“You really are friends.”
He sipped the hot coffee. “We are. We will be for life. I love him. He frustrates me, but what a gift he shared with his high-school buddy. Did you know, we both were left back a year?”
“I didn’t.”
“Jack, we were the butt of jokes. We were bullied, or were till I took that Charles Atlas course, anyway. I kind of muscled up, to defend the both of us.”
I took a swig of Coke. “He was Ron Benson, mild-mannered radio reporter, and you were Wonder Guy.”
“Don’t kid yourself—we were both Ron Benson. We understand how a young boy feels, what kinds of things kids dream about. Flying. Being strong. Being loved by a pretty girl.”
“You touched a nerve, all right.”
He frowned, shook his head. “I’m afraid that dope Mortimer is going to screw it up. He keeps after us, Harry and me, to make the stories more real—make them scary, put more science fiction in, make the drawing less cartoony.”
“Times change. Styles change. Is that why?”
He lifted one big shoulder. “I don’t know. All I know is, the dream behind
Wonder Guy
—the dream of a lonely kid—is to be powerful and invulnerable, right? But you can’t let the world know how bad you want it. You have to dream this dream with . . . with a light touch. They make it too serious, they screw it up. They lose the dream. Make it some kind of damn nightmare.”
I’d known Moe a long time, or at least I’d met him a long time ago. He had never opened up to me like this. He’d always played a quiet second fiddle to Harry. And unlike Harry, Moe was clearly troubled by the death of Donny Harrison.
Quietly, not wanting any of his staff to hear, I asked, “Did you kill him, Moe?”
He shook his head. “I know I’m on the firing line. Even for all his smiles and excuse-me-for-intruding, Chandler asked questions that . . . that told me I was in trouble.”
“About your diabetes. And the insulin.”
He nodded gravely. Had another sip of coffee, then set cup and saucer on the scarred-up end table nearby. “Sure, I knew about Donny’s diabetes, and the bottles he kept around and about. But putting poison in his insulin, anybody could’ve done that. Me having diabetes, and being familiar with the process of . . . what’s that really mean?”
Again I said, “It’s suggestive. It speaks to cops, and it speaks to juries.”
“I suppose.” The big eyes behind glass held me unblinkingly. “But I didn’t do it. And Harry is the kind of guy who walks around an ant hill, if it’s in his way. He’s sweet. A goddamn little kid. And you know it.”
I sighed. Swigged Coke. Said, “What I know is, there’s no shortage of people who hated Donny Harrison. But maybe you know something, or have an instinct about who might—”
He gripped my arm with surprising strength. “Listen, Jack—I didn’t hate Donny. What gets lost in the shuffle is how likable he could be. How . . . don’t look at me like that . . . how
nice
he could be.”
“Nice. Donny.”
“Yeah. Donny. He and I had diabetes in common, right, everybody’s making a big deal out of that. But he and I talked about it, sometimes. He was facing the same problems as me. He said he was going to pay for an operation on my eyes. Not take it out of my pay or anything, and when we started making noise about
Wonder Boy
and getting the
Wonder Guy
rights back . . . he took me aside and said, ‘No matter how that goes, I gave you my word about that operation, and I stand behind it, pal.’ Pal, he called me.”
Behind the thick lenses, Moe’s eyes had teared up.
If he’d ever been on my suspect list, I crossed him off then. When you’re going blind, you don’t bump off the guy who wanted to help you get your eyesight back.
Otherwise, Moe Shulman would have to do his dreaming like the rest of us—in the dark.
No one could deny the digs of both Harry Spiegel and Moe Shulman were those of successful men. But the
real
house that Wonder Guy built was on the north shore of Long Island, in the village of Kensington—the Tudor manor of Donny Harrison.
The Harrisons’ world was one of tennis courts, golf courses, polo fields and yacht clubs, a heaven on earth for anyone with the right kind of money, even the sons and daughters of Jewish immigrants. Here the Harrison family could belong to a country club and attend cocktail parties and go to the synagogue on Old Mill Road.
I guided the convertible through the Victorian gates into the development, and soon had rolled up in front of the large home, a dozen rooms easy, with the typical Tudor thatched roof, side gables and decorative brown half-timbering on white stucco. Over the three-car garage was a sizeable loft with its own pitched roof—the living quarters chauffeur Hank Morella had mentioned.
