid the mouth, but surely, surely—

Dennis? she asked in a little, shaken voice.

The figure heaved up its arm and struck downward at her. It struck with the other glass lamp as a weapon. Karen’s throat opened and she screamed wildly, mindlessly, an animal noise, as she lurched sidewise in a frantic effort to escape.

The lamp struck the wooden headboard with a splintering crash, making the whole bed rock under its impact. Bits of glass flew past her face. She sucked air deep into her lungs and shrieked again and again.

Windows thudded open outside in the court of the apartment house. Someone called in sleepy alarm.

The dark figure chuckled and backed away from the bed. Karen heard the door open and close. She sat still, without breathing or stirring, until the outer door opened and shut too.

Then, barefoot, careless of the glass on the floor, she hurled herself across the room toward the telephone. Her hands shook so hard she couldn’t dial. She spun O for Operator after great effort.

Get the police! she gasped into the shaking black mouth of the instrument. Quick, quick! This is Karen Champion—my husband just tried to kill me!

2

Michael Gray, psychoanalyst, sat with his elbows on his desk, as he concentrated hard on a case history folder spread out before him.

The telephone, ringing sharply at his elbow, barely ruffled his thoughts at first. He dragged himself out of his concentration finally, picking it up on the third ring.

He knew the voice on the wire. He said, Oh, hello, Bob. What can I do for you?

It was Bob Ettinger, Gray’s physician. Ettinger coughed a little and said, Well, I don’t know. I may have just played you a dirty trick, Mike. I gave your name to a patient of mine, a girl named Karen Champion. I’ve been twisting her arm trying to get her to see you. I know how busy you are, but if she does call, could you at least see her once?

Gray said, Sure, why not? And where does the dirty trick come in?

Ettinger coughed again. Strictly off the record, he said, you can’t believe a word she says. Karen’s a pathological liar. She’s off on a new kick now. I’ll leave it to her to tell you, but she’s called in the police and God knows where it’ll end. All I’m sure of is the girl needs help. Whether she’ll accept it is something else again. She won’t admit anything’s wrong with her. He gave a small, half-hearted laugh. I admit it doesn’t sound promising.

It doesn’t, Gray agreed. Still, if she shows up at all, it’s a beginning. I’ll do my best for her if she calls.

After Gray had hung up he sat scowling at the telephone a while. Then he scribbled the name Karen Champion on his calendar and added a large question mark.

Karen Champion sat back in Gray’s office chair and looked at him with anxious blue eyes. She wore a hat like a flower basket anchored on smooth, light-brown hair, and her plain suit looked expensive. She kept sliding one white-gloved hand back and forth on the chair arm, smoothing the polished wood. Gray noticed and made a mental note that now and then the hand stopped and tightened.

Dr. Ettinger thinks I may be able to help you with a problem you have, he said.

Oh, I only hope you can! Her voice was eager.

Gray nodded, feeling a little flash of pleased surprise. Ettinger hadn’t thought she would admit there was anything wrong with her.

Just what is the problem? he asked.

It’s very simple, really. Karen Champion straightened herself in the chair and fixed him with an earnest blue gaze. How do you get somebody declared insane? she asked.

Gray blinked.

That’s a pretty complex question, he said. I’d need to know more of the details.

But I have to know! She leaned forward anxiously. I may be in a terrible spot! I’ve got to protect myself somehow if things go wrong, and I can’t think of any other way.

Suppose you tell me about it, Gray said patiently. Just what’s happened that puts you on this spot?

She drew a long, shuddering breath. Something that happened Wednesday night. I woke up and saw my husband standing over me with a glass lamp in his hand. He tried to kill me.

She told Gray in detail of the terrifying minutes in her bedroom that night. He listened silently, watching her face.

And then I called the police, she finished. And they didn’t believe me. Nobody believes me. But it’s true! It happened! So I did the only thing I could do. I brought charges against Dennis myself.

The police wouldn’t act?

Nobody will. I’ve tried everything. I wanted to swear out a peace warrant against him. I tried to charge him with assault. But they said the District Attorney wouldn’t take it before the Grand Jury. So I found out I could go direct to court myself—I saw a lawyer who told me I could make a direct complaint, a—an—

An information?

"That’s what it is. Anyhow, that way the judge has to hear the case. So that’s what I did. Now there’ll be a hearing. She paused. That’s what scares me," she said.

Why?

