The Ninth Man

by Dorien Grey

  At seven o’clock sharp, the phone rang, and I reached over to answer it.

  “Good morning,” the operator said in her professionally cheery voice. “It’s seven o’clock. Today will be clear; temperatures will range in the mid-seventies. Have a very pleasant day.”

  I grunted a “Thanks” and hung up. I was a little startled, when I glanced at Ed, to see his eyes were wide open, staring at me.

  “Jeez, mack, I musta really been smashed last night. I don’t remember anything. Where the hell am I?” he said with a grin.

  I stared at him in mock seriousness.

  “A good line,” I said. “Use it often?”

  “No.” He leaned over to give me a quick kiss then turned on his back and stretched. “But I’ve heard it a couple times.”

  “You, me, and the rest of the world,” I said. “Come on, Sleeping Beauty—you said you’re supposed to be at the airport before ten.”

  “We’ve got time.”

  “Probably.” I punched him on the arm. “But after last night, I’d kind of like to be able to stand up today.”

  He grabbed me in a bear-hug, growled, then pushed me away and rolled out of bed.

  “Yeah. Work, work, work.” He padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower then reappeared briefly in the doorway. “Me first,” he said, indicating the shower with a jerk of his head. “Then you.”

  “Yowsah, boss,” I said as he disappeared again.

  *

  “Any idea how I can get to forty-eight-fifty-one Winchester?” I asked as we finished breakfast in the hotel coffee shop.

  He wiped some toast crumbs from the side of his mouth with his napkin.

  “Yeah. Let’s see…you could take a Lawrence Avenue bus west and get off at Winchester, I think. Or the Ravenswood El to Damon, then take a bus on Damon. It shouldn’t be too hard—just check with the bus driver or the ticket booth on the El if you have any problems. Chicago’s a pretty easy place to get around in, once you know the main streets. I’ve been here so often I feel like a native.” He glanced at his watch. “Uh-oh! I’d better shag ass. I’ll meet you here later this afternoon. Hopefully, I’ll be done by around three.”

  I grabbed the check as he was reaching for it.

  “Go on—I’m going to finish my coffee. See you later.”

  He smiled, waved, and left.

  *

  Forty-eight-fifty-one Winchester was what I was coming to think of as “typical Chicago” in architecture—three stories set on a narrow lot with maybe four feet of space between it and its neighbors on both sides. Dark-red brick, enclosed porches, neat but tiny front lawn. Apparently, a three-flat, with each apartment having its own entire floor. The mail box listed a P. Swietzer, a Weiler/Swanson, and K. Schmidt. No indication as to who occupied which floor.

  On a hunch, I rang the bell on the separate door for the ground-floor flat, thinking as I did so that I might be engaging in an exercise in futility—if Schmidt was deaf, he probably couldn’t hear the bell. But then I saw movement behind a curtain in the bay that had once been the porch; and seconds later the door was opened by a wizened little man in a white shirt, baggy black pants and suspenders. A wire ran from his left ear to a lump in his shirt pocket, and he squinted at me through thick glasses.

  “Ja?” he said, looking me over much as Mrs. Breuner had.

  “Klaus Schmidt?” I asked, suddenly aware that my shoes probably needed polishing.

  “Ja?”

  In deference to his hearing aid, I spoke a bit louder.

  “Mr. Schmidt, my name is Dick Hardesty. I’m a private investigator, and I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes about a building you owned until about three years ago.”

  Schmidt intensified his squint, as though that made him hear better.

  “Ja?”

  I’d better try something to win him over, I thought.

  “Oh, before I begin, Mrs. Breuner sends her very best regards.”

  Schmidt brightened perceptibly.

  “Ach, Anna! How iss my dear Anna?”

  “She’s just fine, Mr. Schmidt, though she does miss you very much.” He beamed—so far, so good. “Would you have a few minutes to talk to me?”

  “Ja! Ja!” he said, stepping back and opening the door wide for me. “A friend of Anna’s! How nice! Do come in, young man. Come. Come.”

  I followed him into the apartment, closing the door behind me. Like Mrs. Breuner’s house, the apartment was neat and cluttered with tangible memories.

