"You just never struck me as the type," Wheeler said quietly.
Manning felt a little cheap. The private eye type of thing wasn't his
line: he was pushing it only because, win, lose or draw, it would make
damn little difference to him.
* * * * *
The building agent was a small, balding man with a taste for two
hundred dollar suits and a Michigan Boulevard office. He looked guilty
when Manning showed his credentials.
"Anything I can do to help you, Mr. Manning--anything at all--just ask
me." His forehead looked a little shinier than when Manning had first
come in.
"I'd like to ask questions about one Harry Forsythe; he's running the
Forsythe Carburetor Company in your building on North Clark Street."