“Frankly, yes. I have no doubt that Captain Chandler is competent, and . . .” I nodded to the fan-dancing elephant. “. . . cute as these cartoon critters. But I know the comics business, and the people involved, better than he ever will.”
One eyebrow hiked. “And . . . the people involved who you don’t know all that well? Like me, for instance? Them you need to cultivate?”
I raised both palms, chest high, in surrender. “I’m being on the up and up, Honey, like I said. Nobody on earth knew Donny better than you—in fact, I’m convinced you knew things about him, knew sides of him, no one else did.”
She swallowed—not her coffee, just swallowed. “I was very fond of him.”
“And he was fond of you.” I leaned forward again. “But fond enough to remember you in his will? Despite how that might look?”
Her eyes and nostrils flared. I braced for getting coffee splashed in my face, but she drew in several breaths and finally said, “I’m a suspect?”
“Of course you are. Hell, so am I. I was there, wasn’t I, when the murder happened?”
“Happened, Jack? Donny’s murder didn’t, didn’t ‘happen’—somebody did it. And it wasn’t me. I . . . I loved Donny, in a way. I wasn’t in love with him, but he was sweet to me and good to me and I saw, yes, I saw sides of him nobody else ever did.”
Now I sipped coffee, trying to calm the conversation. I needed to set a pace quick enough to get answers that weren’t overly thought out, and slow enough not to rush her into irritation.
I said, “What I’d really like to do is rule you out, and then make an ally of you.”
She actually laughed a little; a bitter edge to it, but a laugh. “You’re Nick, I’m Nora? No thanks.”
“I’m not looking for a partner. I just need you to answer some questions.”
“Haven’t I been?”
“Yes. And I appreciate that. But you didn’t answer my question about Donny’s will.”
She shrugged. The strings were having a go at “Wandering Gypsy Girl.” She said, “I’m not in his will.”
I squinted at her through the cigarette smoke. “But you said your life wouldn’t be interrupted . . . .”
She raised her chin, very dignified. Or trying to be. “Years ago Donny set up a trust fund for me. It’s entirely mine, and generates enough money for the rest of my life to keep me in . . . comfort.”
“Did . . . excuse me, I have to ask . . . did Donny’s death mean you can access the principal?”
She took no apparent offense. “No. When I reach age fifty . . . I’m thirty-three now . . . that automatically comes into effect. I believe Donny did assume he’d be gone by then, and that I should have control over my own life.”
I drew a breath. Let it out. “Another personal question. Do you pay for the Waldorf suite yourself, out of the money the trust fund generates?”
Quickly she shook her head. “That’s taken care of by Americana. I have a contract with Americana as Donny’s executive secretary; it, too, is set up to run until I’m fifty. My ‘salary’ is the cost of the suite, set up for any increases at the hotel to be compensated by Americana.”
“What if Louis Cohn just . . . fires you?”
“If I’m let go, according to that contract, Americana pays me a lump sum of $150,000. I don’t think Louis is likely to exercise that . . . and if he does, well, I’ll move on with all that money.”
“I see. Donny really did look out for you.”
“Yes.” Her tone was mildly defensive. “And you can see that I don’t really improve my situation by having him gone.”
I sat back. My mind spun with possibilities. Finally I said, “I’m going to have to seem impolite again. I’m sorry.”
“Go on.”
“Suppose you were sick of Donny. Suppose you secretly loathed him. Hated having to . . . deal with him and his, excuse me, needs—”
She’d started vigorously shaking her head halfway through that. “No, no, no, that’s ridiculous. I was very fond of him. He was like a big, generous uncle to me.”
The come-sit-on-Uncle’s-lap-sweetie kind.
Again I leaned forward. “Did Chandler ask you about any of this?”
“About . . . Donny’s will, and my . . . situation?”
“That’s right.”
“No. Not at all.”
I sighed. “Well, he’ll get around to it. The fact that you will continue to get Donny’s money, and to live in that suite, without having to put up with him and his—”
“I didn’t look at it that way!”
