He reassembled it, then pushed it across the table to Wheeler. "It's your baby, Ray. You test it. I've got something else to do."
Wheeler carefully wrapped the gadget in a chamois and stuffed it back in the box. He cornered another doughnut and sloshed it around in the bottom of his cup. "What did you have in mind?"
"I'm curious about Forsythe," Manning said. "I want to know more about him. Who he is, where he comes from, that sort of thing. There might be more to this than just Forsythe, you know. He's just the sales front; I think there's an organization behind him."
"You want to be a hero, Fred?"
Manning smiled crookedly. "I couldn't think of a better time."
"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.