The Count of 9 Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Raves for the Work of Erle Stanley GARDNER!

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Raves for the Work of Erle Stanley GARDNER!

  “The best selling author of the century…a master storyteller.”

  —New York Times

  “Gardner is humorous, astute, curious, inventive— who can top him? No one has yet.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Erle Stanley Gardner is probably the most widely read of all…authors…His success…undoubtedly lies in the real-life quality of his characters and their problems…”

  —The Atlantic

  “A remarkable discovery…fans will rejoice at another dose of Gardner’s unexcelled mastery of pace and an unexpected new taste of his duo’s cyanide chemistry.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “One of the best-selling writers of all time, and certainly one of the best-selling mystery authors ever.”

  —Thrilling Detective

  “A treat that no mystery fan will want to miss.”

  —Shelf Awareness

  “Zing, zest and zow are the Gardner hallmark. He will keep you reading at a gallop until The End.”

  —Dorothy B. Hughes,

  Mystery Writers of America Grandmaster

  “You know something, Donald?” she asked in a low voice.

  “What?”

  “You’re nice,” she said. And then suddenly she had her arm around my neck, pulling my head down to the hot circle of her lips. The fingers of her other hand came up and stroked my cheek, then slid around to the back of my neck and tickled the short hairs just above the neckline.

  After a moment she broke away. She opened the bathroom door and walked casually out to the studio, saying, “No go, Sylvia. We couldn’t raise him.”

  She turned to me, cool and languid, and said with a casual manner of dismissal, “Well, I guess there’s no use, Mr. Lam, I’ll let him know that you’ve recovered the blowgun.”

  “And are on the trail of the idol,” Sylvia Hadley said.

  “And are on the trail of the idol,” Phyllis Crockett echoed.

  I hesitated a moment.

  “Well,” Phyllis said brightly, “I guess the recess is over, Sylvia. Let’s get to work.”

  Without a word, Sylvia arose lightly from the chair, untied the cord, tossed the robe over the back of the chair, walked up to the modeling platform and resumed her nude pose with the manner of a professional.

  “Glad I met you, Miss Hadley,” I called. And then couldn’t resist adding as I put my hand on the knob of the door, “Hope I get to see more of you.”

  She smiled at that one…

  OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS BY ERLE STANLEY GARDNER:

  THE KNIFE SLIPPED

  TOP OF THE HEAP

  TURN ON THE HEAT

  SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:

  JOYLAND by Stephen King

  THE COCKTAIL WAITRESS by James M. Cain

  THE TWENTY-YEAR DEATH by Ariel S. Winter

  THE SECRET LIVES OF MARRIED WOMEN by Elissa Wald

  ODDS ON by Michael Crichton writing as John Lange

  BRAINQUAKE by Samuel Fuller

  EASY DEATH by Daniel Boyd

  THIEVES FALL OUT by Gore Vidal

  SO NUDE, SO DEAD by Ed McBain

  THE GIRL WITH THE DEEP BLUE EYES by Lawrence Block

  PIMP by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr

  SOHO SINS by Richard Vine

  SNATCH by Gregory Mcdonald

  FOREVER AND A DEATH by Donald E. Westlake

  THE LAST STAND by Mickey Spillane

  UNDERSTUDY FOR DEATH by Charles Willeford

  CHARLESGATE CONFIDENTIAL by Scott Von Doviak

  The COUNT

  of 9

  by Erle Stanley Gardner

  WRITING UNDER THE NAME ‘A. A. F A I R ’

  A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK

  (HCC-136)

  First Hard Case Crime edition: October 2018

  Published by

  Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street

  London SE1 0UP

  in collaboration with Winterfall LLC

  Copyright © 1958 by Erle Stanley Gardner

  Cover painting copyright © 2018 by Robert McGinnis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Print edition ISBN 978-1-78565-634-7

  E-book ISBN 978-1-78565-635-4

  Design direction by Max Phillips

  www.maxphillips.net

  Typeset by Swordsmith Productions

  The name “Hard Case Crime” and the Hard Case Crime logo are trademarks of Winterfall LLC. Hard Case Crime books are selected and edited by Charles Ardai.

  Visit us on the web at www.HardCaseCrime.com

  THE COUNT OF 9

  Foreword

  When I try to determine whether my interest in crime comes from writing crime stories, or whether I write crime stories because I am interested in crime, I find I am in the position of trying to find out which came first, the chicken or the egg.

  However, the fact remains that I am deeply interested in all branches of crime, crime detection and punishment.

  It is in this last field that, in my opinion, society is making its greatest mistake—the mistake of maintaining an attitude of utter indifference.

  Whether we like it or not, too many of our prisons are highly efficient factories where weak men become bitter, bitter men become vicious and vicious men become killers.

