The Ninth Man

by Dorien Grey

  “I’d really like to ask you over to talk about it, but I’m afraid it will have to wait until I get back.”

  “Back?”

  “Yeah. My agent got me a sportswear contract I’d been praying for. It came through late yesterday afternoon. I’m catching a plane for St. Croix in about three hours. I’ll be gone a week—maybe two, if I’m lucky, but the minute I get back, I’ll give you a call.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” I said, and meant it. “But before you go, could you just answer a few quick questions now, over the phone?”

  “Sure; I’ve got a few minutes.”

  Keep your fingers crossed, Hardesty.

  “How much about Alan’s past life did you know? I’m referring specifically to about three to four years ago.”

  “Hmmmmm…”

  I waited while he thought for a long moment.

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” he said finally. “Alan, it seems, was a congenital liar in addition to his other charms, though I was too dumb to know it until it was too late. He gave me a lot of lines, but I doubt now very many of them were true. Whatever he told me, I believed…at the time.”

  Shit! Another dead end!

  “Did he say anything you can remember about the period not too long before you met—say about a year before? Anything about his friends, where he might have hung out, any groups or clubs or organizations he belonged to? Particularly, any trouble he may have been in, or any incident he was reluctant to talk about?”

  “Not that I can re—oh, yes! One time, right after we first met, he gave me a long story about how he’d been involved in something dark and sinister, and he was sure someone was out to get him. But he didn’t elaborate—Alan was pretty vague on specifics. I believed him when he first told me—thought it was kind of exciting, in a way—but I wouldn’t give you a dime for the story now.”

  “This story,” I prodded, feeling a surge of excitement, “what do you remember about it?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. I’ve been working pretty hard to erase Alan from my head. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. It’s…” His voice broke off, and there was a sharp pause. Then: “Dick, you aren’t suggesting there was any truth to that story, are you? Do you think Alan’s death might actually…that he didn’t…just die? But why? How? Why wouldn’t the police have told me…”

  “Hold on, Gary,” I said, interrupting to try to calm him down. “I’m not suggesting anything. I just want to know more about that story, if you can remember it.”

  I clutched the receiver, waiting. Gary’s words came slowly at first, in little fragments of sentences as he tried to remember.

  “Alan…had gotten…mixed up with…or hung around with—I forget how he put it…a bunch of unsavory characters, and they’d all gotten drunk one night and did something really serious. I got the strong impression from the way he told it that it was tangled up with organized crime, if you can believe that, and that the guy they’d done this thing to, whatever it was, was going to come looking for them to get even. Something like that. Does it make any sense to you?”

  “Not much,” I said, only half-truthfully.

  “Well, as I said, Alan and the truth weren’t exactly close friends. You don’t think it had anything to do with his death, then, do you, Dick?”

  “With a story like that, it’s really hard to say,” I lied. “But the guy had an imagination.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, look, Gary, I’d better let you get back to packing. Be sure to give me a call when you get back, okay?”

  “You can count on it.”

  I held onto the receiver until I heard the dial tone, engaging in a little constructive fantasy, then hung up.

  Okay, back to business. I didn’t know whether to put any stock in that story of Alan’s. From what I knew of the victims, none of them would have qualified for a “Mr. Wonderful” award, but I couldn’t imagine their being involved with one another on any but the most casual of levels.

  And organized crime? Rholfing in a fedora and a pinstriped suit? That was stretching it beyond almost anyone’s belief.

  Still, there was something in it that rang true; and added to Granger’s “traumatic experience,” there might be a skeleton of fact among all that fantasy.

  But I still found it hard to imagine those seven men, from the very little I knew about them, even having enough in common to put them in a situation that would endanger—endanger, hell, take—all of their lives. Damn!

  I waited until about four o’clock to call Mike Sibalitch, assuming he’d be up by then, but there was no answer. I decided to go home and call him from there. Which, being a man of my word, is exactly what I did.

