LITMIR.BIZ

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here in the lobby, but it must have been good outside when the wind blew.

      “They tore down the old place in,” a faraway look came into the old man’s eyes, “in ’72. That’s right. They tore it down in ’72 and they were going to put up townhouses but that fell through so it just stood here, I mean the lot just stood here, for sixteen years. This building now, it’s all modern-like and they have air-conditioning and fancy elevators, computers every place.”

      Lindsey didn’t know if he was called upon to comment. He said, “It must be a nice place to work.”

      The old man said, “It stinks. Gimme back the old place any day. People knew each other. They stopped and gave you the time of day. You could walk in the street and not get murdered. Gimme back the old times, any day.”

      Lindsey rubbed his lips with the back of one leather gloved hand. “What happened to Paige Publications? Were they here until, when was it, ’72?”

      The old man literally cackled. “Not on your life, Mister, nothing like. Old Paige Publications went belly-up back in the fifties. Early fifties. Oh, they had government men around here then, people coming and going, you’d of thought Joe Staleen personally was running the place. Hell, no, Paige Publications been gone since Ike was President.”

      “Did you know any of the people who worked there?”

      The old man reared back in his chair. “Of course I did. I told you, people had time to give you the time of day back then. They’d stop and talk about the Cubs and the White Sox, the Bears, what was going on in the world, what they was up to in Springfield. Oh, those were the days.”

      “Was there actually a Mr. Paige? Did you know him?”

      “Of course I did. I told you, I just told you. I used to see him every day, Mr. Paige. He ran the company, had a sweet little wife, used to work there too. Had a couple of kids. Hey, it broke the old man’s heart when he lost that company. He kept the building for a few years, just rented out commercial space, but then he lost that, too. I don’t know what happened to him. Where’d he go? Where do they all go, I ask you. He’s gotta be dead by now. Gotta be. Just like that other poor sap was takin’ flying lessons.”

      Lindsey blinked. “I don’t follow.”

      “You wouldn’t want to.” The old man cackled. “Not that kind of flying lessons, nosiree. I mean, flying lessons without no airplane.”

      The old man grinned at Lindsey. “You ain’t tracking, are you, youngster? I mean, that poor fella took a header off the roof. I seen him with my own eyes. Was right around the time those gov’ment fellas come around, right around the time Mr. Paige decided to close up the company. One fella used to hang around here all the time, wrote one of them little books for Paige. Went right off the roof.”

      “You know that? You saw it?”

      “Hell, yes, I seen it. Went across the street for a pack of cigs. I useta sell a lot of them, nobody smokes no more. Back then, ran through a couple cartons a day. But I run out and I wanted a pack for myself. Was a little candy store across LaSalle back then, Greek fella run it. I run across the street to buy a pack of cigs and I turn around and start back and this fella’s on the edge of the roof. I seen him. Mr. Paige was up there, tryin’ to get him to come back in but he wouldn’t come back in. Went off like a high diver. Wasn’t but five stories but that was enough. Kilt hisself.”

      Lindsey asked, “Are you sure about this?”

      “Hundert per cent, Mister. I had to go testify at the inquest. Man, it was just like bein’ on Perry Mason. They decided it was an accident, he was up there sunning himself, got dizzy from the sun and fell over the edge. That was that. That was the end of him.”

      “What was the man’s name?”

      “I hardly knew the fella before he tried to fly, then I found his name. Never forget it, neither. Everybody was saying, Poor Del, poor Del. Like, he wrote things, said his name was Del Marston. But at the inquest they said that wasn’t his name. I won’t forget that, not as long’s I live. His real name, they said, was Isidore Horvitz. Yep, I remember that. Isidore Horvitz. They said he got dizzy in the sun and fell off the roof but I know he jumped.”

      Lindsey rubbed his chin. The old man seemed certain of himself, but Lindsey pressed him. “How can you be certain that he didn’t get dizzy from the sun? It seems possible, doesn’t it?”

      “I told you, young fella, I remember that day as clear as I do yesterday. Clearer, clearer. I remember that day. It was springtime, it was right before Easter, and it was cold and raining. Cold and windy and it was raining cats and dogs. He wasn’t up there for the sun, there wasn’t no sun to be up there for. I remember, young fella, I remember.”

      Lindsey switched to another tack. “Did you know Mr. Paige’s first name? Or his wife’s or children’s?”

      The old man rubbed his eyes. His fingers had the yellowish-brown color of a longtime smoker’s. “I think it was Wilbur, William, something like that. I never knew the wife’s name, and the kids was just babies, they didn’t have no names as far as I was concerned, they was just babies.”

      Lindsey leaned over the counter. “Do you know where the Paiges lived?”

      “I don’t know. I think somewhere on the north side. Maybe out of town. Where the heck. I think they lived up in Evanston or Skokie. Plain people could live there back then. You didn’t have to be a millionaire to live anyplace. I tell you, Mister, I tell you about the modern world.”

      Lindsey waited.

      “The modern world, Mister. It stinks.”

      * * * *

      Lindsey took a light meal, then returned to the Drake. There was an I.S.+ office in Chicago, and a separate SPUDS operation run by Gina Rossellini, but Lindsey set up a base of operations in his hotel room.

      He started with a stack of Chicago-area telephone books. There must be hundreds of Paiges in the greater Chicago area, but the last of the old-time newsboys had mentioned Evanston and Skokie, and that was a logical place to start.

      Paige, Wilbur.

      Or Paige, William.

      Or something like that.

      He’s gotta be dead by now. Gotta be.

      But maybe not.

      And even if Paige, Wilbur, or Paige, William, was dead—maybe there was a Wilbur or William Paige, Jr., living in the old house, or at least in the old neighborhood. In the old town. Living in the old home town.

      And if that didn’t work—if there was no Wilbur Paige or William Paige or if there was and it turned out to be the wrong Wilbur or William Paige—Lindsey had the Paige Publications bibliography. God bless Scotty Anderson, and God bless Lovisi, the publisher, for getting Anderson to do the research.

      If he couldn’t find Paige, he could look for Violet de la Yema or Salvatore Pescara or Del Marston or Walter Roberts or J. B. Harkins or Bob Walters.

      Somebody still had to be alive.

      Lindsey would find the survivor.

      An hour after starting, Lindsey realized that it was mid-afternoon and he hadn’t eaten any lunch. He ordered a sandwich and a pot of coffee from room service and went back to work.

      After another hour he rolled the room service cart back into the hall, yawned and stretched and stood at his window looking out over Lake Michigan. The frozen mist had stopped falling but the sky was still filled with fat clouds. They looked full of moisture, ready to let it go any time the mood overtook them. The lake itself looked cold and black and ugly.

      Lindsey went back to work. He’d already tracked down two William Paiges in Skokie as well as three in Evanston, plus three Wilbur Paiges in Skokie and none in Evanston. Why was that? Had Evanston banned Wilburs?

      Not likely.

      Worse, none of the

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