Michael Gray Novels Read online

  The waiter was still hovering. Gray said, “What about a refill, Mr. Hoyle?”

  “One more. Two is my limit.”

  “The same for me,” Gray said. “Rye on the rocks.” After the waiter left, he went on: “How did Pope feel about using you as a counterbalance?”

  “He disliked it. But he learned that usually when he went against my business judgment, he lost money. He would plan to open a new restaurant, in San Mateo, say, and I could show him facts and figures that would prove the investment would be a poor one at the time. At first he got angry. But he could never disprove my figures. Finally he got in the habit of writing me informal notes about new ideas he’d have, but he was careful not to commit himself.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Oh, he might say, ‘Johnson suggests opening a branch in Berkeley’—and then if I said nothing about it, he’d let the matter drop. It wasn’t easy for him. What Sam really wanted was to keep expanding and never stop. But—” Hoyle shook his head slowly. “He knew he couldn’t. I don’t suppose he really liked me. But he needed me, and he knew it.”

  “Did you like him?” Gray asked casually.

  “Yes, of course,” Hoyle said, as the waiter returned with fresh drinks. He picked up his glass and sipped the sherry. “We worked together for many years.”

  “Did he ever talk freely to you? Of intimate matters?”

  Hoyle said sharply, “No, he didn’t. I knew very little about his personal life.”

  “Do you know how he took his wife’s death?”

  “The way anyone would. He was badly upset at the time. He got over it gradually.”

  “I see,” Gray said. He lifted his glass and let the hot, strong taste of rye coat his tongue. “Yes,” he said, “that’s the way it usually works out, isn’t it? It wears off. But sometimes there’s a change.”

  Hoyle frowned.

  “I don’t follow you.”

  Gray heard a curious hollowness in his own voice. “A loss like that may change a man’s attitudes. I mean—well, after Mrs. Pope’s death, did Sam Pope seem to be more reckless? Or less so?”

  Hoyle said slowly, “In business? Well, I can answer that easily enough. He became more reckless. He was very anxious to start a big expansion program.”

  Gray said, “Was he very much attached to his wife?”

  Hoyle frowned.

  “I don’t know. I suppose he was. I’m sorry, Mr. Gray, but I’ll have to get back to the office. We’re unusually busy now, naturally. I hope I’ve been able to help.”

  “You have,” Gray said. “I’ll probably want to ask some more questions later, but meanwhile, thanks very much.”

  Hoyle got up.

  “There was one thing,” he said slowly. “Sam disliked Mr. Farragut very much indeed.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  Hoyle shook his head.

  “I don’t know. Sam had strong likes and dislikes. Impulsive—” Hoyle pursed his mouth disapprovingly, shook his head again, and turned away.

  Gray watched him go. He still felt that vague hollowness, and it was a distinctly unpleasant sensation. He left his drink unfinished, and went back to his office. He spent an hour trying to concentrate upon a patient who was finishing analysis and was trying to avoid that realization. Gray ended the session with a gentle reminder that there would not be many more. The patient left, wearing a stunned expression. Gray made a telephone call and presently met Arnold Farragut at Marconi’s.

  Farragut was very drunk.

  “There’s a time to live and a time to die,” he observed, morosely watching Gray gorge himself on steak. “A time to be sober and a time to be drunk. I don’t see any alternative right now except to confess that I killed that bastard Pope.”

  “And did you?” Gray asked, concentrating on his steak.

  “Well, no,” Farragut said. “Greater love hath no man, except me. I’ll do anything for Mary except die for her.”

  “It’s Eleanor Pope who interests me,” Gray said.

  Farragut laughed hoarsely.

  “Then you’re in the majority,” he said. “But you’re talking to the wrong man. I’m probably the only adult male in San Francisco who never laid her.”

  “That’s not what the police think,” Gray said.

  “Oh, hell. I’ve been all through that. Let the cops think what they want. I guess a guy would know if he’d been in bed with Eleanor. I never was.”

  “Why not?” Gray asked.

