me a quick definition of Silver Age and Golden Age.” He wanted to be prepared for Harden’s questions. He knew they would come.
“Uh, the first really big boom in comics started when DC brought out Superman and Batman.”
“DC? That’s a publisher, like EC?”
“Right. It stood for Detective Comics. That was one of their early books. They started their superheroes with Superman in Action Comics for June ’38 and Batman in Detective for May ’39. The boom lasted all through World War Two—the GI’s really loved comics, see. And the comics from that period are called Golden Age.”
Lindsey nodded.
“Maybe I could have another bite?” Patterson asked. Lindsey grimaced but he bought the kid an English muffin.
Patterson downed half of it with a gob of marmalade, sighed, and said, “After the war the boom fizzled out. Most of the superhero comics died out. For a while there the EC’s were the only bright spot, and then the censors killed them off. Comics were pretty sparse for a decade or more. Then in February ’59 DC brought back the Flash and in November ’61 Marvel started Fantastic Four with the Human Torch in it and there was another big boom.”
Lindsey was trying to keep his eyes from glazing.
“Uh, that s-sixties boom was the Silver Age. Of comics, I mean.”
Lindsey nodded. He ran his finger down Patterson’s list. He almost dropped it. “There’s one here for twenty thousand! What’s this? Science Fiction, third issue, 1933?”
“It’s too bad that’s coverless. Still, it’s inscribed. It’s a unique item. With a cover it would be worth fifty.”
Lindsey picked up a paper napkin and wiped his forehead. “Is that according to the price guide?”
Patterson shook his head. “It isn’t a comic book. It—It’s a mimeographed mag. It was put out by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, the guys who invented Superman. Superman collectabilia is a whole thing of its own, Mr. Lindsey. This has a short story in it with the very first appearance of the Superman character. He wasn’t anything like the final version, but it’s the very first. And this copy is inscribed by both Siegel and Shuster. There are people who would kill for it!”
He seemed to hear his own words as if somebody else were speaking. He turned pale and stopped.
Lindsey got the conversation back on track. “You have copies of these price guides in your store?”
“We stock them. You can have a couple, c-compliments of the house.” He managed a weak smile and a feeble laugh.
Lindsey nodded.
“Or—Or there’s an appraiser we could g-get to verify the prices. He knows my stock anyway, he knows all the stores.”
Darn, the kid was so sincere, so eager to please, Lindsey found himself starting to believe him. He decided to reserve judgment. He asked Patterson who the appraiser was, expecting to hear that he was some Berkeley vagabond who hadn’t had a bath since Gerald Ford was President.
Patterson paused, apparently searching his memory for the bozo’s name. What a character—he could reel off those thirty-five comic books complete with all the details, he could recite facts and dates of fifty years of publishing history, but he couldn’t remember a man’s name.
“Uh, Professor ben Zinowicz,” he said.
“Ben Zinowitz,” Lindsey repeated. “Is that Zinowitz, i-t-z?”
“I-c-z.”
“Okay. Lindsey jotted the name down. “Maybe I’ll pay our Professor Zinowicz a little visit. Where—”
“Uh, ben Zinowicz,” Patterson interrupted.
“Right,” Lindsey said, “Zinowicz.”
“Ben Zinowicz.”
“What the hell is this, an Abbott and Costello routine? That’s what I said, Zinowicz, Professor Ben Zinowicz.”
Patterson rattled off the dates, publishers, and prices of all the Abbott and Costello comic books ever published including the 3D issue for November 1953.
Lindsey held his head and groaned. Lindsey asked if Patterson had Abbott and Costello’s Who’s on First routine in any of those comics, and he said he did, and then, light bulb clicking on above his head, Patterson said, “He’s Professor ben Zinowicz. Ben Zinowicz is his last name, like J. P. McEvoy. Uh, that was the guy who wrote Dixie Dugan. His full name is Nathan ben Zinowicz.”
He gave Lindsey directions to the prof’s office but warned him to phone first.
Lindsey said, “That’s okay, I’ll take a chance on catching him there.”
Patterson said that wasn’t it, ben Zinowicz was kind of picky and he didn’t like drop-ins.
He’d risk it, Lindsey repeated. For a moment he studied the directions to ben Zinowicz’s office. Then he said, “Look, Patterson. If you’re playing straight all you have to do is keep your nose clean. And phone me at once if you get any bright notions about who took the comic books or where they went.”
The kid nodded and blinked, eager to please.
“And,” Lindsey couldn’t help it, he was starting to feel like a tough private eye, “don’t leave town without telling me first.”
What about the police? Patterson wanted to know.
Lindsey said it would be a good idea to tell them too.They left the restaurant. Patterson went back to his shop, his shoulders slumped. Even if he was innocent he had good reason to be morose. Maybe, especially if he was innocent.
* * * *
Lindsey followed Patterson’s directions and found Professor ben Zinowicz’s office without much trouble. It was in a classic neoGrecian building called Wheeler Hall. When Lindsey mentioned ben Zinowicz’s name, the receptionist in the main office acted as if he’d asked for the President—maybe the Pope. She gave him an office number and he walked away, straightening his tie.
Lindsey knocked on ben Zinowicz’s door and heard a crisp voice snap, “Come!” Lindsey thought, I hate people who respond to knocks or door bells or knocks with Come instead of Come in. You tell a dog to come, you tell a person to come in. People who answer knocks with Come have very serious self-esteem problems and try to establish dominance in relationships with those kinds of stunts.
Apparently ben Zinowicz had had his office for a long time, or else the university administration was really eager to keep him happy. The room was furnished with a thick Oriental rug, an antique desk and matching chairs. A beautiful painting hung in an ornate frame between dark-stained bookcases behind his desk. Lindsey did a double take at the oil painting. It was a family portrait of Donald Duck, Daisy Duck, and Huey, Louie, and Dewey.
“Yes?” Professor ben Zinowicz said.
He was sitting behind his desk, looking as if he were posing for a portrait himself. He could have been anywhere from fifty to sixty, with
