A Killing in Comics (15 page)

“Sure. That came out early this year, right? Very successful.”

He was sweating. The air-conditioning in here was fine, but he was beading up like crazy. “Yes . . . but Donny rejected the idea, back in ’42 when Harry first proposed it. Only . . . only I ran across it in the files, and thought it had potential, and, hell, it was Harry and Moe I gave it to, to produce, wasn’t it? Their studio is doing it.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Problem is . . . we published it without a new contract. I figured it was just an extension of
Wonder Guy
. A spin-off, like with
The Fibber McGee and Molly Show
, when they gave the Gildersleeve character his own radio program.”

“Sure. They did the same thing with Beulah the maid.”

He sat so far forward I could smell his breath, which was no treat. “But then Donny and Louis came in and . . . I’m being straight with you, Jack. You keep this to yourself.”

“Sure, Sy.”

“Anyway . . . Donny and Louie tore me a great big gaping new one over this . . . this ‘gaffe,’ they called it. Harry and Moe claim
Wonder Boy
is a new, separate property—and Americana having turned it down, only to publish it without permission, further fuels the fire. They’re gonna use this to club us with, in the new negotiation.”

“And Louis and Donny really let you have it, huh?”

He got a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Donny did. You know how Louis is—cold and quiet, but I got the point; and if I didn’t, Donny hammered it home. He . . . he’d just started speaking to me again, before . . . before he died.”

“Sy, I’m going to ask you a personal question. I understand if you take a pass on answering.”

“What?”

“You were friendly with Harry and Moe back when you were kids—you weren’t from the same part of the country, but you were part of the same loosely organized group of science-fiction fans. You knew each other. Wrote letters, contributed to each other’s amateur publications.”

His eyes tightened as he tried to see where this was going. “Sure. We even met a few times. I went west and they came east.”

“What I want to ask is this, Sy—if the boys were friends of yours, why haven’t you been able to patch this up? Convince Donny and Louie to give their star performers a break, and make Harry and Moe behave themselves and be professionals? Grown-ups?”

Sy had already started shaking his head halfway through that. “Jack, the problem is, the boys came up with a great idea, back in Des Moines a million years ago . . . but they don’t have what it takes to keep
Wonder Guy
going, keep it current and vital.”

“How so? The strip we syndicate seems fine.”

“The strip is good,” he said, nodding. “Of course, I’ll lay odds Harry’s having the writing ghosted, and that artwork is surely not Moe’s—poor bastard is half blind, or haven’t you noticed those Coke bottles he wears?”

I folded my arms. “What do you care who’s doing the work, as long as it’s professional?”

“Harry is doing most of the comic-book writing himself, Jack. And he’s doing it poorly—the same, silly lighthearted stuff he did before and during the war. Kid stuff. Do you know how strong our sales were on military bases?
Wonder Guy
went through the roof at the PXs.”

“Wasn’t
that
the same silly, lighthearted stuff?”

“Right, and a perfect reminder of back home. But the war is over, and the vets who aren’t wounded or shellshocked saw plenty of their buddies get that way.”

“Sy, I’m not following.”

He pointed at me like Uncle Whiskers recruiting. “Follow this, Jack—the GIs learned to read and like comic books. Cheap, portable entertainment they could roll up and stick in a back pocket or in a knapsack, and throw away when they were done. They were eighteen, nineteen years old, these kids. Now they’re in their twenties, heading toward thirty. What this business has to do is hang on to those readers. We can survive this downswing by drawing in the kids and keeping them, but keeping the older readers, too.”

“Sure, like these romance and western and crime comics that are coming out.” I shrugged. “But what does this have to do with Harry Spiegel?”

Sy shook his head and tried a different smile, a sad one, and this one took. “His stuff only works on the kid level, Jack. You know, I worked for a time as an agent—I was the very first science-fiction literary agent, did you know that?”

“Yes.”

He pointed at himself with two thumbs. “And I’m bringing in good talent, top talent, real science-fiction writers who can breathe some life into
Wonder Guy
. The truth is, we just don’t need Harry Spiegel anymore . . . and we sure don’t need a blind cartoonist like Moe Shulman.”

“Donny agreed with you on this approach?”

