A Killing in Comics

by Max Allan Collins

  The waiters receded, and I sat.

  The brunette seemed bored, much more interested in her cheesecake than in this rude intruder. She had the kind of cartoonishly beautiful features that look great from the audience but faintly grotesque close up. She wore a sleeveless dark blue satin evening dress and that showed off her chest without being obnoxious about it.

  Under the big lumpy nose, an upper lip curled in what would have to be termed a smile. “You seem tense, Jack.”

  “Kind of.”

  He gestured with a thick-fingered hand, magnanimously; his cuff link was a silver FC. “You want something to drink? Coke or Seven-Up or something? I know you’re off the hard stuff.”

  “No, thanks.”

  He shrugged; the shoulders of the suit were padded, which with his fullback’s frame was redundant. “I don’t mean to be a bad host or nothin’. But you mind me asking if you’re gonna make a habit of busting in on me, uninvited? First the barbershop, now bargin’ in on my private life right out in public and everything.”

  I may have smiled; couldn’t swear to it. “I got to hand it to you, Frank. You do have your nerve.”

  He grinned and his eyebrows hiked. “I have nerve. Kid, you must have ice water in your veins.” He leaned toward me and the eyes in particular were reptilian. “Give me a reason not to open you up and see for myself, why don’t you?”

  I may have laughed; couldn’t swear to it. “You even hired me. Why would you do that? Promise me ten grand, and then send two goons to scare me off.”

  “Two who to what?” His brow furrowed; the confusion looked genuine. Was he that good? “Settle down, Jack. I can see you are upset. Upset people make misjudgments. They get themselves in all kinds of unnecessary spots.”

  I leaned in. My eyes were tight and so was my voice. “You didn’t just send that gorilla Anthony, what do they call him, the Ant . . . and that moke Carlo . . . to work me over?”

  His glare of a frown would have killed every snake on Medusa’s head. “Don’t insult me in front of the doll, kid.”

  The doll was eating cheesecake.

  I showed him my scraped knuckles. “If I hadn’t had the foresight to carry a roll of quarters with me, those two would’ve made marinara out of me, Frank.”

  He gripped my wrist. Hard. Fingers clutching just under the hand with the nasty knuckles.

  I just looked at him.

  And he looked at me. “I swear on my friendship with the major, I never sent those sons of bitches.” He let go of my wrist and shook his head. “The Ant and Carlo, those jackasses ain’t worked for me in years. Not since they boosted those ration books out of that warehouse in ’43, the disloyal unpatriotic bastards. Some things you just don’t do.”

  I sat back. Blinked. “They . . . they don’t work for you. Haven’t worked for you for . . .”

  Again he shook his head, forcefully. “No. I am not handing you a line, Jack. Do I need to hand you a line?”

  “. . . No.”

  “And I’m not.” He shrugged rather grandly. “Somebody else must’ve sent them.”

  “Who?”

  A less grand shrug. “I got no idea.”

  But I did.

  I knew, and it excited me and made me sick at the same time.

  I got to my feet. “I’m sorry, Frank. I’ll apologize later. In detail and abject as hell, I promise.”

  “Kid . . .”

  But I was gone, moving fast in and around waiters and patrons and out of rhythm with Cugat’s conga as the Starlight Roof again blurred past me, even more indistinct.

  I had to take the elevator down to the lobby to grab one of the tower ones, and it was frustrating, going down to go back up again, frustrating as hell. You might ask what my rush was, and I can’t explain. Nothing logical. Some pieces had come together in my mind, and the picture of a killer had been assembled. That picture didn’t necessarily mean anything other than I had identified the party behind Donny Harrison’s death.

  But I had a sick, shuddering feeling that it might mean more.

  When I got to her door, it yawned open.

  I didn’t even bother to call out. Somehow I had the presence of mind to bump it open with my shoulder, wide enough to enter, not disturbing any prints. Funny how part of you can be detached, and another part out of control.

