A Long Line of Dead Men

"Most of them. A few can't make it."

"If you were the killer," he said, "and if somebody called a meeting like this, would you go? Or would you say you couldn't make it?"

"Impossible to say."

"I'd go. How could you stay away? You'd want to hear what they were saying, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose so."

"You better get a good night's sleep," he said. "Tomorrow you're going to be in the room with the killer. Do you think you'll be able to sense anything?"

"I doubt it."

"I don't know," he said. "You were a cop a long time. You've got the instincts. That might keep him away."

"My instincts?"

"Knowing that you're going to be there. Unless, you know, he wants to be face-to-face with his adversary. What do you think?"

"I think you've been watching too much TV."

He laughed. "You know what? I think you're right. Where's this going to happen tomorrow? Somebody's office?"

"I really can't say, Jim."

"But it's in Manhattan, right? Sorry, I'm sticking my nose in, and I don't mean to."

"It's in the Village, but I don't want to say any more than that."

"Not important. Speaking of the Village, I was thinking I might go to that midnight meeting on Houston Street. I don't suppose you're up for that tonight, are you?"

"Not tonight."

"No, you got a busy day tomorrow. I don't know if I want a late night myself. One o'clock by the time the meeting lets out, and then I've got to get all the way uptown. And it might rain. It's threatening. You know what? I think I'll stay home."

"I don't blame you."

He laughed. "It's good talking to you, Matt. Believe me, it helps. Before I called you I was thinking, why the hell can't I have one glass of beer? I mean, who would even feel the effects of one glass of beer?"

"Well-"

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm not gonna have it. I don't even want it now. Have a good day tomorrow, huh? And give me a call afterward if you get a chance, will you do that?"

"I'll do that," I said.

I must have been waiting for his call. Once I'd finished talking to him, I put on Call Forwarding and went home. Ray Gruliow had called in my absence. I called him back.

He said, "Three-thirty tomorrow. That work for you?"

"Fine."

"I told the others three o'clock. That'll give us a chance to bring everybody up to speed before you join us."

There would be eight of them, he said, nine if Bill Ludgate could clear his calendar. And it would be strange seeing them again so soon, not quite two months after the last dinner. Strange to see them away from the usual venue, in a private living room instead of a restaurant.

"Incidentally," he said, "I enjoyed our conversation the other night."

"So did I."

"We'll have to do it again sometime," he said. "After this nonsense is all taken care of. Deal?"

"Deal," I said.

I hung up and poured myself a cup of coffee. I went and watched television with Elaine, but I couldn't keep my mind on the program.

Depending on Bill Ludgate's ability to cancel his appointments, we'd have eight or nine members at Gruliow's house, five or six absentees. Would the killer be present or absent? Would curiosity draw him? Would fear keep him away?

Maybe it was his house.

Ridiculous to think it could be Gruliow. Hard-Way Ray as diabolical murderer? God knows he was bright enough to work out the details, and resolute enough to carry it out. And there were people who would say he was ruthless enough, and even crazy enough.

I couldn't see it. But I couldn't see it for any of them, and nobody else had a motive. Forget motive- no one else even knew the club existed.

Could I rule out anyone? Hildebrand, I thought. The one thing the killer wouldn't do was bring in a private detective.

Unless-

Well, it was crazy, but why expect sane behavior from someone who was systematically wiping out his lifelong friends? Maybe bringing in a detective would add a little excitement to the game. Maybe it was getting dull, knocking off somebody every year or so. Maybe it was infuriating the way the rest of them refused to realize what was going on. So maybe Lew Hildebrand had decided to even the odds a little by bringing in a detective. But, because he didn't want to make things too hard for himself, he'd had the good sense to hire a detective who wasn't all that bright…

Get a good night's sleep, Jim Shorter had urged.

Fat chance.

20

They assembled, nine of fourteen of thirty-one, at three o'clock on the last Tuesday in June, a hot and hazy day with the burnt reek of ozone soiling the dense air. No one was anxiously early or fashionably late. The first to arrive were Gerard Billings and Kendall McGarry, who came in separate taxis that discharged their passengers simultaneously. The two men rang Gruliow's bell at five minutes before the hour. They had no sooner taken seats than the bell rang again. When Bob Berk arrived at 3:02, apologizing for being late, he was the ninth man. It was five minutes after three when Ray Gruliow got to his feet to open the meeting.