  Some men have their spirit broken so that when they are released they are no good to society or themselves. Some become hardened in the ways of crime. Some are rehabilitated.

  Quite obviously, from the viewpoint of society, it would be wise to increase the percentage who are rehabilitated and decrease the percentage who are embittered enemies of society. Statistics show that around ninety-eight percent of prisoners are eventually released. Only about two percent die in prison.

  What these men do to society after they get out depends very largely on what society has done to them while they have been in.

  All of these things are of enormous importance to the public, yet the general public seems completely unconcerned. If we would pay just a little more attention to the science of penology, if we would listen to our career penologists, if we would try to find out what forces make for rehabilitation and what forces destroy character, we could do a great deal toward cutting down crime.

  My friend, Douglas C. Rigg, warden of th
e Minnesota State Prison at Stillwater, is one of the more forward-looking, modern-thinking present-day penologists. He is deeply concerned over this entire problem of what happens to a man’s character after that man is put in prison.

  When I last saw Rigg, he embodied his feelings in a few pithy sentences. “If getting tough with these men would cure them,” he said, “I’d get tough. If retributive punishment would stop crime, I’d be for it. If I could reform men by punishing them, I’d punish them.

  “The trouble is, the problem isn’t that simple. There are too many complicating factors and there aren’t any easy answers. I know that there are some things which can be done to a man while he is in prison that will tend to rehabilitate him. I know there are some things which can be done that embitter him and build up a hatred of society.

  “These men are human beings. Some of them have certain common characteristics, but they are all separate, individual entities. Each one is a problem which must be carefully studied. I would like to see the public take a much greater interest in the problems of penology because I think that interest would pay big dividends.”

  The August 31, 1957, issue of The Saturday Evening Post contains a thought-provoking article by Warden Rigg entitled, “The Penalty Worse Than Death.”

  Rigg didn’t write that article because he wanted the money. He wrote it as one step in a campaign to call to the attention of the public some of the pressing problems of penology.

  We need more men like Warden Rigg in the business. There is nothing soft about him. He can be firm as a rock, hard as steel. He never permits idealism to obscure his practical sense of values. Nevertheless he is a great humanitarian, a great student of the problems of penology, and I wish we had a lot more like him.

  And so I dedicate this book to my friend,

  DOUGLAS C. RIGG.

  Erle Stanley Gardner

  Chapter One

  As I opened the door and stepped into the reception room, a flash bulb blazed into brilliance and blinded me.

  Big Bertha Cool, who had been facing the camera with a fatuous smile on her face, whirled angrily, glared at me and turned to the photographer.

  “Did that hurt anything?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid it did,” the photographer said apologetically. “The opening of the door put it at just the right angle so my flash bulb was reflected back into the camera.”

  Bertha said, by way of explanation, “It’s only my partner.” Then, as I hesitated, she said, “Don’t worry, Donald. It’s just publicity. I have it all fixed up.”

  She was turning back toward the cameraman when she caught the pose of the filing clerk who was sitting on the corner of the desk with her skirt up over her knees, her toes pointed down so that her crossed legs showed to advantage.

  “Now what the hell are you doing sitting there sticking that nylon out at the camera?” Bertha asked.

  The girl looked helplessly at the photographer.

  “She was following instructions,” the photographer said. “Whose?”

  “Mine.”

  “Well, I’m the one who gives all the instructions here,” Bertha told him. “Any time I want to have a bunch of chippies sitting on the edge of a desk…get your fanny off of that desk. Stand over by the filing case if you want, but don’t sit up there with your legs sticking out.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cool,” the photographer said.

  A man who had been standing over behind the filing case came out and said, “We’re going to need cheesecake, Mrs. Cool. If we don’t have cheesecake, the papers won’t publish it.”

  “Cheesecake in a detective’s office!” Bertha Cool snapped.

  “Cheesecake in a detective agency,” the man repeated stubbornly. “Cheesecake is everywhere. If you don’t have cheese-cake, you don’t get published. There’s no use wasting the film on this if it isn’t going to make the papers, and if it isn’t going to make the papers, Mr. Crockett won’t care to employ your agency.”

  Bertha glowered at him, then said somewhat reluctantly, “This is my partner, Donald Lam—Donald, this is Melvin Otis Olney, who handles public relations for Dean Crockett.”

  Olney came over and shook hands. “We could have a picture with Mr. Lam and the file clerk,” he said. “Lam could be looking for a paper in a hurry, and—”

  “Not Donald,” Bertha said. “If that girl sticks her legs out in front of Donald, he won’t be looking for any paper. He’ll be looking at legs.…Now let’s get that picture.”

  The filing clerk looked at Olney questioningly.

  Olney took the bit in his teeth. “Get back up on the desk,” he said. “Get your skirts up over your knees. Don’t leave a wrinkle in the skirt as though you had just pulled it up. Try to drape it naturally…here, I’ll show you.”