And speaking of Morella, right now he was driving across the endless sloping lawn, and I don’t mean in a car: bare-chested, he and his chinos and work boots were guiding a noisy power mower around, one of those new rotor jobs. The big, tanned, muscular lug might have been the model for Wonder Guy, or anyway the dumber looking knockoff, Marvel Man.
The walk was a curvy thing, with impeccably trimmed bushes all along (similar ones hugged the house), and I followed it like Dorothy on the Yellow Brick Road. I was halfway up when Morella spotted me, shut off his noisemaker and strode over, frowning. His dark eyes were close enough together that this made him look even dumber, something I had until then not thought possible.
“What do you want around here, Jack?” he demanded, having to lean across the walk’s knee-high hedge to do so. He had broad shoulders and a muscular chest, pearled with sweat and spattered with little grass bits, but he was breathing awful hard for a guy working a power mower.
“Hello, Hank,” I said pleasantly. “I’m here to see Mrs. Harrison. She’s—”
“Jesus, have a heart,” he blurted, shoving his face in my face. “Don’t you know she’s grieving?”
I backed away. “You interrupted me, Hank. I was about to say she was expecting me.”
“Oh. Really? She didn’t say so.”
“Are you her secretary, as well as chauffeur and yard boy?”
He swallowed, took a step back, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m just . . . worried for her and the kids. It’s awful hard on them, Mr. Harrison’s tragedy.”
By Mr. Harrison’s tragedy, he meant Donny getting himself murdered.
“Haven’t you been having people drop by a lot,” I asked, “to pay their respects?”
I didn’t know how religious Mrs. Harrison was, though the funeral had been Orthodox, and she could have been sitting shiva, which meant for seven days family and friends would drop by with food and comfort. Hell, she might have gone the full boat, with mirrors covered and sitting on the floor, and the men not shaving. You now know as much about Judaism as I do, since the major raised me to be about as Jewish as Bing Crosby.
“There have been a lot of callers,” he said. “I didn’t know you were paying your respects. I thought you were still nosing around about the, uh . . . you know.”
I arched an eyebrow; somebody had to. “You don’t think Mrs. Harrison might want to see her husband’s killer caught, Hank?”
“I didn’t say that! Look, I jumped the gun on you. I apologize. Go on up and knock. Her son and daughter are home—one of them will answer.”
I held up a palm. “No offense taken, none meant. I know you and the family are close. You’re staying on, then?”
“Sure. Of course . . . . Hey, I’m sorry, Jack. I’m on edge myself. If there’s any way I can help with what you’re trying to do, just, you know, say the word.”
Something came immediately to mind.
“Actually there is,” I said. I curled a finger and he came closer, and I damn near whispered. “Do you think Donny was aware that Miss Daily saw other men?”
“No! I don’t think he had any idea.”
“That sounds like you
did
know.”
“Well . . . I heard things.”
“Things like . . . names? I know Rod Krane and Honey were having an affair, until just recently. And I hear some bigwig at Americana was, too.”
He was shaking his head; for the record, nothing rattled. “I can’t imagine that. Mr. Cohn never fools around, and anyway, he and Mrs. Harrison are close friends; he would never betray her.”
“I see.”
“And I can’t imagine Miss Daily wanting anything to do with Sy Mortimer.”
“Me either.” I ran through the names of some other top editors at Americana, and Hank shook his head at every one.
“Sorry, Jack. Wish I could be some help. And, uh . . . sorry about trying to give you the bum’s rush. I was out of line.”
I shrugged. “You’re protective where the Harrisons are concerned. I respect that.” I didn’t really, but he seemed to like hearing it.
He went back to mowing.
The son answered the door—he was a short, slender if round-faced kid of maybe sixteen with more of his mom in his mug than his dad, and he wore a white shirt with a dark blue tie and light blue gabardine pleated slacks. The getup indicated he was the appointed doorman for those paying their respects. He didn’t seem to be growing a mourning beard, but I wasn’t sure he could have if he tried.
He ushered me through past some stairs—I glimpsed a very nicely appointed house in the French Provincial style, and noticed no covered mirrors—through a big white modern kitchen and out onto a brick patio.
