Эд Макбейн - The April Robin Murders

“We’ve just come out here,” Bingo said quickly. “Decided to shift our headquarters to Hollywood. So right now we’re just beginning to get organized. Just picked our building this morning. And as a matter of fact, we wanted to ask you for a little information.”

“You’ve come to the right place,” the agent said. “Leo Henkin’s been here a long time.”

“Well,” Bingo said, “it’s this way.” He paused. No, he was damned if he was going to tell Leo Henkin the story of Courtney Budlong and the questioned purchase of the April Robin mansion. He had a secret hunch that if Leo Henkin knew everything, it would usually be only a matter of time before he’d passed it on to the everybody he also knew. A lawyer, now, was supposed to keep secrets. “My partner and I need a little legal advice.”

“Lawyers!” Leo Henkin said. “The town’s full of lawyers. What kind do you want? What specialty? Divorce? Criminal? Lawsuit? Girl trouble? Income tax? Leo Henkin knows them all.”

“Well,” Bingo said, wondering how to explain what he wanted without telling too much of why he wanted it, “it’s like this. We’re in possession of some valuable property. In fact, I can’t tell you how valuable this property is.”

“Ah,” Leo Henkin said rhapsodically. “That’s the thing? A good property! A valuable property! With that, you can do anything! With that, you can get anything. You want stars? Leo Henkin can get you stars. You want big writers? Leo Henkin can get you big writers. Directors?” He waved a hand, hinting that he had them by the gross. “You need money? Studio space? Leo Henkin has a friend who can handle that. What do you need lawyers for?”

For one mad moment Bingo had the feeling that Leo Henkin could probably produce the body of Julien Lattimer from a desk drawer, on demand, or bring Mr. Courtney Budlong out of a closet. He said, coming back to earth slowly, “There’s a little complication.”

Leo Henkin waved the other hand. “Complications! What are complications? Ignore them. Think big.”

“If we didn’t think big,” Bingo said, trying to match him gesture for gesture, “we’d still be back in New York.” Taking sidewalk pictures at two-bits a throw and living in a furnished room. “But there’s a little question about the ownership of the property—”

“Well, in that case,” Leo Henkin said, also coming down to earth, “you need the best of lawyers. Always make sure your property is clear. No point in running into lawsuits after the picture’s made. And Leo Henkin has just the man for you.” He reached for the telephone and said into it, “Get me Arthur Schlee.”

Bingo opened his mouth to ask a question, and shut it again. This was no time to quibble about legal fees, when the future of the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America was at stake. This was a time to think big.

“Best man in town for this sort of thing,” Leo Henkin said, holding the phone and waiting. He added, “His cousin’s a judge.” Then he said into the phone, “Art, I got a couple of friends of mine here. Mr. Riggs and Mr. Kusak. They own the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America. Yeah, that’s the one. They have a little problem about that certain important property they own, and I recommended you.” He paused. He looked at Bingo. “If you’re free, he can see you right now.”

Bingo swallowed hard and said, “The sooner the better.”

“Right away,” Leo Henkin said into the telephone, and hung up. He looked at them closely and said, “How about telling your friend Leo Henkin a little more about this property?”

“Gladly,” Bingo said, “as soon as we know it’s all clear and completely ours.” He would, too.

“Good, good,” Leo Henkin said. “That’s the way to talk. Never give away any facts about a property to anybody until you’re ready, not even an old friend like Leo Henkin.” He pushed a cigarette box at them. “We’ll lunch soon and talk it over, h’m? But don’t tell me about it now. Let’s change the subject. I hear you’ve bought a house.”

Changing the subject was something Bingo could welcome with enthusiasm at that moment. “And what a house,” he said. “I haven’t counted the rooms yet!”

“Nineteen,” Handsome said, “and four porches.”

“Oh, Leo Henkin knows the house,” the agent said.

“It used to belong to April Robin,” Bingo said. “It was built for her. You remember April Robin,” he added, and then hated himself.

Naturally Leo Henkin remembered April Robin, and that the house had been built for her. “What a girl!” he said. “What a star! Another Norma Talmadge, believe me. And what depth! Great depth!” He shook his head sadly. “Too bad, too bad. What a tragedy!”

Bingo waited hopefully for details. None came.

Leo Henkin shook the sorrow from his benevolent face, beamed at them again and said, “This property of yours. Is it musical?”

“Not exactly,” Bingo said. “No.” He drew a long breath. “In fact, it’s quite the reverse.”

They finally got away only by promising to keep in the closest of touch.

Out in the convertible, Bingo loosened his tie a little and said, “One thing, out here these big, important guys are certainly easy to see and talk to.”

“Sure,” Handsome said. He started the motor. “Account of, Bingo,” he added with serene confidence, “we’re big important guys ourselves, now.”

“Naturally,” Bingo said. He hadn’t exactly thought of that before, but of course it was true. “What he was saying — whatever did happen to April Robin, anyway?”

Handsome was silent and looked miserable.

“I forgot,” Bingo said quickly. “It was long before your time.”

“Maybe it’ll come to me.” Handsome paused. “Maybe she was the first person who got murdered in our house.”

Arthur Schlee’s office turned out to be a mere block and a half away, in a modest but businesslike tan stucco building, with Schlee and Schlee on a chaste bronze name plate beside the door.

Handsome parked the convertible, sighed and said, “When I was eleven years old I spent almost all summer with my Aunt Sophie’s mother-in-law. She lived in a little town in New Jersey, just like this.”

Bingo stared at him. He, too, had been in New Jersey, and he could think of nothing remotely like Beverly Hills. Certainly he’d seen no tan stucco buildings.

“I mean,” Handsome said, “everything is right close to everything else, and everybody knows everybody else. It’s real nice, Bingo, like New Jersey.”

“In New Jersey,” Bingo said severely, “you don’t see Hollywood stars.”

“No,” Handsome said. He didn’t add that so far they hadn’t seen any here, either.

Arthur Schlee looked just a little like a character actor made up for the role of a successful lawyer. A fatherly, dignified and thoroughly respectable lawyer, one whose cousin was a judge. He greeted Bingo and Handsome cordially, but gravely.

“So you’re the young men who bought the April Robin house,” he said. “Glad to know friends of Leo Henkin’s.”

Bingo stopped himself on the verge of asking, “How did you know about it?” This was like that small town in New Jersey in more ways than one, he decided. Not only did everybody know everybody else, but knew everything about everybody else.

“And I understand you’re having a little trouble about some property,” he said. “Sit down and tell me about it.”

“Well,” Bingo said, “this is an extremely confidential matter. It mustn’t be mentioned to anybody. Not even to Mr. Henkin.” He’d almost said, “Especially Mr. Henkin.”

“My dear young man!” Arthur Schlee said. Just that, no more, but it was enough.