Эд Макбейн - The April Robin Murders

“You did swell, Bingo,” Handsome said suddenly and admiringly.

Bingo did turn his head, to stare. He knew Handsome had spoken truthfully. Handsome was incapable of not telling the truth.

“I mean,” Handsome said, “protecting our investment that way. Like making friends with Mr. Victor Budlong and putting a deposit on that office place so he’d be on our side when the trust company man got there. And making friends with that Hendenfelder, too. It was smart, Bingo.”

Bingo flicked an ash off his cigarette and said, “Well, in the business world, you learn things like that. Some people might call putting out that two hundred dollars throwing good money after bad, but I look on it as an investment.”

“And if we find Mr. Lattimer’s body for that lady,” Handsome said, “we’ll get everything back, and a lot extra.”

Bingo was silent. He hadn’t thought of that angle, not thoroughly at least. But if a cop like Perroni thought enough of their position as inhabitants of the April Robin mansion to ask them to keep their eyes open, and if a shrewd-looking babe like Adelle Lattimer thought enough of that same position to offer them a sizable cut for finding her late ex-husband’s body, they were sitting very nicely. All the more reason, he told himself, for hanging on to their possession of the mansion.

“Except,” Handsome said thoughtfully, “if we do find Mr. Lattimer’s body, it proves he was dead when he signed those papers. I mean, Bingo, when he didn’t sign those papers. And then it isn’t our house.”

Bingo thought that over, too. He weighed the advantages of the cut of what Adelle Lattimer would get if they did find the body, against the advantages of possibly, even probably, owning the mansion if they didn’t.

“We better take that cop’s advice,” Bingo said. “We better find us a lawyer.”

Handsome suggested looking in the classified section of the telephone book. Bingo pretended he hadn’t heard.

The almost Georgian building across the street caught his attention, and the inspiration came to him.

“That Leo Henkin,” he said thoughtfully. “He’s the top agent — I mean, artists’ representative — in Hollywood.” He decided not to add that it had been Courtney Budlong who had told them so. Anyone could see from a look at that building how important Leo Henkin was. “And we ought to get acquainted with him anyhow. Asking his advice about a lawyer is as good an excuse as any.”

Again he sat thinking. He considered a number of ways to introduce himself and Handsome to the great man. Most of them were romantic, and all of them were impractical.

“Okay, Bingo,” Handsome said agreeably. “Let’s go in and ask him.” He began getting out of the convertible.

Of course, Bingo thought. To Handsome, it would be as simple as that. Handsome had the direct and uncomplicated mind of a newspaper photographer, Handsome who had once found a missing heiress by looking in the telephone book. And, he realized, Handsome was right. He looked in the rear-view mirror, straightened his tie, ran a comb through his sandy hair, and said, “Let’s go.”

He was glad that he’d worn the herringbone worsted suit he’d debated buying as possibly too conservative for Hollywood, the land of the Hawaiian sports shirt and the gaudy slacks. Today it was just the right touch to make a good impression. Obviously it had made one on Victor Budlong.

The nearly Georgian illusion vanished the instant they opened the ivory enameled door and walked into a waiting room that seemed to be furnished almost entirely with odd-shaped articles of wrought iron and pale gray leather. Bingo glanced around curiously for the small-paned windows he’d seen from the street and realized that they were either ornaments attached to the outside walls, or had been covered over by the grayish white of the interior. Light obviously came from some source, but it was impossible to tell where.

The result, Bingo decided, was effective and he admired it, but he was glad when a plate-glass panel on the far side of the room slid open, and an unglamorous office girl said, in a nasal voice, “Well?”

He handed her a card and said, “Mr. Henkin, please,” in a voice that indicated he wasn’t going to put up with any waiting or any other nonsense. She looked down her nose at the card, went away with it, came back and said, a shade more amiably, “Mr. Henkin wonders if you’d mind waiting just a minute. He’s on a long distance call.”

There were trade papers on the wrought-iron objects which appeared to serve for tables, and Bingo glanced at them with the idle air of one who has read them already with his morning coffee, and resolved to subscribe to them before the day was over.

A buzzer sounded, and the girl ushered them into a hallway papered in a red and gold oriental design. She was a trifle dumpy, and wore black oxfords, Bingo noticed. Several doors were open along the hall and he glanced into the offices curiously. One of them appeared to have its walls entirely covered with oversized photographs of very young and very beautiful men and women, the next had its walls covered from floor to ceiling with shelves filled with multicolored books. Beyond, a door opened into the office of Leo Henkin himself.

Bingo was beginning to consider himself an authority on offices, but he wasn’t entirely prepared for this one. Like Victor Budlong’s, it was neither small nor simple. Unlike Victor Budlong’s, it hadn’t been copied from anything Bingo had ever seen before.

There seemed to be horses, or reminders of horses, everywhere he looked. The walls were covered — instead of with pictures of young and beautiful people, or with brightly colored books — with framed color prints of famous thoroughbreds; an uncomfortable-looking occasional chair had apparently been fashioned from a western saddle, two standing ashtrays had been cunningly made from stirrups, and the crystal ashtray on the desk was framed with a horseshoe.

Leo Henkin rose to his full five foot three and a half, from behind his leather-topped desk, and said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, sit down and make yourselves comfortable,” all in one breath. He looked at the card, which, Bingo reflected, he’d had more than time to memorize by now, and said, “Moving here from New York, h’m, well, you’ve come to the right place.” He said that in one breath, too, like a set speech. Then he relaxed, smiled and said, “And what can old Leo Henkin do for you, h’m?”

For a long time Bingo had wondered what a Hollywood agent looked like, especially a top Hollywood agent like Leo Henkin. Earlier in his life he’d had dealings with an agent who handled carnival attractions exclusively, and in spite of his better judgment, he’d unconsciously expected all Hollywood agents to look just like him. Now, to his surprise, Leo Henkin did, except that his beautifully cut suit was pearl-gray instead of off-purple. Leo Henkin had a perfectly round head on his short, stocky body, his eyes were bright blue and threatening to twinkle, his thin hair was pure white. He looked fatherly, benevolent and helpful.

“If you’re looking for talent,” he said, “if you’re looking for stories, if you’re looking for new faces or old faces, Leo Henkin can help you.” He paused, waiting.

“All of that,” Bingo said, plunging right in for the second time that morning. “But not at the moment. In fact, we really just came in to get acquainted. We’re going to be neighbors, in a manner of speaking.”

Leo Henkin nodded and said, “Vic Budlong just rented you the old DeFosse building. Not so old either. You got a good deal on it.”

Bingo opened his mouth and shut it again.

“Leo Henkin knows everybody and everything that goes on,” the great man said, with what was close to a chuckle. He looked at the card again.