  And I didn’t even move that quickly when I saw her, as somehow I knew I would see her, on that emerald sofa where we’d sat and talked and flirted and kissed and finally argued, last time I saw her.

  She wore the same black dressing gown I’d seen so often, with the same touches of pink here and there, ribbon and flesh, and I’ve wondered if I might have saved her if I’d moved faster, if I hadn’t suddenly been walking slow-motion in sand, if a Waldorf doctor could have rushed there and done something, but from the emptiness in her wide eggshell blue eyes and the paleness of her face and the horrible, unspeakable loll of her tongue from her blue lips and the chilling overall sprawled stillness of her, I knew I’d dropped in on Honey Daily, unannounced, for the last time.

  CHAPTER TEN DO YOU HAVE A LICENSE TO STRIP?

  My first call—made from the darkened bedroom, sitting on the edge of her bed with its blue satin tufted headboard and matching blue satin bedspread—was to the hotel manager, who I filled in quickly and the on-staff doctor would be immediately dispatched. I said I’d take care of notifying the police.

  And, by all rights, my next call should have been to the Homicide Bureau or even to the general police emergency number. But I called Maggie instead. I tried her apartment phone, figuring the odds were good she’d be in—she wasn’t quite out of her reclusive phase, after all—and indeed I got her, on the third ring.

  “Maggie,” I said, “I’m at Honey Daily’s suite.”

  Quickly I described finding the body, and said, “I killed her, didn’t I?”

  She knew what I meant; it was in her voice when she calmly replied, “Nonsense. You keep that kind of talk away from the police. Jack? I want to hear you say it.”

  “I won’t be dumb,” I promised.

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “Maggie, you don’t need to—”

  But she’d hung up.

  I’d believe it when I saw it, Maggie Starr, still not at her fighting weight, setting foot in public. And what the hell good could she do here? If she could even get in. This was a crime scene.

  My odds of finding Chandler in the office on a Saturday night were much worse, but maybe I had just a tiny bit of luck coming, because he was there. A gang fight between a bunch of kids on the lower east side, with switchblades and zip guns, had kept him working overtime. He was on his way out the door when my call caught him.

  “I don’t have to tell you not to touch anything,” Chandler said.

  “Only thing I’ve touched is this phone I’m using. Bedroom phone.”

  “Good. Do me a favor. That hotel doc should be there any second. He may not have dealt with a crime scene before. Give him the rundown.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if you feel he’s trustworthy, leave him to it and step out into the hall and stand guard till I can get some uniforms up there. I’ll get on that right now, and then hit the siren and be there.”

  “Siren’s not necessary. She’s not going anywhere.”

  Neither was I.

  I followed Chandler’s orders. When the doc came—a slight, balding, bespectacled guy under forty, hauling a black bag and wearing a black suit, looking more like an assistant mortician than a physician—I asked if he’d worked a crime scene before. He said no. I said when he’d determined the corpse was a corpse—and I knew this would take no time at all—he needed to make sure he didn’t touch or disturb anything. He said fine.

  He knelt near her—a small enough man that he could do that without moving the coffee table—and spent maybe thirty seconds before standing and giving me that look-cum-head-wag that is the most easily understood diagnosis a doctor can make.

  “We n
eed to get out of here,” I said. “Make room for the cops and the coroner’s people.”

  “They’ll want to talk to me.” He got a card from his inside suitcoat pocket. “I’ll be in my office. It’s on the first floor, next to Cook’s Travel Service.”

  Then he and his black suit and black bag went off down the hall, toward the elevator, and I stood with my back to the wall, next to the ajar door, and waited.

  I can’t tell you how much time passed before the two uniformed men arrived—not long, maybe ten minutes. They’d got the word from Chandler via radio. One of them took over my position by the door in the hall. The other one was checking the apartment out, not touching anything, opening doors with elbows, making sure no other bodies were waiting to be discovered, and no killers were hiding out in closets or under furniture.

