“Arson’s always a problem.” I perched on the corner of the desk adjacent to hers. “The company won’t pay the claim until they’re convinced Mr. Seligman didn’t have anything to do with setting the fire.”
She pulled herself up in her seat; her pale blue eyes darted fire at me behind her glasses. “That is an outrageous suggestion. The very idea! Mr. Seligman would no more … Do you have any proof to back this up?”
I shook my head. “I’m not accusing him of setting the fire. I just need to make sure that he didn’t.”
“He didn’t. I can promise you that.”
“Great. That means the inquiry will be short and sweet. How many properties does he own—besides the Indiana Arms, I mean.”
“Mr. Seligman is the sweetest, most honest—look, he’s a Jew, okay, and I’m a Catholic. Do you think that ever bothered him? When my husband left me and I had my two girls to look after, who paid their tuition bills so they could stay on at St. Inanna’s? And the Christmas presents he gave them, not to mention me, if I said it once I said it a hundred times, he’d better not let Fanny see the kinds of presents he gave me, not if he wanted to stay happily married, which he was until she died three years ago. He hasn’t been the same since, lost interest in the business, but if you think he would have burned down a building, you’re the one who’s crazy.”
When she finished she was flushed and panting a little. Only a beast would have persisted.
“Do you collect the rents in here, Mrs….”
“Donnelly,” she snapped. “The building managers do that. Look. You’d better show me some kind of authorization if you’re going to come barging in asking questions.”
I dug my license out of my billfold and handed it to her with one of my cards: V, I, Warshawski, Financial Investigations, She looked them over suspiciously, studying the photo, comparing it to me. For some reason my face had come out a kind of lobster hue in the picture. It always fools people.
“And how do I know you’re with the insurance company?” It was a halfhearted snipe but a valid one.
“You can call the company and ask for Robin Bessinger in the arson division. He’ll vouch for me.” I’d have to get something in writing from them—I’d better walk a copy of my contract for services over tomorrow and pick up a letter of authorization.
Her eye strayed to the phone, but she seemed to decide it was too much trouble to fight me any further. “Okay. Ask what you want, but you’ll never find any proof connecting Mr. Seligman to that fire.”
“What’s your position with the company, Mrs. Donnelly?”
“I’m the office manager.” Her face was braced in fierce lines to deflect any attack on Mr. Seligman.
“And that means you … ?”
“People call in with complaints, I get the building super to check them out, or the property manager, whoever is in charge. I arrange for bids if any work has to get done, that kind of thing. Detectives come in asking questions, I talk to them.”
It was an unexpected flash of humor; I grinned appreciatively. “How many properties are there?”
She ticked them off on her fingers—the one on Ashland, the one on Forty-seventh, and so on, seven altogether, ending with the Indiana Arms. I noted the addresses so I could drive by them, but judging by the locations, none of them was a big money-maker.
No, rents weren’t down any. Yes, they used to have a lot more people in the office, that was when Mr. Seligman was younger—he used to buy and sell properties all the time and he needed more staff to do that. Now it was just her and him, a team like they’d always been, and you wouldn’t find a warmer-hearted person, not if you looked through the suburbs as well as the city.
“Great.” I got up from the edge of the desk and rubbed the sore spot where the metal had cut into my thigh. “By the way, where do you bank—not you personally, Seligman Properties?”
The wary look returned to her face but she answered readily enough—the Edgewater National.
As I was opening the gate something else occurred to me. “Who will take over the business for Mr. Seligman? Does he have any children involved in it?”
She glared at me again. “I wouldn’t dream of prying into such a personal matter. And don’t go bothering him— he’s never really recovered from Fanny’s death.”
I let the gate click behind me. Wouldn’t dream of it, indeed. She probably knew every thought Seligman had had for twenty years, even more so now his wife was dead. As I urged the door over the loose linoleum, I wondered idly about Mrs. Donnelly’s own children, whom the old man had so generously educated.