“Well, Chandler will. Honey, your best course of action is to trust me. To tell me anything you know about Donny that might have . . . no nice way to say it . . . made somebody have wanted to murder him.”
She was breathing hard. “Could we go back upstairs? I don’t want to talk about this here, anymore.”
“Sure.”
Within ten minutes we were again seated on her sofa by that cold fireplace. I had allowed her to fetch herself a martini, which she was not by any means gulping.
Her feet were up on the glass table—she had kicked off her black heels—and her nyloned legs were crossed. She was sipping the martini and staring into nothing particular.
Then she said, “There’s . . . something you should know.”
“Okay.”
She swung those baby blues my way. If she were any lovelier, I’d have thrown myself out her window. “I . . . I know someone who might have wanted Donny dead.”
I knew a dozen or more, but said, “Who?”
She looked away again. “I don’t want you to think badly of me.”
“My opinion of you isn’t half as important as Captain Chandler’s and the state of New York’s.”
“. . . Donny only spent two nights a week with me. It was . . . very regular—Monday and Thursday. Mostly we were here. Sometimes we went out, to a show, to Twenty-one, somewhere. We went to the restaurants and attractions here in the hotel, of course. But it was a . . . limited relationship. And, unless he . . . and sometimes we . . . were traveling, it was Monday, Thursday, like clockwork.”
“Why is that?”
“He had excuses arranged, work-related, for his wife and family. And he was a good husband and father, and spent lots of time with Selma and his son and daughter. He would even cancel a Monday or Thursday with me, if one of his kids had a school event or synagogue function or something.”
What a guy, our Donny.
“Okay,” I said. She was clearly having trouble spitting something out. “Where are you headed, Honey?”
She sipped the martini. Leaned forward to set it down. Leaned back and folded her arms over the black halter-top-like portion of her dress. “I had my own life. Which Donny didn’t know about. But I . . . I had my own life.”
Oh. A Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday life.
“Other men?”
She nodded curtly.
“Anybody . . . in particular?”
She heaved a sigh; a really, really big one. “Yes. I think you know him . . . Rod Krane.”
I restrained myself from blurting, That jerk?
Instead I asked, “Are you . . . still seeing him?”
“No! He’s a jerk.”
Ah. One for my side . . . .
“I mean,” she said, “he can be a charmer, and he’s handsome and has a nice way about him, till . . . till you find out he’s mostly in love with himself.”
“You broke it off with Krane?”
“Yes . . . about . . . about two weeks ago.”
“And Rod didn’t like that?”
“No . . . not at all. He kept calling. Kept threatening to tell Donny about us, if I didn’t take him back.”
If Krane were the corpse, Honey would have a hell of a motive. Unfortunately, the Batwing creator was still breathing . . . .
She was saying, “And I know Rod despised Donny. Had utter contempt for Donny. He kept saying he was really going to . . . what did he say exac
tly? Stick it to him.”
Or to his insulin bottle, maybe?
“Honey, can you think of anybody else who had a particular reason to want Donny gone?”
“Probably my list is about the same as yours, Jack. What about Louie Cohn?”
“What about him?” I shrugged. “I thought the two of them were joined at the hip. Donny and Louie, brothers in business.”
She shook her head, firmly. “I don’t have to tell you they were opposites, in personality and approach. Louie thinks Americana is going to grow and change, in this postwar world.”
“How do you know this?”
“Donny told me. He said Louie was getting big for his britches, getting uppity, with unrealistic dreams about where Americana Comics was heading.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Sure you do. Louie has always thought Donny was an embarrassment—loud, an old-fashioned back slapper, and really past his time, out of step, out of place in this great new sophisticated world of business.”
She had a point. I could see it. Already I was glad I’d talked to her, first.
“Jack, would you turn those lamps off? They’re hurting my eyes.”
“Sure,” I said.
I got up and did that.
When I returned, the only light in the room was coming from the open door to the bedroom.
