Эд Макбейн - The April Robin Murders

He folded a lemon-yellow handkerchief carefully and tucked it in his breast pocket, ran the comb through his hair one more time, gave himself a final approving survey in the glass, and went outside.

Handsome had grabbed and put on the first clothes that had been at hand. Bingo sighed. He still hadn’t given up trying to impress the great importance of splendid, or at least well-matched, clothes on his junior partner, yet there were times—

But in spite of the fact that he was wearing navy blue corduroy slacks and a tan pullover sweater — Bingo consoled himself that they were freshly pressed slacks and a new sweater — Handsome was making a highly favorable impression on the gorgeous blonde who sat beside him on the loafer-lounge.

Bingo paused for a moment to admire her. He’d seen her before, and knew that she was the manager of the motel. At least she ran the office, took the registrations and money in advance, and sent the maid down with towels. A frail, white-haired old lady, who seemed to live in a rocking chair in a corner of the office, crocheting lace, had been pointed out to him as her mother. A nice girl, Bingo decided approvingly, looking after her helpless old mother so nicely. Too bad she had to be wasted in a job like this.

She was on the smallish side, and delightfully curved. Her face, well, Bingo tried to find another word for “gorgeous” and gave up. It was that, gorgeous. Her hair was the pure, spun gold usually seen only in home permanent advertisements, and at the moment she had it pulled loosely to the back of her head and fastened there with a turquoise ribbon from which it hung to the back of her neck in engaging little curls. Her pale pink pedal pushers, matching off-the-shoulder blouse and turquoise ballet slippers, did seem rather informal wear for a motel manager on duty, but after all, Bingo reminded himself, this was not New York. And perhaps she did have a touch too much make-up on her startlingly long eyelashes, but after all, this was Hollywood.

And as usual, she’d seen Handsome first. It always happened that way, with gorgeous girls.

“—it was in a Sunday supplement, October 16, 1955,” Handsome was saying as he came near. “I was specially interested in anything about swimming because the week before Florence Chadwick broke a record swimming the English Channel. October 12th. That was the day my great-uncle, Stanley Kusak, celebrated his golden wedding anniversary. He had eleven living children and thirty-eight grandchildren present.”

The gorgeous girl looked a little dazed but game. “Did they all swim too?”

Handsome looked faintly surprised at the question. He shook his head. “No. They all lived on farms up near Albany.”

Bingo decided it was time to lend a hand. He stepped up and said pleasantly, “That article you were telling the lady about—”

“It was about cutting the cost in cleaning swimming pools,” Handsome said. “I thought she might be interested. Did I do wrong, Bingo?”

“No,” Bingo told him, “you’re doing just fine.” The strange working of Handsome’s memory would never stop fascinating him. “I don’t suppose you remember what page it was on.”

Handsome blinked, thought for a moment, and said, “It was on page fourteen, the left-hand corner. Right opposite was a picture story about the Vicksburg Museum. It’s really called the Old Court House Museum, and it’s got more than five thousand items. Mostly small stuff, though.”

The blonde said, “Just what kind of games do you boys play, anyhow?”

“It’s no game,” Bingo assured her gravely. “My partner happens to have a remarkable memory, that’s all. Photographic.”

She looked impressed. “He oughta go on TV. He’d get rich.”

Bingo had thought of that too, more than once, and discarded the idea.

“So should you,” he said gallantly, “Miss—”

“Mariposa DeLee,” she said. “Mrs. Mariposa DeLee.” She added, “I’m a widow.”

“A very pretty name,” Bingo said.

“Just don’t ask me if I thought it up myself,” she said, a little snappishly. “Or if it’s a press agent’s dream. My mother gave me the Mariposa, and I married the DeLee.”

“Mariposa is the name of a lily,” Handsome said politely. “It suits you.”

Bingo wished he could say things like that, just accidentally. “My partner,” he said, “would be wasting his time on TV. Because he’s probably the best photographer in the world.” He whipped out one of their business cards. She examined it, properly impressed.

“We decided to move our base of operations to Hollywood,” Bingo said. “Bigger opportunities out here. Soon as we find suitable business space and get organized, you must look us up.” He might not be six foot one, and with dark, wavy hair, but he prided himself that there was one thing he could do outstandingly well: talk. “You know, a pretty, talented girl like you ought to be working some place where you’d be seen by important people. You’re just wasted working in this motel.”

“I’m working in this motel,” she told him very calmly, “because I own the joint. And I don’t want to be in pictures. I never wanted to be in pictures. All I want is to own a whole chain of motels.” She looked him in the eye.

Bingo caught his breath with an effort. He took another, and closer, look at Mariposa DeLee. This time he looked at the make-up, especially around her eyes, and at the roots of her spun gold hair. He estimated the age of her mother in the rocking chair and did some rapid mental arithmetic. Finally he said, a little lamely, “Well, you certainly have a nice place here, ma’am.”

“And if you want to read more about cleaning your swimming pool—” Handsome said.

She gave him the smile women of all ages reserved for Handsome Kusak, and said, “I’ll call you right up.” The smile was big enough to take in both of them. “I suppose you boys are out to see some more of the town.”

“We’ll be looking around,” Bingo said. “We’ve got to find suitable office space. We thought we’d just drive along the Strip this afternoon. And sooner or later we’ve got to find a permanent place to live. A house, perhaps. Not large, but—” he couldn’t resist — “with a pool, of course.”

“Of course,” she said. “Especially since your pal knows how to keep one clean.” She looked at them thoughtfully. “You know what you ought to do this afternoon? Keep going out on Sunset and look at the houses where all the movie stars live.”

“I’d like to do that,” Bingo said. He added quickly, “As a basis for comparison.”

“Only we don’t know which ones are which,” Handsome said guilelessly, and Bingo could have throttled him.

“That’s no problem,” she said. “You just drive out Sunset Boulevard and you’ll see some stands selling maps of movie stars’ homes. That’s what you need. Shows you right where every one of them is. Stop at the first stand on the right, it’s the best.”

It was a wonderful idea. Suddenly Bingo felt that the whole day was made golden. Someday, he promised himself, they’d do something nice, real nice, for Mariposa DeLee.

They went on out to the shining maroon convertible. Bingo repressed a desire to pat it affectionately. A wonderful day, probably to be a wonderfully lucky day.

Neither he nor Handsome noticed that as they drove away, Mariposa DeLee rushed to the telephone in the office. Nor that the little old lady in the rocking chair had dropped her crocheting and was just laughing like everything.

“She’s a real nice old lady,” Handsome said, heading the convertible up toward Sunset Strip.

“Handsome!” Bingo said reprovingly. “She’s not old. Just mature.” He added, “And very well preserved, too.”