Эд Макбейн - The April Robin Murders

“You don’t need to worry,” Bingo said coolly. “We know how to handle the press.” He added, “My partner used to be a newspaper photographer himself. Long ago, of course.”

“Well!” Hendenfelder said. “Used to think I might like to be one.”

They went away. Bingo sank down on the nearest sofa. Before he could speak or, indeed, think of anything to say, the door opened noiselessly and Chester Baxter’s voice said softly, “Hey, you fellas!”

“Please,” Bingo said. “The last thing in the world we want right now is to buy oil well stock.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” their visitor said. “You just got a bad impression of me, that’s all. I’m your friend. I came back to help you out.”

“That’s very nice of you,” Bingo said. “But—”

Chester Baxter sat down and said, “I heard all about this con this Courtney Budlong pulled on you, and I must say, it wasn’t very friendly of him.”

“Look here,” Bingo said, “we’d just as soon that story didn’t get around. Not until they really find Courtney Budlong.” He only hoped the man who wasn’t Courtney Budlong didn’t have a touch of blackmail in mind.

“Naturally,” Chester Baxter said. “Naturally. And that’s where I come in.”

Handsome took a step forward, not a threatening one, but a cautious one.

“How?” Bingo asked suspiciously.

“Well,” the visitor asked, “would you like me to find Courtney Budlong for you?”

Bingo eyed him thoughtfully. “For how much?”

“Please!” Chester Baxter raised a protesting hand. “We’ll talk of that aspect later. Though, if I succeed in getting your money back for you — and after all, I will have expenses — naturally, I think a small cut—”

“How small?” Bingo asked. And then, “Do you know where this guy is?”

“Frankly, no. Not right now. But I think — I hazard a guess — I’ll do better at finding him than you will, or than the police will.” He smiled. “You might say that we both travel in the same line, though not for the same company.” It seemed to Bingo that there was a certain fine logic in what he said. He nodded thoughtfully.

“Furthermore,” Chester Baxter said, “I have a certain amount of personal interest. This man didn’t use my name, but he used my initials. Practically the same.”

“All right,” Bingo said, “but how much of a cut?”

The subject seemed to be not only sordid but downright distasteful, but it did get discussed. Chester Baxter thought half would be just fine — half of what was recovered, in case some of it had been spent in the meantime. Bingo said that the whole idea was ridiculous and to forget about it. Chester Baxter pointed out that keeping quiet about the whole affair was part of the deal, and how about a quarter?

Bingo said that sounded like blackmail to him, and threatened to call Perroni.

They finally agreed amiably on ten percent. Then Chester Baxter said, “—And in the meantime, if you could advance me a little for expenses — carfare, telephone calls—”

That called for more discussion. Bingo did some rapid mental figuring and reluctantly handed over a ten.

“Okay,” Chester Baxter said, pocketing it, “I’ll find your damned Courtney Budlong for you. And I’ll find him for myself. I don’t mind his using my initials so much, or using my modus operandi, or even looking a little like me. But this caper of his nearly gummed up this very nice little deal I’ve been working up to a successful conclusion down in San Diego.” He grinned, a definitely nasty and wolflike grin. “After I get your dough back for you, I’ll settle a few personal matters with him myself. Then if the cops still want him, he’s theirs.”

After he had gone, Handsome said thoughtfully, “It shouldn’t be so hard to find a guy with the initials C.B. who looks like our Mr. Courtney Budlong looked.”

“True,” Bingo said. “But we don’t have time to tend to it ourselves right now. Now, let’s go take pictures.”

“Okay, Bingo,” Handsome said. “Where do we start taking pictures?”

“Wherever there’s people,” Bingo said.

It was still early in the day. A quick job on the cards had been managed. “An action picture of you has just been taken. See how you would look in the newsreels or tomorrow’s paper. Send this card with 25¢ and your address—”

There had been a brief, but not insurmountable, problem about the address on the cards. “Since we already practically have an office,” Bingo had said, “and it’s a very swell address—” He decided to call up Victor Budlong.

Victor Budlong said of course it was perfectly all right to use the office as a mailing address until they moved in, which he trusted would be soon. He personally would see to it that Miss Meadows put a card with their firm name in the mail slot. If there was anything more he could do, he would be delighted. He hoped everything else was proceeding satisfactorily?

“Fine,” Bingo assured him. “Fine and double fine.”

To be on the safe side, he ordered a batch of cards, not to be mailed in, but to be filled in and collected on the spot. “There’s a lot of people,” he reminded Handsome, “who are happy to give you their address and their two-bits right away, but might sometimes forget about it when they got home. Like I told you back in Central Park, you gotta pick your people accordingly.”

By the time they returned from getting their license the cards had been ready, printed — thanks to some overstock at the cut-rate and quick-job printers, and some fast haggling on Bingo’s part — in a vivid shocking pink, with the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America printed in a startling and brilliant green. Dignity, Bingo had explained, would come later.

Now it was barely one o’clock, and they were ready to begin a day’s work. “Wherever there’s people,” Bingo repeated.

“There’s people everywhere,” Handsome said, glancing at the traffic and at the sidewalks of Hollywood Boulevard.

“Tourists, I mean,” Bingo said. “Tourists who want a souvenir picture taken in the heart of Hollywood to send home to their friends and families. Or to keep for their memory book. Wait a minute, Handsome, let me look in the book.”

He began thumbing through the New Visitor’s Guide.

“Alligator Farm,” he read. “Ambassador Hotel. Angel’s Flight. Arrowhead Lake.” He paused. “I guess this section is all by alphabet. Most of that sounds pretty far away.” He turned a few pages.

“Look under ‘H,’” Handsome suggested.

Bingo turned another few pages. “Hollywood Bowl, Hollywood High School, Hollywood Cemetery, Hollywood Post Office — Here we are, Handsome. Hollywood and Vine!” He read enthusiastically, “‘Famous throughout the world, the center of the motion picture capital draws thousands of tourists daily—’”

“Six blocks from here,” Handsome said.

Eighteen blocks of driving later, they found a parking lot within walking distance of the center of the motion picture capital. Bingo handed Handsome a stack of the mail-in cards and said, “I’ll take the camera.”

There was a hurt look in Handsome’s eyes.

“Only,” Bingo said hastily, “because while I don’t take so good pictures like you do, more ladies take cards when you pass ’em out, and the ladies are the ones who send in most of the quarters.”

Fifteen minutes later they had tried all four corners of Hollywood and Vine. Bingo had hopefully taken a few pictures, Handsome had done his smiling best to hand out the pink and green cards. No one had paid the slightest attention.

Finally they stepped into a doorway and paused for a cigarette. “Everybody’s going to lunch, or everybody’s coming back from lunch,” Handsome said, as though he were personally apologizing for the deficiencies of Hollywood and Vine.