Because of Dennis. He—he’s furious about what I’ve done. And now—well, suppose the judge doesn’t believe me either? Suppose he just lets Dennis go?

What do you think will happen?

Dennis will kill me, she said in a flat voice.

Gray looked at her alertly, waiting for her to go on. He didn’t want to speak yet. He was mentally checking over her appearance, her voice, her mannerisms. A pathological liar can often be wonderfully convincing. She looked and acted now much as he would expect a woman to do who is telling the simple truth about a terrifying experience.

He’ll kill me, she said again. So the only other thing I can think of to protect myself is to get him declared insane. And that’s why I’m here, Mr. Gray. This is your field, isn’t it? Can’t you tell me how I go about it?

Well, as I say, it’s a pretty complicated thing, Gray told her. It could be a civil or a criminal matter. In either case you’d have to convince the court, you know. Do you think you have enough evidence?

What kind of evidence?

Well, behavior on your husband’s part that seems abnormal, for instance. Could you give me an example?

It’s his temper, mostly, Karen Champion said. It’s worse than just a bad temper. It’s like—a volcano. He usually keeps himself pretty well controlled. But when he does get into a rage—well, he’s not a sane man.

What does he do?

Look at last Wednesday night, Karen said. Isn’t that bad enough?

Gray nodded thoughtfully. Maybe we’d better get a clearer background picture first on all this, he said. Could you give me some details about your husband? What happened between you, what the situation is now?

Karen smoothed the chair arm slowly.

Well, we’ve been married for five years. Dennis is fifteen years older than I am. Everything was fine until lately, actually. I do want to be fair. Dennis can be a wonderful person when he wants to be. But—then he started to change.

When was this?

About a year ago.

How did he change?

He—it was his temper, mainly. He seemed to be tense all the time. Worried. He’s had business troubles, you see. It was his temper, really, that I just couldn’t stand. It upsets me terribly. He’d go along for a while, just simmering, and then suddenly everything would blow off and he’d start yelling at me. I couldn’t stand it. Finally I just moved out. And then things got worse.

How?

It’s been absolute hell on earth. He’s always phoning, trying to see me, quarreling over the phone. He’s frantic to get me to come back. And then, Wednesday night—Mr. Gray, he just can’t be sane!

Gray said carefully, You tell me the police were skeptical about what happened that night. Do you know why that should be?

Karen shut her eyes. Her hand closed tight on the chair arm.

I’ve—I’ve had bad luck lately. Some—well, unpleasant things have happened to me. The police—oh, I don’t want to talk about it. That’s not what I came here for.

Gray said, The police must have asked a lot of questions about what happened that night in your apartment. Did you really have evidence to satisfy them that an intruder got in?

She made an anxious little grimace. "There was somebody there! All you had to do was look. Glass all over the floor—the neighbors heard me screaming—"

And you’re sure it was your husband, not a burglar?

I saw him as close as I am to you! I’d know Dennis anywhere!

Gray said, Was anything stolen? I mean, if it had been a burglar—

It was Dennis. Why should he steal anything?

Did the police test for fingerprints?

She nodded grudgingly. Nothing on the glass lamps. He must have worn gloves.

Gray was silent a moment. Then he said, Your husband sounds to me like an impulsive man. Somebody whose temper explodes unexpectedly. Is that right?

She nodded.

And yet he takes time to put on gloves before he comes into your apartment. He wears gloves—but he doesn’t try to hide his face. Does this seem strange at all to you?

She sat up straighter. Her face flushed a little.

You’re trying to say you don’t believe me.

I’m trying to get the situation clear, Gray amended. Some of the angles seem hard to understand. For instance—

Karen Champion stood up abruptly. I didn’t come here to have holes picked in my story, she said in a cold voice. I’ve told you exactly what happened. I don’t expect you to believe it. Nobody does. There’s no point in even trying to discuss it with you. What I’m paying you for is to help me get Dennis declared insane. Are you going to help me, or aren’t you?

Gray rose too. I’m not sure if I can. I’ve never met your husband. My opinion on his competence wouldn’t mean a thing. That’s why I’ve been trying to find out more about him—and you.

She hardly seemed to be listening. In a tight voice she said, Dr. Ettinger doesn’t believe me. The police don’t believe me. Somebody’s got to believe me, before it’s too late. I’ve got to get help somewhere! She shut her eyes tight and Gray saw how the gloved hands had closed on the back of the chair, holding on hard. For a moment she rocked forward a little, not like a woman about to faint, but like someone standing on the brink of an abyss, feeling the downward pull.

