Эд Макбейн - The April Robin Murders

Someone did. Mr. Reddy said, “While we’re asking questions, I’d like to know how that letter, and that receipt, were on Budlong and Dollinger paper?”

Everybody looked this time at Victor Budlong, who came within an inch of his life of losing his composure, his dignity and his voice, but who managed to state that he had absolutely no idea, that he’d had no part in this disgraceful piece of chicanery, that he was a businessman of long and good standing in his community and a member of the Chamber of Commerce, and that he would ask Miss Meadows.

Miss Meadows stated efficiently that as far as she knew, it was impossible for anybody to get hold of any Budlong and Dollinger stationery or receipts, but she would make inquiries.

Suddenly Bingo said, “Look, yesterday Mr. Courtney Budlong came in here. We waited for him out in the car. He was in here just a little while, and then he came out with these papers. Maybe you’d better make those inquiries right now.”

The slightly alarmed young receptionist was called in. Yes, she remembered the man who answered the description of Courtney Budlong. He’d come in yesterday and spent some time trying to sell her a magazine subscription, and then gone out again. But he hadn’t been near any of the office stationery or anything else.

There didn’t seem to be any more questions from anybody. Finally Bingo got all his courage together, looked Mr. Reddy in the eye, and said, “Well—?”

“It’s an unprecedented situation,” Mr. Reddy said. Then he repeated, “This is very confusing.” He not only looked as though he wouldn’t bounce, he looked as though he’d been deflated.

“Confusing,” Victor Budlong said, in his beautiful, sonorous tones, “but not impossible. I am not a lawyer. But I would say that if these two signatures are genuine, the gentlemen are at least temporarily entitled to live in the house in question.”

He read the letter aloud. “It states very clearly,” he said, “that having paid the sum of two thousand dollars — no mention of to whom — they are entitled to occupy the mansion pending delivery and signing of the deed—”

“But this guy who called himself Courtney Budlong didn’t have any authority,” Perroni said.

“If that is Julien Lattimer’s signature,” Victor Budlong said, “it doesn’t matter whether he did or not.” There was a silence while everybody thought that over.

“I don’t want to see any trouble, or any suits against the estate,” Mr. Reddy said, in a thin, worried little voice. “And there ought to be somebody staying there, now that Pearl Durzy—” He looked at Bingo and Handsome a little dubiously.

“I’ll vouch for these young men,” Victor Budlong said heartily. “They’re businessmen. Just rented an office, in fact. Important men in the Industry.”

Everybody looked impressed, except Perroni.

“All right,” Perroni said, back to his normal gloom. “Only don’t you guys go shooting your traps off to the columnists.”

Bingo upped his eyebrows at him.

“In this town,” Perroni said, “anything happens to anybody, even the old cat having kittens, they got to run right to the phone and call up the columnists. You guys keep this out of the newspapers. Until we find Mr. Lattimer’s body.”

Bingo suddenly remembered Adelle Lattimer and reflected that he was just as interested as anybody in finding Julien Lattimer’s body. He said, with all the dignity he could muster, “I’m sure nobody wants to see any of this get into the newspapers.” He wondered if he sounded anything like Victor Budlong.

Perroni looked skeptical, but he nodded glumly. “We kept that dame’s death quiet, so far.”

Hendenfelder softened things by adding, “And if none of this gets into print, maybe we can catch that guy and get your two thousand bucks back.”

He didn’t say it with conviction, and Bingo didn’t feel any real hope, but at least it was the brightest thought of the day so far.

Apparently everything was over, at least for a time. Victor Budlong wished them a cheery good morning, told Bingo and Handsome he’d be in touch with them soon and arrange a meeting with his little girl, and that meantime if they needed anything, call on him. Miss Meadows smiled at them amiably. Mr. Reddy shook hands nervously and said he would talk to them later. Perroni went to make one more telephone call.

Hendenfelder came over to the convertible and leaned an elbow on the door. “By Perroni,” he said, “Julien Lattimer’s murdered, and his wife murdered him. Probably right. But Perroni isn’t going to be happy until he finds the body. He don’t care so much about finding the wife, he just wants to find the body. And he’ll do it, too.” He sighed. “That’s the way he is because, well, that’s the way he is.”

“Hollywood,” Bingo said. “Everybody’s got foibles.”

“Even cops,” Hendenfelder said. He went on in a confidential tone, “My advice is, what you guys oughta do is get yourself a lawyer right fast. I don’t know much of that kind of law, but it sounded to me like you maybe own that house after all. Enough of it so you ought to have a lawyer. Everybody ought to have a lawyer all the time anyway. Especially out here in Hollywood. I come from Milwaukee, myself. Believe me, out here, people are different.”

“They have foibles,” Bingo said, nodding sagely.

“And you can repeat that any time,” Hendenfelder said. He dropped his voice. “Say, I know it’s been a long time since she was there, but you living in what was her house, you think maybe you might run into, sometime, some souvenir of April Robin?”

Bingo thought it was just possible.

“Account of,” Hendenfelder said, “I got a niece back in Milwaukee she collects stuff like that. Some real genuine souvenir of April Robin, why her Uncle Horace, he’d be a hero!”

“I’ll make it a point to look,” Bingo promised. He looked at Detective Horace Hendenfelder’s pink round face, and thought how nice it would be for him to be a hero, even if only to a movie-struck niece in Milwaukee.

“I’ll do something for you someday,” Hendenfelder said gratefully. “And don’t forget now, get you a lawyer fast!”

Perroni came out from his telephone call, walked over to the convertible and said grudgingly, “If we ever do find that guy, and if he has any of your dough left, you’ll get it back.”

Bingo thought that would be very nice, and said so.

“And if while you’re staying in that house,” Perroni said, “if you run into any helpful information, will you get in touch with me right away?” He said it as though he didn’t expect much.

“It’s my duty as a citizen,” Bingo said, a little stiffly.

“Nuts,” Perroni said. “Do it as a favor to me.”

The two plainclothesmen walked away. Bingo lit a cigarette and sat brooding.

This was Hollywood. This was where they’d come with their two thousand, seven hundred and seventy-three dollars and some odd cents, to get rich. Rich, and famous, and own a beautiful and beautifully furnished mansion like the ones Louella Parsons described in her Sunday interviews, preferably one that once had belonged to a movie star. All they’d accomplished so far — he corrected himself, all he’d accomplished so far — was to sink two thousand dollars of their working capital in a house that probably wasn’t going to belong to them, and two hundred more in a suite of offices they probably never would have any use for. There wasn’t any furniture for the house and, what was more, there wasn’t going to be any furniture, ever. The antiques, the oil paintings, the boxes of linens and silver didn’t exist.

And half of the lost investment was Handsome’s. And he still didn’t have the faintest idea of what they were going to do in Hollywood to get rich and famous. He thought longingly of Columbus Circle, and didn’t dare turn his head to look at his partner.