Free The Third Figure by Collin Wilcox Page A

hesitated. “You knew that, didn’t you?”
    His mouth twisted into a brief, wounded mockery of a smile. “Yes, Mr. …” He paused, looking at me with a kind of arch elegance.
    “Drake,” I supplied. “Sorry.”
    He nodded gracefully. More and more, his manner was assuming a Noel Coward quality—or at least he was acting out a fair imitation.
    “Thank you.” He sighed, allowing his eyes to wander as he said, “Yes, Mr. Drake. I knew she’d found the body. I didn’t know until I read it in the papers next morning, at school. But at least I knew.”
    “Well, I’m sure your mother was very upset. And, besides, she probably didn’t finish with the police until late at night.”
    “Yes, that’s what she said.” He seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. For a time, I was content to sit merely smoking—studying his too-delicate profile, waiting for him to speak. I was trying to imagine what kind of a life Johnny Hanson must live, attending his boarding school in the exclusive Ojai Valley. At best, his mannerisms must often make him the butt of much teen-age humor.
    At worst, I decided, he might be ensnared in the beginnings of homosexuality. Certainly his features lacked masculine solidity; certainly his loose little hand gestures and elaborate little sighs hinted at sexual ambivalence.
    He was running a finger over the steering wheel, dreamily.
    “He gave me this car,” he said finally. “Just a month before he died. It was for my sixteenth birthday.”
    “Mr. Vennezio, you mean?”
    He nodded.
    “Did you know him very well?”
    He seemed to consider his answer before saying, “Mr. Vennezio used to make it a point to see me whenever I was home. He spent a lot of time pounding me on the back and asking me if there was anything I needed. He always wanted me to call him Dominic. He kept asking me out to the beachhouse, so I could meet the surfing crowd. But I never went, of course.”
    I couldn’t think of a reply. So, instead, I decided to ask, “Do you think your mother has any idea who killed him, Johnny?”
    He shook his head, still tracing the rim of the steering wheel with a reflective forefinger.
    “No, I don’t think Mother knows,” he answered. Then he turned his eyes to mine.
    “But I do,” he said softly.
    “You--” I swallowed. “You do?”
    He nodded, still staring at me with his calm blue eyes.
    “You mean you think you know who killed him?”
    Again he nodded.
    “Well, who—who is it?”
    “The third man in her life,” he answered, coyly enigmatic.
    “The third man? What d’you mean?”
    “Well,” he said, “first there was my father. You’ve heard about my father, haven’t you?” He looked at me with quizzical mockery.
    I nodded.
    “Then, after my father,” he continued, “there were—several men. ‘Friends.’ ‘Business associates.’ They came and they went. Then, there was Mr. Vennezio. Just Mr. Vennezio—until finally my father left. And, for a long time, there was still just Mr. Vennezio. However, recently, there’s been the third man. He was beginning to overlap Mr. Vennezio.”
    “And you think this third man killed him?”
    Dreamily decisive, he said, “Yes, I do. I’m sure of it. When your mother has a long succession of—friends, you develop an instinct for these things. I’m quite sure there was a third man.”
    “But did you ever actually see him?”
    “Not really. Not his face.”
    “Then you don’t know his identity?”
    “No.”
    “And your mother never admitted having another …” I hesitated. “Another lover?”
    “How could she?” he asked. “She never even admitted that Mr. Vennezio was her lover. They were just—” his lip slightly curled. “—just good friends.”
    I thought about it, disappointed. It all seemed a meaningless fantasy. Yet he was willing to give me information. My obvious tactic was to get everything I could from him, then sort out fact from fancy.
    “Do you have any idea where your father is,