The Ninth Man by Dorien Grey Read Free Book Online Page B

again?”
    “Why, Bell, Book and Candle!” She sounded genuinely surprised that I had to be told—almost as though I’d asked her in which direction the sun rose.
    I fumbled for the pencil and pad I try to keep by the phone but that I usually wander off with and couldn’t find them. I doubted I could forget anything as campily predictable as “Bell, Book & Candle.” I wouldn’t be particularly surprised to find out there was a Mr. Book and a Mr. Candle there, too. Maybe I was just getting jaded.
    “Well, thank you very much,” I said in what I hoped was a pleasant-enough tone. It doesn’t pay to alienate housekeepers. “Have a good day.”
    I hung up and took a big swig of coffee, which was by now not even lukewarm. I got up, dumped it into the sink, and poured another cup from the pot.
    Neither Cletus Barker nor Bill Elers were listed in the directory. I’d have to find some other way of contacting Bill Elers. Arnold Klein was listed, but there was no answer.
    Finding Bell, Book & Candle’s number was no problem, and the phone was answered on the first ring.
    “Bell, Book and Candle.” The voice was smooth, professional, and controlled—definitely not the kind of voice one would associate with hysterics.
    “May I speak to Martin Bell?”
    “This is he. How may I serve you?”
    “Mr. Bell, my name is Dick Hardesty, and I was hoping you might spare me a couple of minutes to talk about Arthur Granger.”
    “Are you with the police, Mr. Hardesty?” The voice had just a trace less smoothness, but the control showed more.
    “No, sir. I’m a private investigator, and Mr. Granger may have some connection to a case I’m working on.”
    “Arthur? I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Hardesty, but I cannot imagine Arthur having anything to do with anything that might involve a private investigator.” Still more control, heavily laced with suspicion.
    “It would really be easier to talk in person, Mr. Bell,” I said. “Would you have some time today to see me?”
    There was a slight pause, then: “Yes, I suppose. Today should be a light day. You may come by any time.”
    “Thank you,” I said. “I should be there within the hour.”
    “Until then.” And he hung up.
    An hour would give me just about enough time. I finished my coffee, rinsed out the cup, got dressed, and left.
    *
    The housekeeper had referred to it as a gallery, although it sounded more like a head shop for gay warlocks. I was therefore mildly surprised and impressed to find that Bell, Book, & Candle was a rather nice little art gallery just off the stretch of Brookhaven known as “Decorators’ Row.”
    Bell, or whomever owned the place, had made maximum use of a minimum of space without giving the impression of clutter. Heavy on modern paintings, but with a good mixture of sketches, etchings, and small sculpture.
    When I first walked in, noting the neatly lettered “To the Trade” sign on the door indicating the shop did not cater to the common masses but only to decorators, I thought the place was empty. But as I stepped over to admire a small ebony figurine that turned out to be a faun’s head, I heard a pleasant “May I help you?”
    Standing no more than five feet from me—I had no idea where he’d come from—was a tall, slender man with once-red hair, and enormous jowls that gave him the look of a friendly beagle.
    “Mr. Bell?” I asked, hoping my shock at having him suddenly appear from nowhere didn’t show. I extended my hand. “Dick Hardesty.”
    We shook hands, and Bell gave a fleeting little smile, in which both ends of his mouth raised upward and disappeared into his jowls.
    “Shall we go into my office?” he said, gesturing with a palm-up sweep of his hand to a small alcove neatly hidden from the rest of the gallery but with a view of the front door. So, that’s where he’d come from!
    Sitting behind a small but obviously very expensive antique desk, he motioned me to one of three small chairs of the same wood as