Michael Gray Novels Page 3

  “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 h
e 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 nigh
t. 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.”