  I followed him into the kitchen. I’d already explained who I was, that I’d found the body and called Captain Chandler.

  “He’s going to want to talk to me,” I said.

  This copper was about fifty and had seen everything; this probably wasn’t even his first dead strangled beautiful woman. And his matter-of-fact manner was wholly called for.

  That didn’t mean I had to like him.

  He said, “Yes, the cap’s gonna want to talk to you,” like he was dealing with a child.

  “Do you have any objection to me waiting in the bedroom?”

  He was checking inside the refrigerator, opening it by using the end of his nightstick. I would have paid anything to have somebody jump out at him. But it was the same old mostly empty fridge that she’d made me that terrific breakfast out of.

  He frowned at me like I was a bug buzzing him. “Why don’t you stay out in the hall with Officer Davis?”

  “I made the call from the bedroom. I was a friend of Miss Daily’s, and I’d prefer to be by myself. I need a moment. You mind?”

  He frowned at me, harder. “I think the hall would be better.”

  A cop like that can be a problem. He’s the superior officer of the young uniform; but otherwise he takes orders. His decision-making skills are limited.

  “I’ll be in the bedroom,” I said, and shouldered my way out.

  I did not look at the sprawl on the couch that was Honey. I quickly walked past the Donny-size stain into the darkened bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed by the phone and faced the drawn curtains and tried to let the shadows swallow me up. If you were thinking I angled my way into the bedroom so I could do some inspired detective work, you’d be wrong. I just wanted to be alone.

  Of course I had plenty of company—my thoughts, and my self-recriminations. You’ve been reading this, not living it, so you have probably been ahead of me for some time. But I honestly did not know who had killed Donny—and, now, Honey—until Frank Calabria nudged the facts and circumstances into place.

  Maggie knew. I could tell from her voice. She was ahead of me. And she didn’t even have access to any of what I’d learned today.

  Maybe I sat there and wept a while. I’m not saying I did. But it would have been appropriate behavior, as far as I’m concerned, even for a war vet with a Silver Star.

  Finally I heard Chandler and what must have been a small army of technicians—lab guys, photographer, coroner’s man—troop in. That older uniform must have told Chandler where I was, because after less than a minute with Honey’s remains, he entered the bedroom.

  He stood framed in the doorway, another silhouette in a fedora, the illumination of the living room behind him. “You mind if I turn the lights on?”

  “Not the overhead,” I said. “A lamp, maybe.”

  He came over and switched on the nightstand lamp on the other side of the bed, behind me. To my back, he asked, “What are you doing in here, Jack?”

  Looking at nothing, I said, “Staying out of the way.”

  He came around and stood in front of me, the draped window at his back. He was in a blue suit with a lighter blue tie loose around his neck. He pushed the fedora way back on his head, and loomed over me, a big good-looking blond leading man, the kind of guy who wouldn’t have made mush out of a case like this, like I had.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “Really, I told you everything on the phone.”

  “That was Reader’s Digest. Give me the unabridged.”

  I’d been seen in the hotel—my entrance and exit upstairs at the Starlight Roof could hardly have been more dramatic—so I told him most of it. Said I’d been jumped by some guys who I recognized as Calabria goon squad, and came here to the hotel to confront the big boss, on the off chance he was dining with his mistress, which had proved to be the case.

  “Go on,” he said, his tight voice going well with the narrowed eyes.

  I shrugged. “Not much more to it than that. Calabria said he’d fired that pair years ago, over some ration books they boosted. Seems Frank considers himself a loyal American. All I know is their first names—Anthony and Carlo. You might be able to get more out of Calabria, good citizen that he is.”

  His head moved to one side. “What made you come down and check on Miss Daily?”

  “Who said I was checking on her?”

  “Impression I got.”

  “Didn’t mean to lead you astray, Captain. I was here, at the hotel, so I decided to drop in on her.”

