Free A Killing in Comics by Max Allan Collins

witnesses and what have you. And it’s not like I have pathologists at my fingertips.”
    She put a hand on my shoulder; she rarely touched me, so I knew this was a big deal. “Maybe so, Jack, but you know the key players . . . and you know most of them personally, and can ask questions and get at things and places that the police can’t.”
    “I agree with that, too. I think I see where you’re going.”
    She stood, let out a deep breath, and walked to the rowing machine and climbed in. I followed along.
    As she rowed, she said, “If . . . you . . . can . . . solve . . . this . . . thing . . . fast . . .”
    “That would minimize the publicity damage,” I said. “Even if Harry and/or Moe did do this thing . . . but, come on, Maggie—you can’t really believe there’s a chance either one of those tortured but gentle souls is capable of murder.”
    “There . . . must . . . be . . . one . . . other . . . thing . . . I . . . know . . . that . . . you . . . don’t . . .”
    “Such as?”
    She stopped rowing and reached for her towel. She actually had worked up a sweat and gulped for wind a short while before answering.
    “Such as Moe Shulman is a diabetic, too,” she said. “Why the hell do you think he’s going blind?”

CHAPTER FOUR WILL YOU RESPECT ME IN THE MOURNING?

    Late that same afternoon, I passed through the mosaic-tiled foyer of the Waldorf and up the stairs into the lobby and past its imposing marble columns and formidable bronze lamps. On my way, mingling with the well-dressed mob as though I belonged, I glimpsed in at the elegant blue-and-white Wedgewood Room, from which emanated string-quartet supper music (“Laura,” at the moment) that provided an inoffensively melodic counterpoint to the percussive hum of the bustling hotel.
    What really caught my attention, however, were a couple of overstuffed goons in overstuffed chairs between potted plants with more personality and intelligence than either chair occupant. A pockmarked, putty-faced guy in a green fedora, brown tie with blue amoeba blobs, and double-breasted brown suit—whose jacket was even more oversize than its owner, to disguise the rod under his arm—was reading Variety ; maybe that rumored Damon Runyon musical was casting. This specimen I’d never seen before, but the ferret-faced character beside him, in a white fedora and floral tie and cream-color summer suit whose underarm jacket bulge was undisguised, I knew just enough to wish I didn’t.
    Legs crossed to show off the black socks that clashed with his white shoes, Big Jim—an oddity whose skinny face belied his full-back’s form—was reading The Racing News . I knew him a little—he was Frank Calabria’s number one bagman.
    As I walked by, Big Jim’s beady eyes rose above the edge of the newspaper and met my unbeady ones. I nodded. He nodded.
    Buddies.
    The presence of Big Jim and his putty-faced pal, near and in sight of the bank of elevators, meant their boss was up a tower in his sweetie’s suite. Calabria’s setup with his longtime ex-showgirl mistress had supposedly inspired Donny Harrison’s similar one with Honey Daily.
    Coincidentally, Honey Daily accounted for my presence at the Waldorf—I sure wasn’t here for the apples-and-walnut salad, being an iceberg lettuce kind of guy.
    Not that Miss Daily had summoned me: this was my idea, and I hadn’t warned her with a phone call. My limited experience on murder cases, during my MP days, told me such an investigation was not aided by making appointments with suspects. Dropping by unannounced may be rude, and it may risk finding nobody home; but the benefits for a detective are considerable, starting with gaining a psychological edge on an individual who hasn’t had time to prepare for your interview.
    That said, I didn’t exactly consider Honey Daily a suspect. I didn’t exactly not consider her a suspect, either, but then I also wasn’t planning to interview her . . . exactly.
    I felt we’d hit it off