A Killing in Comics

by Max Allan Collins

  “Actually,” Chandler said, “Miss Daily’s suite might have been the hardest location for somebody to make a switch or doctor a bottle. The kitchen was the staging area for the Waldorf catering crew. So we have plenty of potential witnesses at that site.”

  I drew a deep breath and rolled my eyes. “Well, I wish you good luck and lots of patience. How many interviews does that bode?”

  Chandler shrugged. “Eight Waldorf employees. Not so bad. But we have sixty-two at the party, and twenty-seven at Americana, and five at Harrison’s home.”

  “Lucky you. You say, Harrison’s diabetes was well known by friends and associates?”

  His brow tightened. “I wouldn’t say ‘well known’—you were in his life, to some extent anyway, Jack, and you weren’t aware . . . . Speaking of which, see if your stepmother knew about the condition, would you?”

  “Glad to. But the people in Donny’s daily life were all cognizant of his medical problem?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hell, a Waldorf staffer wouldn’t be.”

  “No, Jack, but someone who was could have hired one of them to do it.”

  “A catered poisoning?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  I smirked. “Yeah, this is New York. Stranger things have probably happened since we sat down here. But where do I come in?”

  He jabbed a forefinger my way. “You were the first to get to the body. You turned him over. Can you think of anything significant you might have noticed?”

  “Yeah,” I said, shifting in my chair, “I noticed the sweaty slob had a big significant knife in his heart. I’m a trained investigator myself, Captain. I wasn’t about to miss that.”

  He grunted a small laugh. “Okay, smart-ass comedy aside . . . was there anything unusual?”

  How was I supposed to avoid smart-ass comedy when this captain of homicide was asking me if there was anything unusual about a fat guy in a Wonder Guy costume with a cake knife in his chest?

  “Well, there were no famous last words.” I turned my hands palms up. “The guy was dead. Knife or poison, he was blue in the face and smiling up at God. Let’s just hope nobody upstairs ever had a look at the Americana ledgers.”

  An eyebrow rose. “Speaking of which . . . among the guests were Harold Spiegel and Morris Shulman.”

  The hairs at the back of my neck did a tingly little dance. “They’re the creators of Americana’s top property. Why shouldn’t they be there?”

  He let out a short expulsion of air that was a sort of laugh. “Jack, I’ve been on this case exactly one morning . . . it’s only been a case exactly one morning . . . and yet I already know that there’s incredible animosity between Spiegel and Shulman and their late, I would guess, unlamented publisher.”

  I gave him a one-shoulder shrug. “Donny made a lot of friends. He was a guy who thought it was appropriate to throw himself a birthday party at his mistress’s place and then invite the wife. Real prince of a guy. Prince as in the name of a dog, as in real son of a bitch.”

  “So you’re saying Mrs. Harrison did it?”

  “I’m not saying anything! I’m saying of the going-on one hundred names on the list of people you need to interview, probably half of them had a reason, if not a full-fledged motive, to push Donny off a high building and see if his Wonder Guy outfit could help him fly.”

  He inhaled. He exhaled. “I’ve already been told by four reliable sources that Harry Spiegel is an excitable, resentful little man.”

  “If you’d created Wonder Guy, and got half of one hundred thirty dollars for your trouble, wouldn’t you be?”

  “So you consider him, and his partner Shulman, credible suspects?”

  “Harry Spiegel is an irritating, sweet little Jewish fourteen-year-old from Des Moines, Iowa, who never grew up. He is about as dangerous as a gumdrop. His partner is a quiet, unassuming, half-blind character who would give a mouse the cheese and toss the trap in the garbage. Get a grip, Captain.”

  His eyes were locked on mine. “You said it yourself—you were a cop, Jack. Trained investigator. Who do you like for the murder?”

  I shoved back in the chair and it screamed a little on the wooden floor. Got to my feet, stuck my hat on my head and said, “Nice meeting you, Captain. We simply must get together again soon to swap old war stories.”

  He rose. “If I need to contact you . . .”

