The Ninth Man by Dorien Grey Page B

lifestyles were really just too different, and it never would have worked out. We got along much better by not living together.
    “He carried my name in his wallet on one of those ‘In case of emergency, call…’ cards. I carried his. And one bright Tuesday morning, I got a call from the police with the request that I come to the morgue.”
    Again, I could see his eyes water, and he turned his head away quickly to wipe at them with a thumb and index finger, as if trying to pinch them off at the source.
    Finally, he took another deep breath and turned to me again, trying to smile and failing.
    “I’d never seen a dead body before—my parents died in a plane crash at sea, and their bodies were never recovered—let alone been to a morgue. Dreadful, dreadful place. I certainly wouldn’t recommend it as a Sunday outing with the wife and kiddies.”
    He gave me a quick, very weak smile.
    “I pride myself on being a man of considerable composure, but I’m afraid I behaved rather badly. From the attitude of the police when they contacted me, I assumed the worst—that he’d been murdered by one of those cretins he was so pathetically attracted to, and I was angry with him for being so stupid. Silly, but I didn’t even consider it being his heart at first. I’m afraid I said some things I shouldn’t have.
    “Then they showed me the body—his face, anyway—and there was not a mark on him. He was very pale, of course, and his lips were a very strange shade of blue. I suppose that’s how all corpses must look. I knew then it had been his heart, but unfortunately, things said cannot be unsaid.
    “There was a very nice young man there who took me into his office after I’d made the identification and gave me some coffee. He was very kind. Then some other men asked me some questions, then thanked me for coming down and told me I could go home. Which I did.”
    “Do you remember exactly what they asked you?”
    “Whether Arthur had been on drugs—I assured them he was not. Then they asked if he might have had any knowledge of poisons or any reason to take his own life, and I told them, as I told you, that was ridiculous.” He paused, momentarily pensive. “And then they asked about those other men. I had no idea why they would even mention them. It was a heart attack, after all.”
    I was relieved to realize he so obviously wanted to believe his heart attack theory that the can of worms I’d nearly opened earlier had been set aside. I didn’t see any reason to contradict him.
    “Did the police say who had found his body?”
    Bell nodded. “The paperboy, apparently. He’d come to collect and found the front door open just a bit and had looked in and seen Arthur—”
    “The front door was open?” I interrupted then cursed myself mentally for having done so. But having jumped in, I figured I might as well finish it. “Was that something he did very often—leave his door ajar?”
    Bell looked both surprised and thoughtful.
    “No. No, it isn’t. Not at all. I mentioned that fact, but the police didn’t seem to think it significant.”
    Sirens were wailing somewhere in the back of my head, but they were too far away to guess what they were trying to tell me.
    “Did you have a chance to go through his things?”
    He nodded.
    “Was anything at all missing?”
    Bell shook his head.
    “No. I took the responsibility of disposing of all his things after the funeral. The furniture and larger articles were sold at auction, the rest sent off to his family in Ohio. I knew everything Arthur had, and it was all there.” Suddenly, his brows came together, and his face took on a blank look. “Except…”
    I’ve never taken pauses well.
    “Except?” I prodded.
    Bell was obviously concentrating, his eyes focused on a spot somewhere in space.
    “Photos. There were some photos missing from his photo album. It was in the living room, which I thought a bit strange, and as I was packing it away, I couldn’t resist