  *

  When Sibalitch didn’t answer my five-o’clock call, I felt a quick stab of panic. Supposing this case was a lot broader than I’d imagined? Supposing our cyanide-carrying friend was moving outside the select circle of Rholfing and his somehow-cohorts? Or perhaps Sibalitch was part of it! Jesus! Anyone was game! Sibalitch, Bell, Gary Miller, Bill Elers…Tim…me!

  Calm down, for crissake!

  I went into the kitchen and poured myself a stiff drink. Then, on a whim that I knew was more than a whim, I dialed Ed Grayley, hoping he wouldn’t think I was coming on too strong. I’d talked to him every day since we’d met, and I’d just seen him the night before. Maybe I should cool it for a couple of days. Maybe.

  Although I tried to ignore it, I was increasingly aware that my thoughts about Ed were beginning to involve more than just my head; my crotch was having some ideas of its own.

  “Hello?”

  Well, I couldn’t hang up now.

  “Hi, Ed. This is Dick. I don’t mean to make a pest of myself, but…”

  His laugh interrupted me.

  “Hey, what pest? I was just sitting here wondering whether I should pester you.”

  “No shit?” I asked, little-boy delighted.

  “No shit. What’s up?”

  I sighed then immediately hoped he hadn’t noticed.

  “Nothing, really. It’s just been another one of those days. To paraphrase Alice, this whole thing’s just getting curiouser and curiouser—and I’m getting frustrateder and frustrateder.”

  “Well, would you like a shoulder to cry on?”

  “Yeah,” I said, catching myself somewhat by surprise. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

  “Okay. It’s your turn to name time and place.”

  I thought for all of a tenth of a second.

  “You want to come here? I’ve got a couple of steaks in the freezer; I can thaw them out pretty fast in the microwave. That, and a salad, if you don’t mind something simple.”

  “Fine with me. What time?”

  “Would ten minutes be too soon? No, just kidding. As soon as you want’s fine.”

  “How about an hour?”

  “Great.” I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. “I’ll see you then.”

  Before I hung up I remembered to give him my address then made a quick scan of the apartment. Not exactly ready for the photographers from House Beautiful, but who cared? Domesticity has never been one of my high points.

  I did put the dirty dishes in the washer and turned it on, wiped off the kitchen counter, and straightened the magazines on the coffee table. That was the extent of my cleaning. Ed didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d mind a little dust, anyway.

  I took the steaks out of the freezer and thawed them in the microwave, scrounged through the refrigerator to see what was available for the salad—finding, in the process, things I hadn’t seen in months—and checked the liquor and mix supplies. As a concession to the importance of the occasion, I did haul out the ice bucket and fill it.

  When the doorbell rang, I didn’t even have to look at my watch.

  “On time?” Ed asked as I opened the door.

  “Need you ask?” I said, showing him in.

  “Ummmmm,” he said, looking around. “Nice place.”

  “‘Lived
-in,’ I think they call it. I’d give you the guided tour, but you can see just about everything from where you’re standing. Kitchen there, hallway there, bedroom and bath down there in the gloom somewhere. It ain’t much, but I call it home.”

  Ed grinned. “Like I said, nice place.”

  “Manhattan, or something else?” I asked. “Gin? Vodka? Rum and Coke? Beer?”

  “Manhattan, I think. I’m a creature of habit.”

  I fixed the drinks, put them on the coffee table, and gestured for Ed to sit while I went to the stereo and fiddled with the FM dial.

  “Any preferences in music?” I asked.

  “At the risk of being kicked out the door, how about some light classical?”

  “Mr. Grayley, suh, you are indeed a man after my own heart,” I said, and meant it. “I’d have put on disco if you’d asked for it, but you probably wouldn’t have heard much of it over the gritting of my teeth.”

  I found the right station, and Tchaikovsky’s Francesca da Rimini filled the room.

  “So,” Ed said as I joined him on the couch, “anything in particular you want to talk about?”