  “You sit here,” Schmidt said, stopping in front of an overstuffed chair. Then, he shuffled into the adjoining dining room and dragged in one of the chairs. Positioning it directly in front of me, he sat down.

  “Now you tell me about Anna,” he said, his head bobbing gently in pleasure.

  “Well, I’m afraid I don’t know Mrs. Breuner very well,” I said in one of my classic understatements. “I was mainly hoping you could tell me something about the building you owned at two thousand-twelve Hutchins Avenue. I’d like very much to know something about the people who lived there.”

  Schmidt looked momentarily confused, as if searching his memory. When he found what he was looking for, his face brightened again.

  “Ach, ja! Ja. A beautiful building. Beautiful.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “It had eight apartments, is that correct?”

  He thought then nodded.

  “Eight, ja. So nice a building. Such nice boys liffed there. All uff dem. Vonderful tenants. Vonderful.”

  I felt my stomach beginning to tighten.

  “You remember them all, then?” I asked hopefully.

  Schmidt gave me a rather sad smile.

  “Ja. Sure. But you see, my memory, it iss not as goot as it vas once. I am eighty-two dis year. Vhen de mind hass eighty-two years uff memories, some uff dem get lost now und den.”

  “Well, I’m thinking of people who lived in the building just before you sold it. Perhaps you remember them. Kyle Rholfing, for example?” I searched his face, watching as his thoughts washed over it in almost visible waves.

  “Rholfing…Rholfing…” His lips and jaws moved as though chewing on the name.

  “Blond…” I prompted.

  “Ach, ja!. Rholfing—zo like a girl zometimes, he vas.”

  Good—one down.

  “And Herb Lopez, Rholfing’s roommate?”

  Again, Schmidt thought.

  “Ja, Herbert Lopez. Him, I did not know zo well. He vas a little strange, too, but not like Rholfing. Not like a girl. I think he liked zometimes the schnapps too well.”

  You’re on a roll, Hardesty.

  “And Alan Rogers, a painter?”

  “Ummmmm. Ja, him, I remember. A nice boy. Nice. Very neat—I remember dat. Very neat.”

  “Arthur Granger?”

  “Arthur Granger?” he repeated.

  “Yes, Arthur Granger. He had a beard.”

  Schmidt nodded.

  “Ja, like Mephistopheles, he looked. A good tenant. Alvays paid hiss rent on time. Never late.”

  “Cletus Barker?”

  Schmidt looked at me.

  “Big man? Never says a vord?”

  That fit Elers’s description of him. I nodded.

  “Gene Harriman?” I pressed on.

  Schmidt echoed my nod.

  “Gene Harriman, ja.”

  “Arnold Klein?”

  Removing his glasses, Schmidt tugged at the front of his shirt until he had worked enough of it loose from his pants to use to polish them with it. He held them up to the light, squinting, then, apparently satisfied, put them back on and tucked his shirt back into his pants.

  “Jewish boy,” he said. “A goot Jewish boy. Very nice.”

  I felt very much as though I were in a canoe being carried swiftly toward a waterfall. Every name brought me closer to the precipice.

  “Bobby McDermott,” I said.

  Schmidt nodded and smiled.

  “Such a vone, dat Bobby! Alvays late vi
t hiss rent, but never could I be mad vit him. He made me laugh—alvays vit de joke, dat vone.”

  I could almost hear the roar of the falls.

  “Those were tenants of seven of the apartments, Mr. Schmidt. What I really need your help with is who lived in the eighth apartment.”

  He looked at me blankly.

  “The eighth apartment?” he said. “The eighth apartment.”

  Again, I could see his thinking process reflected on his face, which was going through subtle contortions as he tried to remember.

  “De eighth apartment,” he repeated.

  “Granger, Rholfing, McDermott, Barker, Harriman, Klein, Lopez, Rogers, and…?”

  Schmidt began rocking forward and backward as he strained to remember. He also began to mutter softly in German, staring off into space, squinting as if looking for the answer. I said nothing, but my mind kept repeating Come on, come on!

  Finally, he stopped rocking and slapped both palms on his legs.