  Farragut said, “Because she was a phony. She didn’t give a damn about sex. Every minute in bed, I’ll bet you could hear her thinking, ‘First stage of the mission accomplished.’”

  “What mission?”

  Farragut snorted.

  “I don’t know. She made a couple of plays for me, but I wasn’t having any. So she checked me off her list. Whatever she wanted, she must have realized she wouldn’t get it from me.”

  “And you don’t know what she wanted?”

  “She was a gambler,” Farragut said. “Almost every other night she’d be at the roulette table. That was her game. You know Carol Webster’s place?”

  “La Noche?”

  “That was her favorite hangout. I used to see her there. I think she was pretty thick with Carol. It’s just a guess, though. They’re a good deal alike.”

  “Was Eleanor much of a winner?”

  “No, she’d never stop when she was ahead. But I don’t think she cared whether she won or lost.”

  “She just wanted to gamble?”

  “I don’t know. There was something—” Farragut ran his fingers through his yellow hair. “She was a phony, Gray. There was something phony about her. It’s hard to put into words. As though she was always thinking about something else. You know what I mean?”

  “I think I do,” Gray said. “Tell me this. Do you know how Pope felt about his wife?”

  “No. But I know how she felt about him. She hated his guts.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t everybody?”

  “Did Mrs. Dunne?”

  Farragut rubbed his mouth.

  “Oh, hell. No, Mary didn’t hate Sam. Or Howard either. God knows she had reason to. What’s the good, anyway? You can’t help a dying man. All you can do is catch his disease.”

  “A dying man?”

  “Howard, I mean. I don’t think Mary loved him, except at the beginning. But what can you call it? Loyalty? She couldn’t be loyal to Howard and Sam both.”

  Gray said, “I wish I knew more about Sam Pope. What was he really like?”

  “He didn’t bother me,” Farragut said. “I liked to needle him. He couldn’t do a thing to me. Sometimes I’d pretend I wanted something from him, and he’d get that triumphant look. Then I’d laugh and say well, no, I guess I didn’t want it. After a while he caught on. Oh, he hated me. What he was really afraid of was that Mary’d divorce Howard and team up with me.”

  “Why should that have bothered him so much?” Gray asked curiously.

  “He’d have lost Mary,” Farragut said, with a deadly coldness in his voice. “I wasn’t a pushover like Howard. And Sam knew it. I didn’t give a damn about him or about anything. I pick up a job when I need money—commercial art or a job on the docks, it doesn’t matter.” He laughed humorlessly. “Sam kept offering me a job. He liked to do things for people for their own good, the son of a bitch.”

  “What do you think he really wanted?”

  “Everything he could get,” Farragut said. “He was brass in the Army. He never got over that. He had to be a big, big man.”

  Gray nodded.

  “It happens sometimes,” he said. “How about this one? What made you think Mary would divorce Howard?”

  Farragut said slowly, “Are you blaming me for that?”

  Gray said, “No, I can’t. In my business, it’s better to investigate than to blame.”

  “Investigate? Sometimes it’s better not to do that, either.”

  “It depends.”

 
“I guess so. Well—Mary wasn’t happy with Howard, was she? I wanted her. We’d be good for each other. And she was with Howard long enough to find out it couldn’t work.” Farragut hesitated. “Look at the war,” he said abruptly. “Try hard, and what do you get? Korea. China. Russia. Nothing’s ever going to be solved. So why not enjoy yourself? I knew Mary would come my way eventually. So I just kept reminding her that I was still alive. Naturally, Howard was jealous. He thought Mary was sleeping with me. There wasn’t anything like that. Not that I’m scrupulous, but Mary was. Then after Howard died—”

  “Yes?”

  “I knew it was a showdown between Sam and me. Sam knew that, too. That’s why….”

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing.”

  Gray placidly drank coffee.

  “All right,” he said. “What do you think of Maurice Hoyler?”