And
this
smile I really believed, because it was a sneer. “Why do you think he made me managing editor?”

“Oh, I don’t know—your compassion and humanity?”

That stopped him for a second, long enough for his intercom to buzz.

Daisy’s voice said, “
Mr. Cohn will see Mr. Starr now, Mr. Mortimer. In the boardroom.
”

I stood. “Thanks for the time, Sy.”

He looked up at me and for once his expression struck me as earnest. “I loved Donny. We’d had a business argument, but nothing to kill anybody over. You seem to have a low opinion of me, Jack, and, well, that’s your prerogative. But I do want Donny’s murder solved, and if I can help, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks.” At the doorway, I stopped and threw a question at him: “Did you know about Donny’s diabetes, by the way?”

He blinked. “Of course.”

“And that insulin that Captain Chandler collected . . . was it well known here at Americana that that was Donny’s medication?”

“Everybody knew.”

“Do you happen to know whether Donny took his medication here, Thursday afternoon, or at Miss Daily’s suite?”

“I have no idea.”

“Okay. Thanks, Sy. See you at the funeral.”

The boardroom door was just down the hall, toward the end near the fire exit, and across from Louis Cohn’s office. I went in and found Cohn, in a black suit and black tie (ready for the funeral), seated down at the head of the long mahogany table.

The dark-paneled room was largely unadorned, but on the wall behind the chairman’s chair—in an echo of the waiting room and its Wonder Guy portrait—hung a large formal portrait of Donny Harrison, a smiling head-and-shoulders shot in blue business suit and red tie, no hands on hips and flapping cape. But I do believe it was done by the same artist as the waiting-room Wonder Guy (and dozens of lurid pulp covers).

“What brings you around, Jack?” Cohn asked. He had a higher-pitched voice than Sy Mortimer, but the big room and all that wood lent it resonance. He was sitting back in his padded leather chair, hands folded over a small paunch—even a thin guy like Louie, in his midfifties, carried a little extra weight, maybe to balance the thinning of his swept-back, widow’s-peaked black hair.

I shrugged and, fedora in hand, walked down to him. “Paying my respects,” I said, with a nod toward the looming portrait.

“That’s what funerals are for,” Cohn said. He had a neat trick of sneering without making his mustache twitch.

“Mind if I sit?”

“And if I did mind?” His expression was blank, though the dark eyes conveyed a coldness matched by his tone; he had a smooth face, like a baby, or like an adult who’d managed not to feel much of anything in five decades plus.

I sat. Tossed my fedora on the table. “You seem to be bearing up under the strain.”

He was rocking ever so gently. “You never liked Donny, and you never liked me. Even as a boy. But your father was a good man, and he liked us both.”

“Sorry to be a party pooper.”

The dark eyes flashed. “I’ll ask again. Why are you here, Jack? This is a short workday for us, and do I have to tell you a difficult one?”

“Yeah, I can see how you’re working at holding your emotions in, losing your best friend like this.”

He sighed irritably. “Donny was not my best friend. He was a business partner, and a valued one. We made a good team. We were never friendly outside of work, or work-related events.”

To call this guy a cold fish was to insult a dead carp.

“Louie, I’m looking into the murder.”

That seemed to get his attention; his head cocked sideways like the RCA Victor dog, and he made a sound deep in his throat that was damn near a growl.

But what he said was, “That’s idiotic. What are you supposed to be, a detective?”

“Actually, yes. You’re aware I’m licensed in this state?”

Again he sneered and the mustache remained horizontal; maybe it was painted on. “To do your stepmother’s troubleshooting and dirty work, you are. This is a police matter. In fact, Captain Chandler has already been here and spoken to me. He’s seems competent.”

“He is.”

“Then why this ridiculous exercise in futility?”

I imitated his posture, folding my hands over my stomach, which was flat, but what the hell. “If you’re referring to my efforts to clear up Donny’s murder, it was as much Maggie Starr’s idea as mine. I know the people, and I know the comics business. Harry Spiegel and Moe Shulman are prime suspects, and for the good of the Starr Syndicate, and perhaps for Americana Comics, too, we need them cleared.”

His dark eyes had all the expression of the buttons on his coat. “If they’re innocent.”

