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Authors: Max Allan Collins
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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
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
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