  “Nein!” he said, disgusted. “No, it vill not come. Growing old iss a very angry t’ing zometimes. The mind vill not tell you de t’ings it knows. You tell me, I remember, but me remember by myself? Nein. Ach!”

  I’m not eighty-two yet, but I know exactly what he meant. I decided to try another approach.

  “About three years ago, not too long before you sold the building, something happened there,” I began. “Something quite bad. Do you remember anything at all about it?”

  Schmidt looked confused again.

  “I did not liff in de building. I do not know everyt’ing dat went on dere…”

  But even as he said it, his eyes looked troubled, as though he was trying once again to remember.

  “Whatever it was that happened,” I said, “I think it involved a dog—a little dog named Big Kano.”

  A look of shock and realization spread across Schmidt’s weathered face. His eyes began to fill with tears, and he started to rock forward and back again.

  “Ach! Ach! Ja! Ach, ja! Zometimes, de mind—it hides t’ings from you dat you should not remember. Tragic! Zo tragic!”

  My throat was dry, but I managed to speak in spite of it.

  “Could you tell me what happened?” I asked as calmly as I could.

  Schmidt stopped rocking and looked at me, tears still clinging to his lower eyelids.

  “Zo sweet a boy,” he said finally. “Zuch a vonderful boy. Like an angel, he vas.”

  My arms, legs, neck, and shoulders broke out in goose bumps.

  “What happened?”

  “Dead. He kilt himself. Ach! Vhat a vaste! Vhat a vaste! Zuch a boy!”

  It took me a moment to calm down.

  “Did his death have anything to do with the dog?”

  Schmidt nodded, and the act of nodding dislodged a tear that worked its way through the maze of wrinkles on his cheeks.

  “De dog, he runs out into de street. Zuch a little dog, de cars do not zee him. He iss kilt. De boy, how he luffed dat dog! Vhen de dog iss kilt, de boy goes into hiss apartment and he kills himself.” Schmidt shook his head. “Ach! Zuch a vaste! Zuch a vaste!”

  “The boy,” I said. “What was his name?”

  Schmidt waved his hand in front of his face, as though to chase away the memory. Then he shook his head again.

  “I cannot remember. I cannot t’ink.”

  I heard my voice asking these questions, but it was as if I weren’t really there.

  “Do you remember what the boy looked like?” I asked.

  “Ja,” Schmidt said. “How can I forget that face?”

  “Was he tall, with brown hair?”

  Schmidt nodded.

  “And did he…” I was forcing the words out now. “…have ice-blue eyes?”

  He nodded.

  I just sat there, my eyes focused on the old man but not really seeing him. I was thinking about the kid, the shy kid with the ice-blue eyes and no name, and I realized he’d become something of a romantic fantasy for me, someone I’d hoped I would find alive and who wouldn’t have turned out to be the murderer.

  So much for fantasy, I thought briefly, then of Ed and the reality that he represented. I realized that, whatever it was I felt for him, he was worth a dozen fantasies. The kid was dead; Ed was here, and alive, and suddenly I wanted very much for things to work out for the two of us. It—

  “Vould you like maybe some coffee?” Schmidt’s voice wedged its way into my thoughts, and I jerked myself back to reality and the present.

  “If you have some made, that would be fine,” I said, hoping he hadn’t noticed my having wandered away mentally.

  He got up and shuffled into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with two cups of coffee, minus saucers. He handed one to me and sat down again.

  Suddenly, he made a move to get up.

  “You vant cream und sugar?”

  I waved him down.

  “No, black’s fine. Thanks.”

  We drank our coffee and engaged in small talk heavily laden with Schmidt’s reminiscences. His memory was obviously going the same way as his hearing, but he was an interesting, intelligent old man and, under different circumstances, I would have really enjoyed talking with him.

  As it was, my heart wasn’t in it. I had one final question; if his answer was no, it would mean I had reached a dead end in the case. I couldn’t face up to that possibility, so I forced myself to concentrate on the conversation and the coffee.