Her round, nicely featured face a touch over madeup, Mrs. Harrison—in a loose black dress with white collar and cuffs—sat at a white round metal table on one of several white wire-metal chairs.
She smiled as I approached—the boy had disappeared—and started to get up, but I gestured for her to keep her place.
The handsome if stout woman was drinking lemonade, and a glass pitcher of the liquid and melting ice rested on a tray with half a dozen glasses awaiting drop-by guests like me. She poured a glass for me, and for several minutes—between sips—I paid my condolences, and spoke of how nice the service was, and heard about how a brother of Donny’s had insisted on the Orthodox service, and she hadn’t seen any reason why not.
“The major,” I said, “thought the world of your husband.”
She turned the dark blue eyes on me and, despite their expected filigree of red, they twinkled. “We spoke of the major, the last time I saw you.”
“Yes.” At the party. Right before Donny dove onto the cake knife.
“I sense that you . . .” She gave me a smile that granted forgiveness in advance. “. . . didn’t share the major’s view of Donny.”
“Honestly, I didn’t know him that well.”
She gazed out into the yard, a beautifully manicured expanse of elaborate bushes with trees along either periphery. Not far from where we sat bloomed a flower bed of colorful perennials; a lattice gazebo perched halfway out. Birds, not informed Mrs. Harrison was in mourning, were chirping.
“He was not perfect, my Donny. But no man is. No woman, either. What do you think of Louie Cohn?”
“A cold fish,” I said frankly. “But a hell of a businessman.”
“Louie may think he’s better off without Donny. He may consider Donny and Donny’s style a thing of the past. But he’s wrong. They were a team, a perfect team, and Louie will be half as effective without Donny.”
“I can see that,” I said. “Donny was quick, clever, lot of people liked him. Louie’s the hardheaded, self-controlled partner.”
“Yes. They were a perfect pair. Everybody loved Donny. Nobody loves Louie.”
I guess I could have argued that somebody didn’t love Donny, else he wouldn’t have been murdered. But that might have lacked tact.
“Mrs. Harrison,” I began.
She corrected me: “Selma.”
“Selma. I know this is a very tough time for you. But I’m here for more than just expressing my sympathy.”
She sipped lemonade. Raised one eyebrow, slightly. “Oh?”
“Maggie has me looking into Donny’s death. His . . . I have to say it . . . murder.”
She frowned, not critically, more in confusion. “Surely, that’s a job for . . .”
“Wonder Guy?” I said with a smile. “No, not him, and not just the police. The man in charge, who you may have spoken to, Captain Chandler . . . ?”
“Yes. I spoke to him briefly, once on the phone, once here. He seems perfectly capable.”
“I’m sure he is.” I gestured with an open hand. “But the Starr Syndicate has business concerns at stake, and I know the people and the industry better than any Homicide Bureau cop. Maggie wants to make sure your husband’s killer is brought to justice . . . and also wants to make sure no injustices are done.”
“Injustices . . . such as?”
“Chandler is looking hard at the boys—Spiegel and Shulman. Moe is a diabetic, you know. Did Captain Chandler tell you . . . ?”
She nodded. “He explained that Donny’s insulin was very likely tampered with. His people took bottles from our refrigerator in the kitchen, where you walked through.”
“Yes.” I drank lemonade; unlike the iced tea at the Spiegel apartment, this was just sweet enough. “With your permission, I need to bring up something painful.”
Her smile was a knowing crease of amusement. “More painful than my husband’s murder?”
“Possibly. May I proceed?”
“You may.”
“His infidelity.”
“You mean that Daily woman.”
I wasn’t surprised she knew: after all, she’d sent yard boy Hank over to pick up her hubby’s things. And Honey insisted the other woman was aware.
“I do mean her,” I said. “You’ve known a while?”
“For years.”
“Did you . . . discuss it with Donny?”
“Never.”
“When he announced he was having his birthday party at her suite, surely that must have . . . have . . .”
“Rankled?” An eyebrow went way up, but otherwise her expression remained impassive. “It was an indignity I had to bear. I told you, Donny wasn’t perfect. He was a man. He traveled a lot, and there were many women. But only one wife. And he was a good husband. And a fine father.”