“And brought to justice, fast, if they’re guilty. Can you imagine how this could play in the papers?”

He grunted. “I’ve already pulled strings for this to be downplayed in the press, and Captain Chandler has agreed to be discreet about his investigation.”

“How long can that last? Comic books are already getting a black eye, Louie—they’re the primary cause of juvenile delinquency in our great country, or haven’t you heard?”

“I’ve heard.”

“This is the kind of bad public relations that could kill a healthy industry, and comic books are looking a little sick around the gills to me. And I don’t just mean the Blue Barracuda.”

He closed his eyes. Then he opened them and almost smiled. Almost. “All right. Let’s say I agree with you. How can I be of help?”

I sat forward. “I have no shortage of suspects, Louie. But can you think of anything in recent days that would lead you to think I should look hard at one party or another?”

The damn sneer again. “I don’t have any intention of playing the game of character assassination with my editorial staff.”

“You need to stick a ‘but’ on the end of that, Louie, and tell me about Sy Mortimer.”

“Tell you what?”

“I just spoke to him, Louie. He admits Donny was furious with him over this
Wonder Boy
catastrophe.”

His hands were still folded over his belly, and his expression grew thoughtful. “Well . . . frankly, Donny asked me to fire Sy last week, but I ignored him. I figured it would blow over.”

I leaned in. “If Sy’s screwup costs you the
Wonder Guy
property, too, I’d think you’d want to fire the SOB yourself.”

His expression looked pained, about a hangnail’s worth. “It was more than just . . . frankly, Donny was irritated with Sy in general.”

“Really? Why?”

“Sy has developed a proprietary interest in
Wonder Guy
. He’s writing material himself, hiring his friends in the science-fiction field, and rewriting everybody’s scripts . . . including Harry Spiegel’s . . . to an insane degree.”

“Sy seems to think he’s improving
Wonder Guy
—thinks Spiegel is out of date.”

His chin came up. “Short of all this maniacal rewriting, I happen to agree with him. I happen to agree with the steps he’s taken to improve the property, and his efforts to minimize Spiegel and Shulman’s out-of-touch approach. But Donny didn’t.”

“Why? Defending the creators? Just a different opinion . . . ?”

“None of that. Sy has begun taking credit for
Wonder Guy
. He’s given interviews to magazines calling himself the driving force behind the feature. ‘The Guy Behind
Wonder Guy
’—that was in
Collier’s
last month. And that kind of thing trod on Donny’s territory.”

“His ego, you mean.”

He actually smiled, though the mustache didn’t notice. “Donny’s ego took up . . . considerable territory.”

I leaned an elbow on the table. “Louie, you say you agree with Sy’s modernizing
Wonder Guy
?”

“I do.”

“What about the creators of
Wonder Guy
? Where does that leave them?”

Now he worked up his best kindly look; you can guess how successful that was. “Jack, you know how fair we’ve been to the boys—hell, generous. But
we’re
the businessmen.”

“And they’re the hired help?”

“Yes. Without publication,
Wonder Guy
would just be a bunch of drawings in a drawer back in Iowa. We pay them well—you and Maggie pay them well. I don’t mean to diminish their role—back in the rag trade, we needed skilled cutters, didn’t we? But cutters didn’t control that business, and writers and artists don’t control this one.”

“I see.”

He frowned and, oddly, the mustache twitched though his mouth wasn’t doing a damn thing. “Do you?
We
spent the money on
Wonder Guy
, Jack.
We
took the risk.
We
made those two—they would be nothing without us, and where is their goddamned loyalty? If
Wonder Guy
had been a flop, who would’ve lost out? Not those ungrateful whelps. No, Donny and me.”

“You and Donny.” I smiled wistfully. “A great team. Still a team, Louie? Same in ’48 as ’38?”

He was pasty to begin with, but I’m sure he paled. “We are . . . were . . . still partners.”

I shrugged. “I was just wondering if Donny had gone out of style, like Spiegel and Shulman. Donny wasn’t like you, Louie—you’re respectable. You give generous contributions to charity—you put a wing on that hospital out on Long Island, didn’t you? You’re not that same callow bookkeeper for girlie magazines, anymore, are you? The one who kept two sets of ledgers—one for you and Donny, one for Uncle Sam?”