  He walked over and folded the girl’s skirt back, then stood back, surveyed the effect, moved over and draped the skirt down on the side away from the desk.

  Bertha glowered at him, with her angry little eyes snapping cold rage.

  “Is…is it all right?” the girl asked.

  “I suppose it’s all right,” Bertha said. “If he says he has to have it, go ahead. But you don’t need to look up at him with that simpering look while he’s feeling your leg.”

  “He wasn’t feeling my leg,” the girl said angrily.

  “Well, he was getting ready to,” Bertha said. “For the love of Mike, let’s get this shindig over with so we can get to work.”

  The photographer, who had replaced the flash bulb and reversed the plateholder, held up the camera. “All ready?”

  Melvin Otis Olney said to the filing clerk, “Keep your toes pointed down; both of them. It makes your legs look a lot longer and a lot more graceful. Point them way down. Now take a deep breath.…Okay, Lionel, let her go.”

  Bertha Cool twisted her face into a fatuous smile; a sweetly synthetic grin that was as foreign to her as a postage stamp on a dollar bill.

  The flash bulb blazed again.

  “All right,” Bertha said, “now get the hell—”

  “One more,” the photographer said, “just as a measure of insurance.”

  He whipped out another film holder, slammed it into the camera, jerked out the slide, set the shutter, took another flash bulb from his pocket, touched the base of it to the tip of his tongue, inserted it in the socket in front of the reflector, cocked the shutter, held up the camera, and said, “Now smile, please.”

  Bertha took a deep breath. I could almost hear her teeth grit.

  Olney said, “We should have one of the two partners together, and—”

  “Shoot it,” Bertha said angrily through lips that were twisted into that leering smile. “Somebody’s got to work in this joint. Get going.”

  The photographer waited until Bertha’s face returned to just the expression he wanted, his eyes on Bertha’s lips.

  Bertha, conscious of what he wanted, twisted the corners of her mouth up into a tight-lipped smile.

  Once more the flash bulb blazed.

  Bertha whirled to the file clerk. “All right,” she said, “get off that desk and get back to your job.”

  Bertha started toward her office, stopped, evidently felt she owed me an explanation, and grudgingly said, “Dean Crockett the Second is giving a big shindig and has retained us to guard the entrance to see that no gate crashers get in.

  “The last time he gave a party some gate crashers got away with a jade statue worth six thousand bucks. He wants to make certain that it doesn’t happen again. He feels that if we can keep the gate crashers out of the party, the guests who are invited can be trusted.”

  I said, “You’re not to guard the jewelry then, but guard the gates?”

  “That’s right,” Olney said, “the gates—and a little publicity helps, Mr. Lam. Not only helps Mr. Crockett, but helps me in my job. It helps the agency, and advising gate crashers in advance that they won’t be tolerated will be half the battle.”

  “It’ll keep out the amateurs,
” I told him, “but it just might prove a challenge to some of the more expert ones.”

  “Well, Mrs. Cool can handle them,” Olney said. “That’s one reason I wanted her picture for the paper. She looks so decidedly…” He caught himself and said, “Competent.”

  Bertha glowered at him. “You don’t need to pull punches with me,” she said. “I’m a tough bitch and I know it.”

  “We wanted a detective agency that had a woman,” Olney explained, “a thoroughly competent woman. Mr. Crockett felt that the last gate crasher who got away with the carved jade statue was a woman. A man can’t walk up to a woman and say, ‘Pardon me, I think you just dropped a statue down the front of your dress.’ A really determined woman is in a different position.”

  Olney looked at Bertha Cool and smiled.

  “I’d have picked her up by her heels, stood her on her head and shaken the damn thing out,” Bertha said. “They’re not going to get away with anything crude like that when I’m around.”

  I told Olney I thought it was a smart move, nodded to Bertha and went on into my private office.

  Elsie Brand, my secretary, was opening mail.

  “How did it happen you didn’t get in on the picture?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t invited.”

  I looked down at her legs. “You’d have done a lot better job than the filing clerk.”

  She blushed, then laughed and said, “The filing clerk was acting as receptionist and she was very friendly with the photographer and very cooperative. I don’t think my legs would have added a thing.”

  “Two things,” I said.

  She tactfully pushed the mail at me. “There’s one letter that needs to be answered right away, Donald.”

  Chapter Two

  The next afternoon’s paper carried the story.

  It had turned out to be a pretty good picture. The filing clerk’s legs showed to advantage, and Bertha Cool, a hundred and sixty-five pounds of potatoes in a sack, with a bulldog jaw and glittering eyes, was a hard-boiled contrast to the cheesecake. It made a story well calculated to appeal to any wide-awake editor.

  There were headlines: DEAN CROCKETT THE SECOND DECLARES WAR ON GATE CRASHERS.