  I got my billfold out of my hip pocket and found him a business card. “The top number is my office, the second one is my apartment. . . . If you want to buy nude photos of my stepmother, give me a ring.”

  He gave me one more smile, but you know what? This one looked forced.

  Around quarter to four, I was back at the Starr Building, where Bryce informed me that Maggie was in the gym and that I was to join her there.

  “Should I change into my gym shorts?”

  Bryce’s white teeth blossomed in the midst of the dark beard. “That’s optional.”

  I laughed and said, “Shut up,” and went through Maggie’s office on into the gym, which was an even larger room, though a wall of mirrors along the left wall, cut by a ballet bar, exaggerated that.

  Much of the floor was covered by tumbling mats, and an impressive array of the latest exercise equipment lined the wall opposite the mirror—a rowing machine, a stationary bicycle, a pulley with weights and (her latest addition) a treadmill—apparently riding on a bike to nowhere wasn’t enough: she had to be able to walk nowhere, just as fast.

  Some of these gizmos weren’t even in the big-time commercial gyms yet: Maggie had charmed herself onto the testing lists of several top manufacturers. That treadmill had been developed in medical research, for instance.

  Beyond the gym was a small sauna and two small dressing rooms with separate showers, one for her and one for me, since she generously made the gym available to her lowly stepson. Proof of this was over in the far right corner, a hanging punching bag that I pretended kept me in shape but in reality just helped vent my frustrations.

  When I entered, Maggie—in black leotards that revealed a curvaceous figure most women would have killed for, rather than turned reclusive over—was on a slant board doing sit-ups.

  I sat on the nearby bike, not pedaling, and waited for her to take a break. I don’t know how many sit-ups she did before I got there, but I counted twenty-seven before she rolled off, grabbed a towel, patted down her face and said to me, “Well?”

  I gave her a full rundown on what Captain Chandler had asked, and what I had answered—not word for word, but my memory is one of the most reliable things about me. She jumped rope through most of it and I was exhausted by the time she and I had finished.

  “Take a break, why don’t you?” I said. “You’re killing me.”

  “Sissy,” she said, and went over to a thermos and poured herself some ice water. “Want a sip?”

  “No. Let’s sit down, though.”

  A bench on the back wall, between the doors to the men’s and women’s dressing rooms, was our only option other than the floor. She sat with her hands on her knees and breathed deeply, but honestly she didn’t seem winded or anything.

  “So how’s the weight?”

  “One thirty-two,” she said. “Miles to go before I sleep.”

  “Well, just the same, you need to come out of hibernation. Donny’s funeral is tomorrow, you know. You should be there.”

  She shook her head and the red curls flicked sweat on me. “You can represent the company.”

  “Like hell.” I took the towel from her and wiped her sweat off me.

  “That’s what vice presidents do, Jack: attend funerals.”

  “Swell. What else do vice presidents do?”

  Her head swiveled and the green eyes fixed on me, unblinkingly; that pale, lightly freckled face of hers was intimidating in its beauty, and she hadn’t a speck of makeup on. She looked young. About twelve.

  But she sounded eternal as she asked, “What do you think a vice president in
your situation should do?”

  I took a deep breath. I looked anywhere but at her. I let the breath out.

  “I’m afraid,” I said, “a vice president in my situation ought to look into this goddamned murder.”

  “Why?” Nothing accusatory or argumentative—just why.

  I shook my head wearily. “Chandler is looking hard at Harry Spiegel and Moe Shulman. If the boys did this, we ought to know about it as soon as possible, before we sign a new contract with them on that new strip. And if they didn’t do this, we ought to help ’em out of this jam.”

  “That’s noble.”

  “You know me, Maggie. Nobility is my middle name.”

  “Your middle name is Thomas. And I suspect ‘Doubting’ is squeezed in after the John . . . But—I agree with you.”

  Now I looked at her, only she was studying the matted floor. “Really,” I said. “What in the hell’s got into you, agreeing with me?”