  But the inevitable, though it can be postponed, can’t be avoided. Schmidt was obviously tiring, and the coffee was long gone. Reluctantly, I knew it was time. I made a show of looking at my watch.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Schmidt,” I said, “but I didn’t realize what time it was. I’ve really got to be going.” I got up, not quite sure what to do with my coffee cup; but Schmidt, rising with effort, reached for it once he was standing, and I gave it to him. I waited while he took the cups into the kitchen and returned.

  “One other thing,” I said as he walked me to the door. “About the young man who died. Did he have a roommate?”

  Schmidt paused in mid-shuffle.

  “Ja!” he said, his eyes widening. “Vhy I did not remember him? A nice man. A very nice man.”

  I suddenly wished I hadn’t drunk the coffee; I could feel the caffeine eating at my stomach lining.

  “Do you by any chance remember his name?” I asked, my fingers crossed.

  We’d reached the door, and Schmidt had his hand on the knob. He again stopped in mid-motion, thinking.

  “Nein. No. I am sorry. I cannot remember.”

  “Do you recall what he looked like?” I asked.

  He thought again, hand still frozen on the doorknob.

  “Tall,” he said. “Very handsome. Dark hair. Very nice man. He und de boy, they vere such goot friends. It is very sad, very sad. Ach! Vhat a pity.”

  Schmidt’s description could fit any one of ten thousand guys I see on the street every day. One final chance, I thought.

  “Would you happen to have any records—any rent ledgers, anything like that—that might have all the tenants’ names?”

  His face brightened.

  “Ja! Of course. In de basement I have dem somevhere. I haff not seen dem in years, but dey are dere. Tomorrow, vhen my niece comes over, I vill ask her to look for dem.”

  “I wouldn’t want to put your niece to any trouble,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t sound too pushy. “Perhaps I could help you find them today, if you’d like.”

  Schmidt shook his head.

  “No, no. Krista, tomorrow she vill look. I do not climb up and down stairs as vell as I used to. Und de basement, it iss a mess. My tenants here, dey are not zo nice as my ot’er tenants. Alvays they are leaffing de basement unlocked. De neighborhood children, dey luff to go down dere und play, und zuch a mess dey make. Dey are only children, but I vould not vant dem to hurt demselves down dere.

  “I tell my tenants, ‘Keep de door locked so de children cannot get in,’ but dey do not re
member.” He opened the door. “Tomorrow afternoon you come back. Ve haff some coffee und talk some more, ja?”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” I said.

  At the sidewalk, I turned to wave goodbye, but Schmidt had already closed the door and disappeared.

  *

  Ed was waiting for me when I got back to the hotel. He seemed almost as nervous as I’d been earlier, so I hastily filled him in on everything that had happened. When I told him about the kid’s being dead, he looked almost as sad as I’d felt when I’d heard about it. Maybe, from all I’d said about him, the kid had become Ed’s fantasy, too.

  “Hey, look,” I said when I’d finished a minute-by-minute account of my visit with Schmidt, “since this case is going to come to a head tomorrow one way or the other, what say we go out on the town tonight and really celebrate? On me, this time.”

  He grinned and reached over to mess up my hair.

  “I’d love to, sport, but…” He heaved a deep sigh. “…that German trade delegation—the one I think I mentioned right after we met—is on its way back home and is stopping over in Chicago. They’re getting in at midnight, and the company thought it would be very nice if, since I’m here and have worked with them before, I could be there to look after them during their layover. That’s about the last thing I want to do, but that’s also what they pay me for, so…”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “We can still have dinner, though, can’t we?

  “That we can,” he said.

  And that we did, at a great steak house just down the block from the hotel. Ed left for the airport at about ten o’clock; and, at his insistence, I set off to make the rounds of some of the local bars.

  “No point in just sitting around the hotel,” he’d said and, while bars aren’t my favorite places, I agreed.

  I’ve found out one thing about gay bars. If you’re in a strange town, and you’re not much of a drinker, and you’re not out cruising, they can be pretty dull places.

  I got back to the hotel just after midnight, not even high. I got undressed, turned on the TV, and climbed into bed. I must have dropped off to sleep like a rock, because the next thing I felt was the movement of the bed as Ed climbed in beside me. When I opened my eyes, the room was dark. I turned over and propped myself up on my elbows.

  “Welcome back,” I said.