  I took a long swig from my drink.

  “It’s still this damned case I’m on. I just got a little paranoid today, that’s all. Paranoia isn’t exactly an asset in the detective business. But what the hell, I wasn’t really serious about asking you over to cry on your shoulder. Well, not totally, anyway. I don’t want you to have to listen to me rant and rave about my problems.”

  He smiled. “Well, first of all, I sort of asked myself over, if you’ll remember, and secondly, my job is listening to people rant and rave. At least you’re not demanding to know what happened to your luggage, or why your poodle can’t sit on your lap during the flight.”

  It was my turn to smile.

  “Point,” I said. “But because it is your job, I don’t want you to have to spend your off hours doing it. So, why not tell me a little more about you, for a change. We didn’t really have much time to talk last night.”

  He leaned back on the couch, took a deep breath and exhaled it through pursed lips.

  “There’s not all that much to tell, really. We covered the basics the other night, I think. Born in Vancouver, moved to the States when I was two; parents divorced—Dad moved back to Canada, Mom’s in Tampa; one sister ten years younger than I, married and living in Detroit. College, four years in the Navy. Been with Pan World for…let’s see…fourteen years, now. That’s about it.”

  “Any long-term relationships?” I asked then immediately bit my tongue. What the hell business was it of mine?

  “Once,” Ed said. “A long time ago. How about you?”

  “Once, for five years, right after I got out of college,” I said, wishing I’d never brought the subject up. “Nothing you could really consider a meaningful relationship since then. I guess I’ve just never found anybody I could hit it off with both in bed and out. Or maybe I’m just too set in my ways. I try not to lose any sleep over it. Maybe someday…”

  Diarrhea of the mouth, Hardesty!

  Fortunately, the phone saved the day, and I excused myself to answer it.

  “Dick Hardesty,” I said.

  “Mr. Hardesty, my name is Ron Pierce. I’m a friend of Bill Elers. Bill’s out of town until next week on vacation. I found your note when I came over to water his plants and thought I’d call to let you know why you hadn’t heard from him.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Pierce,” I said. “Do you know of any way I can get in touch with him? It’s rather important.”

  “No, I don’t think there’s any way to reach him. He’s backpacking in the Sierras with some friends. Would you like for me to give him your number in case he calls?”

  “Please,” I said. “And thanks for calling. ’Bye.”

  For the remainder of the evening, Ed and I stuck to noncommittal subjects. Dinner was relaxed and enjoyable—I didn’t burn the steaks, for once. We both got a little mellow with the drinks and the music and just relaxing. Before I realized it, it was midnight.

  “Jeez,” I said, noting the time, “I hope you don’t have an early call tomorrow.”

  He shook his head.

  “Nope. As a matter of fact, I’ve got the day off. But maybe I’d better go and let you get to bed.”

  “I’m in no rush,” I said, sorry, now that I knew he had the day off, that I’d even mentioned the time. “How about a little more Strega and coffee?”

  “Not for me, thanks,” he said, stretching. I was afraid he was getting ready to leave, but he made no move to get up. “I’m curious.”

  “About what?” I asked.

  “About something you said earlier.”

  I wracked my brain for clues and came up with none.

  “What was that?”

  “About your never having found anybody you could get along with both in bed and out.”

  “Yeah?” I said, hoping I knew what was going to come next.

  “Well, we seem to hit it off pretty well out of bed. I was wondering if you’d care to explore the other possibility.”

  I got up from the couch and extended my hand to him.

  “Why don’t we step into my private office and discuss it?” Suddenly, I had a chilling thought. “You don’t happen to have any amyl with you, do you?”

  Ed shook his head.

  “I never use the stuff. Sorry.”

  “Believe me, I’m not,” I said.

  Still holding his hand, I led him down the not-so-gloomy hallway.

