Эд Макбейн - The April Robin Murders

“We’re not trying to pull off anything,” Bingo said coldly.

“Maybe not,” Perroni said. “Only there isn’t any Courtney Budlong.” They stared at him.

“Nobody there ever heard of a Courtney Budlong,” Perroni said. “The only Budlong is Victor Budlong.”

Hendenfelder nodded and said, “He’s a big shot in the Chamber of Commerce,” as though he felt that was very important to the situation.

“There’s some mistake,” Bingo said bewilderedly. “Mr. Budlong — Mr. Courtney Budlong — was going to a big civic dinner last night—”

The two detectives looked at each other. “Far’s I know, there wasn’t any big civic dinner last night,” Perroni said. He scowled at them. “And also, far’s I know, there isn’t any Courtney Budlong, either.”

“But there has to be,” Bingo said. He added, “He had his initials on his cuff links.”

For the first time, there was a smile on Perroni’s face, a faint one, though.

“That does look like Lattimer’s signature,” Hendenfelder said.

“We’re going to straighten this out right now,” Perroni announced. “You guys get dressed. We’re going straight down to Budlong and Dollinger and talk to Mr. Budlong in person. The only Mr. Budlong. And his name isn’t Courtney.”

“But look,” Bingo said. “He wasn’t going to be in his office today. Mr. Budlong wasn’t, I mean.”

“What Budlong?” Detective Hendenfelder said.

“Our Mr. Budlong,” Bingo said. “Mr. Courtney Budlong.”

Hendenfelder said nothing, and said it tactfully. He watched the street and concentrated on his driving.

Bingo was riding into Beverly Hills with Hendenfelder in a dark sedan which, to his great relief, didn’t look in the least like a police car, though he hadn’t seen any signs of either Mrs. Waldo (Myrtie) Hibbing or the great Rex Strober watching from their windows. Handsome was driving the convertible, with Perroni as a passenger. The idea had been Perroni’s.

“He said the office wouldn’t be open because of the holiday,” Bingo said, grasping at a straw.

“What holiday?” Hendenfelder asked, not skeptically, just curiously.

“Consolidation Day,” Bingo said. “Today is Consolidation Day.”

Hendenfelder slowed down, stared at Bingo, pulled over to the curb and stopped. From the glove compartment he took out a little paper-bound book marked Information, and turned to a page headed “California Legal Holidays.”

“I don’t see anything here about Consolidation Day.”

Bingo looked at the page. He looked at it for a long time. Then he said weakly, “There must be some mistake.”

“Sure,” Hendenfelder said soothingly. “People are always making mistakes.” He put the book away and started the car again. “It’ll all get straightened out.” He added, “One way or another.”

A few blocks farther Bingo pointed and said, “That’s where he lives,” grasping at another straw.

Hendenfelder glanced up the curving driveway toward the big and beautiful house. “Sure,” he said. “Andy.”

“No,” Bingo said. “Mr. Budlong. Mr. Courtney Budlong.”

“That’s where Andy lives,” Hendenfelder said. “I mean Andy of Amos and Andy.” He added, “A very nice house, too.”

“But Mr. Courtney Budlong’s car was parked in the driveway,” Bingo said desperately. “A blue Continental. He left it there and we rode in our car so Handsome could learn his way around this part of town. And then when we left him at his office he said he had a few things to tend to there, and that — I think his name was Yoshiaki — would pick him up later—” His voice trailed away into a miserable nothing.

“This’ll get straightened out,” Hendenfelder said again. “Things do.”

Bingo settled back and tried to admire the houses, the lawns, gardens and clipped hedges which had seemed so beautiful yesterday, and thought with longing of upper Broadway and 92nd Street in the dead of a rainy winter.

Suddenly he said, “His cuff links. And his tie pin. Mr. Courtney Budlong’s. They had initials on them. C.B.”

“Could’ve stood for almost anything,” Hendenfelder said. He glanced at Bingo. “But don’t get me wrong. I don’t disbelieve you. I don’t disbelieve anybody. It don’t pay. Especially here in Hollywood.” He braked the car to a stop in front of Budlong and Dollinger, and said, “Perroni got here first, like always.”

The handsome little building with the chromium letters hadn’t changed since yesterday, but to Bingo it seemed to have a slightly sinister look. The interior was handsome too, and under any other circumstances he would have appreciated and admired it, right down to the last ceramic ashtray. But today he only wanted to get everything over with and get out, and fast.

The other Mr. Budlong — Bingo still refused to consider him the only Mr. Budlong — was as impressive as his building, tall and almost military, with heavy horn-rimmed glasses and iron-gray hair. He greeted Bingo as cordially as though there were no “little difficulty,” as he expressed it, in a beautiful, sonorous voice that was accompanied by a firm, warm handshake. A little difficulty, he added, that could be straightened out.

Bingo recognized and admired, with a professional eye, the air of a fellow super-salesman. Somehow he began to feel unaccountably better.

Perroni, it seemed, was on the telephone to headquarters with a description of “Mr. Courtney Budlong.” Meantime, Victor Budlong said, the trustee of the Lattimer estate — or, the representative — Mr. Herbert Reddy, was on his way over.

“Trustee?” Bingo said. He hoped there wasn’t a quaver in his voice.

“Naturally,” Victor Budlong said. “When Mr. Lattimer disappeared, and was believed to be dead—” Mr. Victor Budlong cleared his throat delicately and added, “Murdered, in fact, although neither legally dead nor legally murdered, and later when his wife disappeared, the court appointed a trustee for the estate. A trust company, of course. Their representative in charge of the Lattimer estate, Mr. Reddy, will be along shortly.”

He beamed at Bingo and Handsome as though suggesting that he would like to be on their side. Bingo suddenly found himself hoping, with a kind of desperation, that Victor Budlong would be on their side and in full force. It began to look as though they would need him.

“It’s just a little mix-up,” Bingo said, with what he hoped was an air of serene confidence, “and as you say, Mr. Budlong, it can be cleared up very quickly.” He thought it wise to add, “We like the house very much.”

Victor Budlong went right on beaming. He said, “I’m not familiar with the property myself, but—”

“Charming,” Bingo said, instinctively quoting Mr. Courtney Budlong. “Wonderful neighborhood, too. And it used to be the April Robin mansion.” He paused for effect. “You remember the star, April Robin—” He let his voice trail off.

“Remember her?” Victor Budlong said, almost with reverence. “I used to have an autographed picture of her! And to think this was her house!” He offered cigarettes. “Are you in the Industry?” He said that with an air of reverence, too.

Bingo hesitated between “In a way,” “More or less,” and just plain “Yes,” and finally silently handed over a card of the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America.

“Well!” Victor Budlong breathed.

“We’re not really settled yet,” Bingo said. “We only recently decided to transfer our headquarters to Hollywood. The logical place, of course. Naturally, we’re not particularly settled yet. But once we get this little tangle fixed up, then it’s just a matter of finding suitable office space, somewhere here in Beverly Hills or on the Strip, and getting everything under way.”