  “It’s not nobility. The Starr Syndicate is in a spot. Two of our top talents are key murder suspects—if they did it, we have a publicity nightmare, at least a temporary one.”

  I snorted a laugh. “Not that temporary. Months. Well into next year. A trial and, God help us, executions. ‘Wonder Guys Go to the Chair.’ How many papers do you think the strip will be in after that?”

  She sighed. “I could use a smoke.”

  “I thought you quit.”

  “I did. I don’t want one. I could just use one.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t you ever want a drink?”

  “No more often than you want a smoke. Maggie, did you know Donny was diabetic?”

  “Sure.”

  “. . . I hate it when I’m the last to know.”

  The green eyes locked onto me again. “Jack, if the boys didn’t do it, but are arrested, and sit in stir for weeks and maybe months, they’ll look guilty enough for papers all over America to drop the Wonder Guy strip like a bad habit.”

  “Like smoking?”

  “Not to mention, the longer this drags on, with all its connections to us—Americana and their employees and Rod Krane and that goofy guy writing Amazonia, and maybe the mob connections getting dredged up—we’ll be the focus of ridicule and criticism and, well, nothing good.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  She frowned so hard a small crease revealed itself between her eyes. “What do you think of Chandler?”

  “He seems fairly sharp. There’s a lot that the Homicide Bureau and the New York City police department can accomplish that I can’t—including interview all damn-near one hundred pertinent people . . . suspects and witnesses and what have you. And it’s not like I have pathologists at my fingertips.”

  She put a hand on my shoulder; she rarely touched me, so I knew this was a big deal. “Maybe so, Jack, but you know the key players . . . and you know most of them personally, and can ask questions and get at things and places that the police can’t.”

  “I agree with that, too. I think I see where you’re going.”

  She stood, let out a deep breath, and walked to the rowing machine and climbed in. I followed along.

  As she rowed, she said, “If . . . you . . . can . . . solve . . . this . . . thing . . . fast . . .”

  “That would minimize the publicity damage,” I said. “Even if Harry and/or Moe did do this thing . . . but, come on, Maggie—you can’t really believe there’s a chance either one of those tortured but gentle souls is capable of murder.”

  “There . . . must . . . be . . . one . . . other . . . thing . . . I . . . know . . . that . . . you . . . don’t . . .”

  “Such as?”

  She stopped rowing and reached for her towel. She actually had worked up a sweat and gulped for wind a short while before answering.

  “Such as Moe Shulman is a diabetic, too,” she said. “Why the hell do you think he’s going blind?”

  CHAPTER FOUR WILL YOU RESPECT ME IN THE MOURNING?

  Late that same afternoon, I passed through the mosaic-tiled foyer of the Waldorf and up the stairs into the lobby and past its imposing marble columns and formidable bronze lamps. On my way, mingling with the well-dressed mob as though I belonged, I glimpsed in at the elegant blue-and-white Wedgewood Room, from which emanated string-quartet supper music (“Laura,” at the moment) that provided an inoffensively melodic counterpoint to the percussive hum of the bustling hotel.

  What really caught my attention, however, were a couple of overstuffed goons in overstuffed chairs between potted plants with more personality and intelligence than either chair occupant. A pockmarked, putty-faced guy in a green fedora, brown tie with blue amoeba blobs, and double-breasted brown suit—whose jacket was even more oversize than its owner, to disguise the rod under his arm—was reading Variety; maybe that rumored Damon Runyon musical was casting. This specimen I’d never seen before, but the ferret-faced character beside him, in a white fedora and floral tie and cream-color summer suit whose underarm jacket bulge was undisguised, I knew just enough to wish I didn’t.

  Legs crossed to show off the black socks that clashed with his white shoes, Big Jim—an oddity whose skinny face belied his full-back’s form—was reading The Racing News. I knew him a little—he was Frank Calabria’s number one bagman.

  As I walked by, Big Jim’s beady eyes rose above the edge of the newspaper and met my unbeady ones. I nodded. He nodded.

  Buddies.