  “There’s no such person,” Farragut said. “A machine. Mr. Zero in person. I said I was the only man in town who hadn’t slept with Eleanor. I was wrong. Hoyle’s the other one.” He grinned. “I saw him at La Noche with Eleanor once or twice, though. Maybe he was leading a double life. But it must have been a hell of a disappointment for Eleanor.”

  “Is Hoyle much of a gambler?”

  “Oh, I’ve seen him lay a few bets, but a long ways under the limit. Just the opposite of Eleanor. Hoyle would stop when he started losing. Eleanor would plunge.”

  “Was she sleeping with Howard?”

  “Sure,” Farragut said, and paused. “And I told Mary about it. Lousy trick, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s your business.”

  Farragut grunted.

  “Well, skip it. What about Mary? How much of a chance has she really got?”

  Gray said, “I don’t know. All we can do is try to find out as much as we can.”

  “Why all the questions about Eleanor?”

  “I’ve just got a feeling she’s more important than anyone’s realized in this business.”

  Farragut said, “There’s one man you might talk to. Andy—something. I don’t know if he’s still around. But he knew Eleanor before she married Sam. In fact, I think he came from her home town. Psychoanalysts like to dig up early experiences, don’t they?”

  “Sometimes they have to,” Gray qualified. “I’d like to locate this man, though. Do you remember his last name?”

  “Not offhand. I’ll have to ask around. Suppose I phone you. And … maybe I’ll think of some other things. I’m drunk as hell right now.”

  “What did you get drunk for?” Gray asked suddenly.

  “I started feeling like Howard,” Farragut said, his voice barren. “I’d almost forgotten that. Now I need another drink. Let’s go out to the bar.”

  “I’ve got to get along,” Gray said. “Thanks very much for what you’ve told me. You’ll try to find out about that friend of Eleanor’s?”

  “Oh, sure,” Farragut said. “Sure. Well, good night.”

  He looked gloomily into the emptiness of his glass.

  20

  A storm was blowing in from the ocean, and sharp gusts of wind blew in Gray’s face. He walked through the grounds surrounding La Noche, hearing the uneasy rattle of tree limbs and seeing the dim shapes of bushes bowing and straightening before the rising storm. But inside La Noche it was quiet. Gray ignored the bar this time and went upstairs to the casino.

  There was a hushed glitter about the place. Gray knew Carol Webster by sight. He located her quickly, and waited until she began to drift from one group to another. Then he moved quickly toward her.

  She gave him a friendly smile.

  “Looking for me?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” Gray said. “Do you have a few minutes, Miss Webster?”

  “Of course. Come over here.” She led the way to a lounge by a broad window. “Now what are you drinking?”

  “Nothing, right now.”

  “Then I’ll join you.” She leaned back and stared at Gray. She was a tall woman, probably older than she looked. The paint job was fine, but there was a little too much of it, just as the perfume was a shade too strong.

  “My name is Gray,” the psychoanalyst said. “I’m really here on business. I need some information, and I hope you can help me out.”

  “Business?” she asked. “What is your business?”

  “I’m a psychoanalyst. What I’m—”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Gray. Unless you’d like to try your luck here. Why don’t you—”

  “A patient of mine died recently,” Gray said. “I’m trying to get information about him. Howard Dunne.”

  When the woman answered, her voice had lost its veneer. It was hard and hostile.

  She said, “Take a walk.”

  Gray said, “You knew Eleanor Pope pretty well, didn’t you?”

  Carol Webster’s red lower lip drooped, showing her teeth.

  “Get out of my place,” she said. “Don’t come back.”

  “Carol!” someone called, and a group in evening clothes surrounded them. Instantly the woman was poised and smiling again.

  “Good night, Mr. Gray,” she said smoothly. As the group moved away, she moved with it and was gone.

  Gray didn’t wait. He went downstairs, nodding absently as the doorman let him out. On the porch, cold rain blew sharply on his face. Gray turned up his collar and moved forward against the wind.

  A voice shouted, “Watch it!”

  Gray had time to turn his head—that was all. Something flashed down near him. There was a heavy, splintering crash. Gray felt his cheek sting.