As I settled in on the sofa, she moved closer to me, so close that I just had to slip my arm around her.
“You think I’m terrible, don’t you?” she said. It was just a question, no little-girl voice, no self-pity.
“No. I think you’re beautiful.”
“I know I’m beautiful. I’m afraid you think I’m terrible, which is something altogether different.”
“I think . . . I think you’ve learned to look after yourself in a tough town.”
She snuggled closer. That Chanel No. 5 scent still clung to her, and my nostrils. “You could say that about a whore, Jack.”
I almost said, Some of my best friends are whores, but luckily my mind vetoed the motion.
“I’m not in the judgment business,” I said. “I’m in the comics game.”
She touched my cheek; her hand was cold and my cheek grew hot. Then she kissed me on the mouth, a long kiss, soft and sweet and, right at the end there, her tongue flicked at mine.
“I’m not drunk,” she said.
“I know you aren’t.”
“But I am lonely and upset.”
I kissed her. Short but sweet . . . .
“If I asked you to keep me company tonight,” she whispered, “would you?”
“Sure. I could . . . camp out on this couch.”
“I mean . . . I don’t want to be alone, tonight. I don’t want to sleep alone. And I don’t want to have to take any more pills . . . . We don’t have to . . . do anything. Just keep me company, Jack. Keep me warm. Just, you know . . . cuddle.”
“No promises,” I said, and kissed her again.
CHAPTER FIVE DON’T WORK YOURSELF INTO A LATHER, MR. STARR!
Plus, she could cook.
Despite the meager contents of her refrigerator, Honey Daily whipped up a light delicious omelet that we shared, with a side of buttered toast and coffee for her and tea for me.
Apparently I’d cuddled her out of mourning, because she was in another gauzy dressing gown but this time white with pink here and there, some of it ribbons, some of it her. Her mood had brightened, as well.
Conversation ran to smiles and giggles, the sort of morning-after shared embarrassment of two people who didn’t know each other all that well and just shared the most intimate of human acts. And I don’t mean an omelet.
But when I helped her clear the table and transport the dishes and silverware to the sink, she turned to again show me how lovely that blonde-framed heart-shaped face could look sans makeup, and to ask, “Do you know Will Hander? I mean, does the Starr Syndicate deal with him at all?”
“Yes,” I said to the first part of her question, “and no,” to the second.
She spoke up a little as she ran water over each dirty dish. “I just ask because it’s a fairly open secret that Will is the co-creator of Batwing.”
“I’ve heard that rumor,” I admitted.
“No rumor,” she said. “More tea?”
“Sure.”
“Shall we take it out into the living room?”
We did, and soon we were seated back on that couch, her cup of coffee and mine of tea on the glass table. The suite’s atmosphere had changed entirely, the geometric drapes drawn to let in mote-sprinkled sunshine and to reveal a dazzling cityscape highlighted by the Empire State. Also highlighted was that gray corpse-size smear on the floor.
Honey said, “Understand I didn’t get this from Rod—if you ask him, you’ll get a very different story. But Donny always said that Will and Rod created Batwing together, only because of sleazy tactics on the part of Rod and his lawyer father, Will got taken.”
“Donny knew this, and didn’t do anything about it?”
“Right. He said it wasn’t his fault that Will was stupid, and Rod was slick. But he said Will had been hounding him about it lately. Making ridiculous demands.”
I nodded. “I don’t remember seeing Will at the birthday party.”
“Because he wasn’t there! Don and Louie rarely invited any of the talent, but Rod Krane and Spiegel and Shulman had contracts coming up, and represented the top properties, so they were an exception.”
“I see.”
She shrugged. “Hander was an unlikely guest in any event, considering how he and Donny had been getting along lately, or I should say hadn’t been getting along.”
I knew Will Hander had been the primary writer on Batwing, both the comic book and the strip, since the very beginning. But it was common practice for artists like Rod to hire freelance writers, and also to hire assistant and ghost artists, and yet still take all the credit—you think Disney draws all those ducks and mice himself?
