Эд Макбейн - The April Robin Murders

He heard a car come to a stop outside in the driveway, and instinctively stiffened. But no, it couldn’t be bad news. They had a lawyer now, and they had friends.

The buzzer sounded. Handsome opened the door and Hendenfelder came in, beaming. “Some nice fast work,” he reported. “We got that Chester Baxter right away from your description. Perroni’s outside with him now. Couldn’t’ve had time to spend much of your dough.”

“See,” Bingo told Handsome. “I knew everything was going to be fine.”

Hendenfelder went back to lend a hand, in case Chester Baxter came in under protest.

There was protest, all right, but it was purely vocal. From where they waited, Bingo and Handsome could hear a furious insistence to the general effect that, “Never saw this house before in my life. Never heard of these two guys from New York. Who do you think you’re pushing around, anyway? I never used the name Courtney Budlong, and I never heard of a Courtney Budlong. What’s more, I was in San Diego all day yesterday, and I can prove it.” There was a little indignant muttering about “false arrest.”

Detective Perroni ushered a plumpish, well-dressed man of medium height, with silvery white hair, into the room. “Here he is,” he announced. “Chester Baxter. You identify him and we’ll go down to headquarters and sign a complaint, and then we’ll see where he hid your money at.”

Bingo took a long, close look. Then he shook his head regretfully and said, “No.”

“What do you mean, no?” Perroni said crossly. “This guy is Chester Baxter. He even admits it.”

“He may be Chester Baxter,” Bingo said, “and he looks a lot like Mr. Courtney Budlong. But he isn’t Mr. Courtney Budlong. In fact, he isn’t anybody I ever saw before in my life.”

“And I never saw these guys before in my life, either,” the man who wasn’t Courtney Budlong said. “What’s more, I don’t care if I never see either of them again.”

“All right, but you don’t need to be nasty about it,” Bingo said. “You aren’t Courtney Budlong, anyway.”

“I never said I was Courtney Budlong,” Chester Baxter said. “I never heard of a Courtney Budlong.”

“Sure you haven’t,” Perroni said. “Because Courtney Budlong doesn’t exist.”

Chester Baxter looked from one to the other, both indignant and bewildered. “What is this?” he said at last. “First you say that I’m Courtney Budlong. Then this guy says that I’m not Courtney Budlong. And now you say there isn’t any Courtney Budlong. Somebody’s wrong somewhere, and this time, it looks like it’s the cops.”

Perroni growled in his throat.

“And anyway,” Chester Baxter said, “I was in San Diego up to ten o’clock last night, and I can prove it with a phone call.”

Hendenfelder said mildly, “Just what were you doing in San Diego, Chester?”

“That’s my business,” Chester Baxter said.

“Oil stocks, or uranium?” Perroni said.

Chester Baxter told him to go to hell.

“Now, now,” Hendenfelder said in gentle reproof. “Talk like that won’t get you anywhere, Chester. What was the name of the lady you were with?”

“Mrs. Hodgkins,” Chester Baxter said. “Mrs. Verna Hodgkins.” He paused. “How did you know it was a lady I was with?”

“Same way I know she’s probably a widow and has money,” Perroni said. “Modus operandi. Well, we’ll check. What’s her telephone number?”

Chester Baxter said, “Now wait a minute.” The truculence had gone suddenly out of him. “This lady’s my fiancée. I don’t want you calling her and saying you’re the cops checking my alibi.” He became plaintive. “Give a guy a break. Just when I see a chance to settle down and lead a nice respectable life, don’t go and mess it up for me.”

“We’ll be tactful,” Hendenfelder said. “I suppose you were talking over business deals with this fiancée.”

“That’s none of your business either.”

“Watch it, Chester,” Hendenfelder said. “The last one of your business deals got you five years.”

“I told you,” the little man wailed, “this is all different.”

“Shut up,” Perroni said, “or I’ll hold you on a vag charge, anyway.” He turned to Bingo. “Use your phone?” Bingo nodded, and the sad-faced detective headed for the kitchen, Chester Baxter trailing along and making imploring remarks about the necessity for using tact.

Hendenfelder shook his head gravely. “So many crooks and con men in this world!” he observed. He sighed. “If more dames knew the dangers rich widows are exposed to there wouldn’t be so many of them killing their husbands!”

Bingo was silent, wondering if the observation covered Mrs. Julien Lattimer; if, that is, she was a widow.

Hendenfelder had evidently been having the same thoughts. “Speaking of widows,” he said suddenly. “That Mrs. Lattimer—” He paused. “Did you guys get you a good lawyer?”

“The best,” Bingo assured him.

“Good thing,” Hendenfelder said. “Because when Perroni does find Lattimer’s body—” He paused again. “When Perroni sets out to do a thing, regardless of how long it takes him, he gets it done.” Bingo inferred that even if it were a matter of Mr. Lattimer’s still being alive and eventually dying somewhere of old age, Perroni would find the body. “When he finds the body and then finds Mrs. Lattimer, well, then you will really have to have yourself a good lawyer. Because then who is going to finish selling you the house?”

“It’s complicated,” Bingo admitted.

“Of course, maybe when he finds Mrs. Lattimer, a jury’s going to say she didn’t kill him,” Hendenfelder went on. “You never can tell, with juries. Then you can do business right with Mrs. Lattimer.”

If she wanted to sell the house, and if there was any money to buy it with, Bingo thought.

“Or maybe the jury will find her guilty, and then she won’t inherit the house, and then,” he said, “then things will really be in a sad mess!” He smiled at them encouragingly. “But that’s what lawyers are for. I’m glad you got a good one.”

It occurred to Bingo that in addition to looking for Julien Lattimer’s body, looking for the missing Mrs. Lattimer might be a sound procedure. He said casually, “She just up and disappeared and never was heard from again?”

“Oh,” Hendenfelder said, “she’s been heard from plenty of times. Less’n a year ago, she cashed a bad check in El Paso, but she got away. She’s been reported from all over. Perroni’ll find her.”

Or, Bingo told himself, we will.

“’Course,” Hendenfelder said, “Perroni’s got to find the body, first.”

“But those signatures,” Bingo said. “Mr. Lattimer’s.”

“Still can be forged,” Hendenfelder said. “But you should worry, you got a lawyer.”

Arthur Schlee was really going to earn that retainer, Bingo reflected.

Perroni came back with a pleased-looking Chester Baxter.

“All right,” Perroni was saying. “All right. It checks. And these two gentlemen say you’re not their Courtney Budlong.”

“I’m not anybody’s Courtney Budlong,” Chester Baxter said. “Never was.”

“All right,” Perroni said. “Beat it. But watch yourself, Chester, watch yourself.”

They watched as Chester Baxter scuttled through the doorway without a backward glance.

“Funny,” Hendenfelder said, “it really seemed like we had the guy.” He added, “Wonder if we ought to tip off that widow in San Diego?”

“None of our business,” Perroni said gloomily. He looked at Bingo and Handsome. “You watch out for reporters, now. There’s a story already printed about that Durzy woman dying here. A little story. We haven’t said yet she was murdered. But if they come around asking questions—”