  Chapter 8

  Don’t ask me where the next week went—I couldn’t tell you. Mike Sibalitch, when I finally reached him, could add nothing to what I already knew. I’d remembered his earlier comment about Gene Harriman and Arnold Klein’s having “gone through a lot together,” which I now saw as a highly probable tie-in to whatever linked the victims, but he was unable to elaborate on it or give me any other pertinent information on Harriman’s past.

  Arnold Klein’s two roommates were lovers, I found out when I eventually reached them by phone. They’d only moved into Klein’s two-bedroom apartment six months before, straight from Kansas City—he’d run an ad in the paper for roommates. They could tell me nothing about him or his past. A phone call to Klein’s parents, whom I tracked down through Tim, produced only sobs from his mother and a blustery interruption and hang-up from his father.

  I made another trip to Bill Elers’s place, leaving another note asking him to call me the minute he got back. I fervently hoped he’d be able to give me some fresh information. Without it, I was pretty well stymied.

  Tim kept me posted almost daily on whatever he could find out about the police investigation, which was apparently at a complete standstill, no new bodies having come to light (thank God!), and Ed Grayley kept me from going totally bananas.

  I was getting just a little concerned about my reaction—or overreaction—to Ed. I’ve always been a closet romantic, but I haven’t suffered the starry-eyed, puppy-love stage since I met my former lover two days after I graduated from college. That had lasted five years, but ever since we broke up, I’ve gone out of my way to avoid getting serious about anyone.

  Now, along comes Ed, and suddenly I’m Little Mr. Wide-Eyes. And, of course, the fact was our sex together was undoubtedly the best—and wildest—I could ever remember. I’d never been with anybody—including Chris, my ex—where each of us seemed to know exactly what the other one wanted or needed at any given moment. Totally exhausting, but fun!

  A large part of it, I recognized, was the frustration I felt with this case; Ed was my escape from the pressure. Thinking about him and being with him took my mind off the fact I was getting nowhere, even though I felt deep in my gut that I was close to the answers, which made me even more frustrated.

  But I didn’t know quite how to handle the feeling that Ed’s reactions seemed to parallel my own very closely. He seemed to enjoy being with me as much as I did being with him, and I wasn’t used to that. I had the fe
eling he was aware of what I was going through, and went out of his way to let me work things out for myself.

  We had both deliberately avoided any discussion of our past relationships since that night at my place. I was curious about his lover and what had happened to break them up, but I sensed it was a very private thing for Ed; and I knew if he wanted to tell me about it, he’d get around to it on his own. As for my relationship with Chris, well…I’d let Ed bring it up if he wanted to.

  I never discussed the case in detail with him, either—why, I’m not sure, other than that I wanted a part of my life that was all mine and apart from my work. That Ed might be a suspect was something I’d never seriously considered and, as I grew to know and like him, was increasingly unthinkable. Still, just out of curiosity, I’d have to ask him about the other six victims.

  *

  I was mentally rehashing the case for the twelve-thousandth time, sitting at my desk in the office, when the phone rang. I took the pencil I’d been pretending was a cigarette out of my mouth and picked up the receiver.

  “Hardesty Investigations.”

  “Is Dick Hardesty in?”

  I didn’t recognize the voice.

  “You’ve got him,” I said.

  “This is Bill Elers. I just got back into town and got your messages. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  Elers! Finally!

  “Actually, Mr. Elers, it’s about Clete Barker. I was very sorry to hear of his death, but I’m working on a case, and my client feels Mr. Barker may have had some very important information. Since you and he were…close…I hoped you might be able to help me.”

  “Well, I…”

  Sensing his hesitation, I tried to head his refusal off at the pass.

  “It would only take a few minutes, Mr. Elers, and it’s really very important. Unfortunately, it’s also a little awkward going into it over the phone. Could we meet and discuss it in person? I’d really appreciate it.”

  There was a pause, then: “Yeah. Sure. Why not? When did you have in mind?”

  Whew!

  “Would right away be convenient? Like I say, it will only take a few minutes.”