  A small ornamental palm lay on the driveway a dozen feet from him. It had been planted in a heavy pottery bowl, and the bowl had burst like a bomb, scattering earth and sharp fragments of china.

  Gray felt his heart pounding. He looked up.

  Above the porch, on a ledge jutting from the house itself, stood three palms. There should have been four; their spacing showed that.

  It might have been the wind….

  Who had shouted a warning? Gray stared up. Finally he shrugged.

  His throat felt dry. He swallowed, drew a long breath, and walked toward the street. He felt oddly relieved when he reached the iron gates and passed through them. And he felt more relieved after he reached his own apartment.

  He had a drink and went to bed. Julia strolled restlessly across his supine form and then went away.

  Gray lay awake for a long time. When he slept, he dreamed that he was standing helpless, unable to move, while shadowy figures toiled and thrust at a huge potted palm, pushing it forward until it rocked and swayed directly over Gray’s head.

  It began to fall…

  21

  At twelve o’clock he was in his office. Across the desk sat the bull-shouldered, cold-eyed man Gray had seen twice before, once in Maurice Hoyle’s office and again when he had gone to La Noche to meet Zucker. Bruce Oliver’s suggestion that he might meet the analyst again had come true.

  “I gathered this was an emergency,” Gray said, trying to keep the tiredness out of his voice.

  Oliver’s sluggish voice sounded flat.

  “That’s what I said on the phone, didn’t I?”

  “Suppose you tell me about it.”

  When Oliver spoke, only his lower lip moved, showing his lower teeth.

  “I never went to a head-shrinker before. I can take care of my own problems. Only this time—maybe you can help me out. I got a problem that’s up your alley, Doc.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  Oliver grinned, but his eyes stayed cold.

  “It’s like this. Some people call me a fixer. I—fix things up. One way or another. That bastard Zucker’s been trying to pin something on me for a long time. It won’t work. Because I’m a respectable businessman. I’m—well, I’m in the public relations racket.”

  “Yes?” Gray said.

  The flat voice went hammering on.

  “My boss runs a syndicate. Big business. We
don’t advertise, but publicity means a lot in our game. What I mean is—we don’t like the wrong kind of publicity. Because when we get it, people get excited. Then the cops get excited. That’s kind of bad for business. You with me?”

  Gray nodded.

  “So. Now you take the prostitution business. Usually the public don’t give a damn, one way or another. If nobody gets hurt—nobody important—then nobody ever raises a stink. You remember the Black Dahlia kill?”

  “I remember.”

  “Bad publicity,” Oliver said. “Bad for people in my business. But the minute it came out that the babe who got killed was a barfly, then the public said the hell with it. And the town was wide open again.” He sank his head a little between the bull shoulders. “You see what I mean. Bad publicity is lousy public relations. We can’t afford that. So what do you say?”

  Gray said quietly, “Are you considering therapy for yourself?”

  Oliver’s laugh was as flat as his voice.

  “Sure,” he said. “Sure. Just name your price. I figured we could talk the same language.”

  For the first time Gray’s tone changed. He said sharply, “You figured wrong. I think we’ve wasted enough time, anyway.”

  “You’ll get paid for your time.”

  Gray stood up. “I’m not for sale,” he said.

  Oliver didn’t move.

  “Sit down and shut up,” the heavy, sluggish voice said. “Don’t push your luck. There might be another windy night coming up soon. You might walk under another flowerpot. It might not miss, next time.”

  Gray sat down and waited till he knew his voice was under control.

  “Captain Zucker said you were a killer, Oliver.”

  The wide mouth broadened.

  “I’ve never taken a rap for a kill yet,” Oliver said. “That potted palm missed you, didn’t it?”

  “But you’re saying it might not, next time.”

  The bull shoulders lifted and dropped.

  “Could be. But why talk about things like that? Why not do it the easy way? I’m a fixer—a trouble shooter.” Oliver looked at the analyst steadily. “You’re a trouble.”