Gray said, Mrs. Champion—

She opened her eyes and met his gaze, a look almost of panic on her face.

Gray went on, —I’d like to help you if you could let me.

She shook her head. With great effort she straightened, drew a deep breath and said, almost brightly, in a controlled voice, "No. I know what you mean. I can’t seem to convince anybody that I’m perfectly all right. It’s Dennis who needs to be looked after. You’re just like all the others—you think there’s something wrong with me." She put up a steady hand and straightened the flower-basket hat.

I’m not the patient, Mr. Gray. It would be Dennis if it were anybody. So it has to be nobody at all. It was a mistake coming here, I can see that. She turned toward the door. If you’ll send me your bill—you have my address.

Gray went forward to open the door for her. Problems like this can’t be solved in one sitting, Mrs. Champion. I’d like to think over what you’ve told me and then see you again, if you’d care to come back.

She gave him a measuring look.

You’re misunderstanding something that just happened, she said. I was—dizzy. But there’s nothing wrong with me. I had a bad fall when I was a little girl. From the roof of our house. I still have nightmares about it. They thought I’d lose the use of my arm. The bone never did heal straight. Naturally— She shrugged. I still have a fear of falling. But I’m not neurotic, Mr. Gray. I’m just scared. I’ve told you why. There’s nothing you can do.

Gray opened the door for her. I’ll still be here if you change your mind, he said.

In the outer office a man rose as Karen Champion came in. His dark gaze flicked from Karen to Gray. All right, Karen? he asked, his deep voice almost a growl.

Yes, of course. She hesitated. Mr. Gray—Mr. Albano.

The two men shook hands. Albano had a face like an American Indian’s, dark, chiseled of flat slabs. He was a big man, smooth and sure in his movements. I hope you were able to help Karen, he said.

Before Gray could answer, Karen spoke quickly. Let’s go, Oliver. I’m dying for a drink. Thanks again, Mr. Gray.

Gray watched them go. Just as they passed out of sight, he noticed how Albano’s powerful hand curled delicately, possessively, around Karen’s arm.

3

Gray went back to his desk, reached for the telephone and dialed police headquarters. After a little wait he heard Captain Harry Zucker’s heavy voice on the line.

Gray asked a few questions.

Damned if I know, Mike, Zucker said. I don’t handle every case in San Francisco. Besides, we wouldn’t have the dope here in Homicide. What are you mixed up in now, anyhow?

Nothing, maybe, Gray said. I just have to make sure.

Well, wait a minute, Zucker said. I’ll see what I can find out. There was a long pause. After a while he came back on the wire. Lieutenant Yeager’s handling your case. Larry Yeager. He’ll tell you whatever you need to know. I’ll switch you over.

Lieutenant Yeager had a young, crisp voice. Captain Zucker tells me you’re interested in the Karen Champion business, he said.

I am, Gray told him. Just what did happen the other night?

Oh, we got a call from her about four in the morning. We went out to take a look. Her bedroom was messed up a little. A pair of glass dressing-table lamps had been smashed and the floor was covered with glass. Mrs. Champion wasn’t hurt. There were no signs of forcible entry and no recent prints of her husband’s.

None on the lamps?

A few of hers, where she’d cleared the stuff out of the way. None of Mr. Champion’s or anybody else’s.

What does Champion say about it? Gray asked.

Yeager laughed shortly. Plenty. Incidentally, he has no alibi. We found him at home half an hour after the alleged attack. Said he’d been in bed and asleep, but of course there wasn’t any proof. Except he’d have had to move mighty fast to make it from her place to his in time. We sent somebody direct from the local station to check on him.

You said ‘alleged attack,’ Gray said. Why’s that?

Yeager laughed again.

This is the fourth time this year Mrs. Champion has made a complaint. Twice somebody was supposed to have dragged her up an alley trying to kidnap her. Once it was a Peeping Tom. Those were phonies.

You’re sure?

We investigated, Mr. Gray. We investigated very thoroughly. We turned up evidence that disproved her story every time—well, twice, anyhow. There might have been a Peeping Tom. I doubt it. What we did find out is that Mrs. Champion’s a pathological liar.

Gray said, I see.

"Sure. All her friends know about it. She makes