  The presence of Big Jim and his putty-faced pal, near and in sight of the bank of elevators, meant their boss was up a tower in his sweetie’s suite. Calabria’s setup with his longtime ex-showgirl mistress had supposedly inspired Donny Harrison’s similar one with Honey Daily.

  Coincidentally, Honey Daily accounted for my presence at the Waldorf—I sure wasn’t here for the apples-and-walnut salad, being an iceberg lettuce kind of guy.

  Not that Miss Daily had summoned me: this was my idea, and I hadn’t warned her with a phone call. My limited experience on murder cases, during my MP days, told me such an investigation was not aided by making appointments with suspects. Dropping by unannounced may be rude, and it may risk finding nobody home; but the benefits for a detective are considerable, starting with gaining a psychological edge on an individual who hasn’t had time to prepare for your interview.

  That said, I didn’t exactly consider Honey Daily a suspect. I didn’t exactly not consider her a suspect, either, but then I also wasn’t planning to interview her . . . exactly.

  I felt we’d hit it off interestingly and well at Donny’s birthday party, up to where he dropped dead onto that knife, anyway. And I hoped we could pick up where we left off, now that she was unattached and might need a sympathetic shoulder, said shoulder being attached to the rest of me, should she need any other sympathetic body part.

  Soon I’d gone up the elevator and down the hall and up to the door of her suite, and knocked. The door had a small peephole above its gold numerals, and I must have been approved for entry, because as I raised my knuckles to try again, the door swung inward halfway and she filled the available space with herself, decked out in a black dressing gown, her fetchingly mussed-up blonde hair brushing shoulders whose pinkness could not be disguised by filmy black.

  “I remember you,” she said, martini in hand, smirky smile on full lips.

  Was she just a little drunk? I couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t as though she’d answered my knock in a negligee—the dressing gown was layers of sheer stuff that didn’t obscure her shape but also didn’t put it on display. Still, these were not the usual widow’s weeds; of course, she wasn’t a widow—kept woman’s weeds?

  “I was in the neighborhood,” I said. I nodded down the hall. “Returning a lost puppy to a little old lady who lives down next to the ice machine.”

  “I like you,” she said. “You’re silly.”

  Where had I heard that before? As she bid me enter with a slightly unsteady sweeping gesture, making room for me, I remembered: Tweety Bird to Sylvester the Cat in a cartoon
that did not turn out well for the cat.

  She shut the door behind us and I was moving into the entry way, footsteps echoing on green marble. I wheeled to look at her; she was slumped against the white door in her black dressing gown, red-nailed hand leaning on the gold doorknob, other hand regally if precipitously holding the martini, making a somber pinup. On either side of her was a white slab of something with a Grecian bust on top. The walls were coral with white wood trim, and at my left was a bronze-framed mirror and a white table with fresh flowers on it, also white. At right was another white door, presumably to a closet.

  Her baby blues, bearing a red filigree, found their way to my face. “Are you here to take advantage of me? Or to try and cheer me up?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe it’ll cheer you up if I took advantage of you.”

  She laughed, a little more than that rated, and it echoed in the space, giving the laughter bottom but not disguising the ragged edge of hysteria up top.

  I went over to her and took an elbow and walked her into the living room, almost dragging her over the fluffy white carpet.

  The big high-ceilinged area looked strikingly different than it had during Donny’s party, and not just because sixty-some people were no longer wandering around in it. Hotel elves had come in after the cops left to put the world of the suite right again, some furniture having been added back in, and all of it rearranged. The white baby grand was gone, rolled out with the Negro pianist.

  Down toward the end of the living room, through open French doors at left, extended a large dining room, and where its long table had been covered with a linen cloth and arrayed with hors d’oeuvres at the party was now bare, sleek dark wood adorned only with a centerpiece of white and pink flowers.

  Meanwhile, back in the living room, the two emerald leather chairs that had been here and there at the periphery, and a couch that had lined a wall, were back in what I presumed was their usual arrangement: the pair of chairs side by side and facing the couch across a glass coffee table, next to the marble fireplace and its mirror over the mantel.