  His hands went to his hips, elbows winged out. “You knew her well enough to do that?”

  “I met her at Donny’s birthday party. If you look that up in your notes, you’ll see it’s the one he dropped dead at.”

  “Yes,” he said dryly, “I recall.”

  “Anyway, we hit it off, Miss Daily and me. I saw her a couple times since.”

  His head straightened back up, and his chin lifted, as if daring me to clip it. “Were you intimate?”

  “Do you mean did I ever sleep with her?”

  “Yeah. I mean did you ever sleep with her.”

  “That’s a little personal, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Very goddamn personal. Did you?”

  “I said we were intimate. That doesn’t have anything to do with anything.”

  His smirk stopped just this side of offensive. “Why don’t you let me decide that one for myself, Jack. You’ve been poking around, haven’t you? The Harrison murder?”

  “I’ve been asking a few questions.” I gestured with an open hand. “You’re aware I’m a licensed private investigator. And I’m looking out for the Starr Syndicate’s interests in the case.”

  The eyes narrowed again. “What interests would those be?”

  “Talent that might or might not be involved in the murder.”

  “Only now it’s murders.”

  “Yes. I know. Check your notes again—I found her.”

  He drew in a big breath and let it out slow. “You know, Jack, you don’t strike me as quite as funny, in this context. Context of a dead woman you were intimate with, I mean.”

  “Do I look like I’m busting out laughing?”

  “You’re not crying.”

  “Would you like me to?”

  He was staring at me; no other word for it. “Who have you spoken to, in the last few days, regarding the Harrison murder?”

  I told him.

  “Have you found anything out that might be pertinent to the investigation?”

  I shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, unless you shared what you’ve learned with me. I’m sure you’re a much better investigator than I’ll ever be. I can’t imagine I’d find out anything that—”

  “Then why are you bothering?”

  “Bothering . . . ?”

  He glared. “Bothering looking into the Harrison murder, if you have so much confidence in me.”

  Another shrug. “I know the comics business. I know the people. That might give me an edge.”

  He took a step forward, which made him really loom. “Do you know that happens to licensed investigators who withhold evidence?”

  “They aren’t licensed anymore?”

  �
��Bingo. But they don’t need to be licensed; not required in jail.”

  I sighed. “Look, don’t you have a crime scene to deal with? You and I could sit down, some time tomorrow maybe, and we could compare what we’ve learned.” I shook my head. “How can I know if I’m withholding anything, if I don’t know what you’ve got?”

  An eyebrow hiked. “You could tell me what you’ve found.”

  “I’ve found a platoon of people with good reasons to want Donny Harrison dead.”

  “Which of them might also have wanted Miss Daily dead?”

  “That,” I said, “is the pertinent question.”

  “Care to make a selection?”

  “. . . I’ll get back to you.”

  His affability was all used up. His expression was a sneer, a frustrated one, but a sneer. “How would you like to be locked up as a material witness?”

  “That one I can answer, Captain. No.” I nodded toward the living room. “What do you think of that stain on the floor?”

  He frowned, glanced that way despite himself, then focused on me and said, “You’re asking the questions, now?”

  “An honest exchange of ideas and information between two professional investigators with a mutual interest in solving a case.”

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Jack.”

  “What about that stain, Captain?”

  His frown deepened with frustration. “What about it? Blood, perspiration, dye from the costume.”

  “Is that what your lab told you?”

  He shook his head. “We didn’t make a lab test. When something is that obvious, why would you?”

  “Give me a second while I memorize that . . . never too late to learn.”

  Chandler started counting on his fingers before he realized he could only use up one. “Harrison had recently injected himself with insulin, which we believe to have been spiked with an organophosphate.”

  “Believing isn’t knowing. Not unless you consider police work a religion and not a science.”

  He glowered. “What’s your point, Jack?”

  “Make a lab test of threads from that area in there. Not too late.”

  “If you know something—”