So having help on Batwing was hardly unusual. If anything, the shared Spiegel and Shulman credit on Wonder Guy was the oddity.
I was just starting to follow up with something when a knock, knock, knock at the door startled both of us.
Checking my watch—8:30—I said, “Little early for visitors, isn’t it?”
But she was already up and moving past me, in a rustle of white taffeta, saying, “I’ll see who it is.”
I was only barely presentable, in my shirtsleeves with no tie and an unshaven mug. My hostess had been good enough to provide a brand-new toothbrush as well as access to her tube of Ipana, so my breath was no danger to the civilized world. And I’d been offered the use of Honey’s shower, but instead had merely splashed some water on my face in the bathroom sink, and figured I’d just head back to my own apartment for the amenities.
But, still, I was in no fit state to receive company, and that wasn’t even factoring in embarrassment for Honey for having this unshaven obvious houseguest . . . or suite guest or . . .
Out in the entryway, I heard her say, “Mr. Morella,” couldn’t make out the rest and then a big guy in a chauffeur’s uniform came striding on in. A broad-shouldered forty-ish character, he had a strong chin and dark handsome features undercut by the small, almost black eyes hugging his roman nose, under careless black slashes of eyebrow.
He planted himself over by one of the Balinese-dancer lamps and took off his cap. The uniform was a light green and went with the general green-and-coral decor, which still didn’t make him seem to belong here.
“Mr. Starr,” he said, with a nod. He had a pleasant baritone but Sinatra had nothing to worry about.
I got to my feet. “Hank Morella—haven’t seen you for ages. Don’t stand on ceremony—it’s still ‘Jack.’”
“I’m here to pick up Mr. Harrison’s things,” he said.
Honey moved past him, and me, muttering, “Couldn’t this have waited?”
At the bedroom door, she said to me, “Jack,
I won’t be long—I just have to gather Donny’s things for his driver.”
“No big deal,” I said with a shrug.
I asked Morella if he wanted some coffee. He said no, just standing there frozen with his chauffeur’s cap fig-leafed in front of him. He wore no gloves but did have the kind of black leather boots that had made the Nazis so darn stylish.
“For Christ’s sake, Hank,” I said, “come over and take a load off.”
He thought about that for a moment, then lumbered over and sat opposite me on one of the emerald chairs, cap in his lap.
“How’s Mrs. Harrison holding up?” I asked.
“Okay, considering.” He was perched on the edge of the comfy chair. “How is Miss Daily doing?”
“Okay, considering. Were you here for the party, Hank?”
He shook his head, but then contradicted himself with, “Yes, but I waited downstairs. In the lobby.” Again he shook his head, only in a different way. “That was one of the . . . awkward ones.”
“Donny dying? Yeah, damned awkward.”
“I . . . I didn’t mean that.” He sighed. “I don’t know if you know it, but I do as much driving for Mrs. Harrison as for Mister. More, really.”
Noise from the bedroom indicated Honey wasn’t bringing a gentle touch to the gathering of Donny’s things.
“I didn’t know that,” I said. “How did the Harrisons split you up?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t drive Mr. Harrison in to work, hardly ever—he took the ferry and caught a cab, unless he knew he was going to have meetings, and then I drove him. Otherwise I stayed around home—Mrs. Harrison don’t drive, you see.”
“Ah. Then why do I have the impression that you’re on the Americana payroll?”
He frowned. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Hank,” I said patiently, “the major was in business with Donny and Louie. And the Starr Syndicate is in business with Americana.”
“Oh. Sure.” He shifted in the chair. “Mostly I work for the family. I do everything from cut the grass to get the dry cleaning. I guess . . . it’ll all be for the family, now.”
“So where do you live then, Hank? Out on Long Island?”
“Yes, I live over their garage. That’s better than it sounds—a real nice apartment. Triple garage.”
A Killing in Comics Page 8