Free Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 14 by Chicago Confidential (v5.0)

and Civil Investigations
    Nathan S. Heller
    President
    and in smaller lettering,
     
    Louis K. Sapperstein Senior Operative
     
    I went in and Gladys Fortunato looked up from her work. A busty brown-eyed brunette with a sulky mouth, primly professional in a white blouse and dark-framed glasses, Gladys was sitting behind her starkly modern plywood and aluminum desk with its phone, typewriter, and intercom.
    “Good morning, Mr. Heller.”
    “Morning.” I had my hat off; Gladys had long since taught me respect.
    Behind her was another wood-and-frosted-glass wall. On the walls to either side hung framed vintage Century of Progress posters, under which resided boxy lime-color wall-snugged couches, a low-slung plywood and aluminum coffee table in front of each, well stocked with various True Detective magazines that featured stories about me.
    Gladys and I had never been an item, but after her husband (an operative of mine) had died at Guadalcanal, she and I had finally become friendly. Her smile was genuine as she handed me a pile of mail and magazines.
    “Glad to see you drag in,” she said.
    “I didn’t have any appointments. Nobody knows I’m back in town.”
    “Somebody does. You have an appointment in half an hour with Captain Gilbert.”
    “Hell! Why did you take that?”
    “I didn’t—he did. His secretary asked if you had a ten o’clock appointment, and I said no, and she said to put Captain Gilbert down and that was that.”
    “Damn.”
    “And Mr. Sapperstein wants to talk to you.”
    I sighed. “Send him over.”
    “I can get you some coffee, if that’ll help.”
    “No thanks.”
    I went through another frosted-glass door out into the bullpen—Lou’s office was straight ahead, door closed. The area was fairly open—I don’t like butting desks up against each other—and (while I was no modernist in Charley Fischetti’s league) the office furniture I’d chosen was the latest stuff: plywood, Fiberglas, perforated aluminum, and wire, sleek and efficient. We were in an ancient building, with foam green plaster walls and dark molding, and I wanted to send a contemporary message.
    About half the desks were filled—my ops spent a good share of their time in the field, and of course Drury’s desk was vacant—and I nodded a couple hellos as I headed around to the right, stopped to get a Dixie cup of water from the cooler, then went through the door marked PRIVATE.
    I hung up my hat and coat in the closet. My office was a spacious affair with a comfortable couch, padded leather client chairs, wooden file cabinets, and—positioned against the opposite wall to take advantage of the big double bay windows—the mammoth old scarred desk I’d had since the beginning. I wasn’t going to subject myself to any of that atomic age nonsense.
    My office walls were decorated with framed, mostly signed photos of celebrities, sometimes with me, sometimes not. A few magazine covers were framed as well—a Real Detective that covered my handling of the Sir Harry Oakes “locked room” murder, a Daring Detective showcasing my cracking of the Peacock homicide, a couple others—an egotistical array, but it impressed clients.
    I leaned back in my swivel chair and sipped my water, wondering if Captain Dan “Tubbo” Gilbert—who I’d seen yesterday afternoon, going in for the next appointment with Charley Fischetti—had spotted me, as well.
    Two raps on the door announced Sapperstein, who did not wait for a response, just ambled in, shutting the door behind him, and pulled up a chair. He had his suitcoat off, exposing dark suspenders and the rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt; despite this casualness, his royal blue tie wasn’t loosened.
    My bald, bespectacled partner—who at sixty could still kick the hell out of most men half his age, belying his librarian looks—said, “Did Gladys mention you’d had a number of phone calls already this morning?”
    “She said Tubbo’s secretary called for an