Эд Макбейн - The April Robin Murders

Bingo leaned back, half closed his eyes, and rehearsed: “What a wonderful souvenir to take home to your folks! A picture of you, standing beside the—” He consulted the book again. “—The imperishable memories of the stars you love! Betty Grable’s legs! Jimmy Durante’s nose! Trigger’s hoofprint!”

“Lots more,” Handsome said.

“Sure!” Bingo said. “Handsome, that’s the place everybody from out of town heads for when they get to Hollywood!” He drew a long breath. “Handsome, we might even find April Robin’s footprint there!”

“If she was after 1927 we will,” Handsome said, threading his way through Hollywood Boulevard traffic. “Account of, Bingo, that’s when it opened up. The first stars were Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, Norma Shearer—”

Bingo said accusingly, “You’ve been reading the guidebook.”

“Uh-uh,” Handsome said. “There was this article about it. Pictures of everybody. In a Sunday supplement. On the opposite page was an article about Reelfoot Lake in Tennessee being formed by an earthquake in 1811. There was a picture of the lake, too. Right straight across the page was a picture of Mickey Rooney.” He angled around a waiting taxi and said, “It was a real good article. About the theatre, I mean, not the lake. I remember it especially account of my Aunt Elsieday, who was Irish, and married Uncle Steve. The second time, I mean. For him, not for her. My Aunt Elsieday was in San Diego in 1925 and saw a little bit of a movie being made with Gloria Swanson, and that’s why she was so interested in the article.” He added, “The picture was Madame Sans-Gene.”

Bingo half closed his eyes. “How deep was Reelfoot Lake, and what page was the article on?”

“Bottomless,” Handsome said. “At least when the article was written nobody had got to the bottom of it. It was on” — he paused just a moment — “page five. The article about Grauman’s Chinese Theatre was on page four. There was a design across the top—”

“Never mind right now,” Bingo said. “Just remember, we could just possibly find April Robin’s footprint in the concrete!”

Handsome missed a bus by inches and said, “Bingo, April Robin. Do you think there’s something wrong with my memory?”

“She was before your time,” Bingo told him again. “And turn right—”

Handsome swerved expertly into the parking lot, said, “They got a nice place to leave a person’s car. Bingo, do I take the camera or the cards?”

Bingo slid out of the car and said, “Let’s look the place over before we decide.”

It was, as always, a matter of what kind of prospects were in the crowd he expected in front of the theatre. He gave Handsome a reassuring smile and said, “Everything is going to be all right.”

But everything wasn’t all right, he realized several minutes later. There were people around the theatre, lots of people. There was a line of them, waiting at the box office for tickets to the two P.M. show. There were stragglers coming out from the earlier show. And there were tourists, all kinds of tourists, the ones he had hoped for, wandering through the lobby. Only, he realized almost immediately, they were all taking pictures of each other.

The spiel he had been rehearsing died quietly in his throat.

Good-looking young ushers were showing the tourists around. The tourists were not only taking pictures of each other, they were taking pictures of the ushers.

All right, he told himself, he’d been wrong before. Like the time he’d loaded up two cameras for a St. Patrick’s Day Parade and found himself caught in a pedestrian traffic jam on the corner of 47th and Fifth. But at least something could be accomplished here.

He caught the eye of one of the ushers and said, “Can you help me find Reelfoot Lake?”

The young man blinked and said, “Sir?”

“I mean,” Bingo stammered, pulling himself together as best he could, “April Robin. You remember April Robin?”

“Oh,” the young man said. “Yes,” and then, “Of course.” He looked a little unhappy. “The great April Robin. She was quite some time ago—”

“You probably don’t remember her yourself,” Bingo said kindly.

“Well,” the young man said, “my father was a great admirer of hers—” He gulped. “We’ll look—”

“Never mind,” Bingo said, not quite as kindly. “We’ll find her prints.”

The young man looked relieved and went away.

Fifteen minutes later Bingo said, “Maybe if we asked the manager. Or somebody.” He had a mental picture of April Robin’s footprints. Tiny, delicate, high-arched. Suddenly he spotted an elderly man with a tiny dust sweeper, busily engaged in keeping the concrete as spotless as hands could make it. He cleared his throat. “You’ve been here a long time?”

“Since before the Hoover administration, friend,” the elderly man said gently. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Will you please move just a little to the left? Thank you, friend.” He swept expertly around their feet and said, “May I assist you in any way?”

“We’re looking for some footprints,” Bingo said.

The sweeper gestured with one hand to indicate that the foyer was full of them.

“I mean,” Bingo said, “some very special footprints.” He drew a long breath. “April Robin’s.” He mustered up his best smile and said, “You know. April Robin?”

“Ah yes,” the sweeper said. “Ah yes! April Robin!” He leaned on his broom and gazed into nothingness as though he were seeing flowers in the spring, moonlight on magnolia blossoms, and stars over the sea. “April Robin!” he said again, dreamily. He looked at Bingo and said, “You must know, I was once an actor. I was a spectator in the fight scene in The Spoilers. The first version. And I did a small bit in a picture with Theda Bara. But I was not cut out to be an actor. Although once I drew gunfire from William S. Hart—”

“April Robin,” Bingo prompted.

The old man shook his head and said, “There will never be another like her!” Potential tears formed in his red-rimmed eyes.

“Her footprints,” Bingo said. “We want to see her footprints. They must be here somewhere—”

The sweeper suddenly seemed to be nearly six feet tall. “My dear young man,” he said. “My very dear young man. Since the time in 1927, when the prints of Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks were marked, not on the drifting sands of time, but in imperishable and immemorial concrete, there has not been a star of great magnitude who has not left a mark here. And never has so much as an inch of concrete been removed, nor left unswept. I would like to quote to you—”

He paused and said, “Perhaps I should explain to you, I am a poet. If you would care to have a small volume of my work, privately printed—” As though by magic, a pale gray pamphlet appeared from his pocket. “I regret that I must sell them, for the cost of printing alone—”

A line ran quickly through Bingo’s mind. We’ll be glad to make extra copies for the cost of material. He returned the old man’s smile and said, “Sure, pal. How much?”

The pale gray pamphlet, titled Alas, Sweet Memories, cost one dollar.

“And now,” Bingo said, getting grimly back to the subject, “since you do remember April Robin, I’m sure you’ll help us find her prints here.”

The potential tears threatened to materialize. The poet shook his head. “Some memories are too painful. Since you know her story, and are making a sentimental pilgrimage, I know you will excuse me. I am sure you will find them by yourselves.” He turned his back and began sweeping.

Handsome looked around and said, “Bingo, there’s more footprints here than there were on those sands of time the old guy was talking about.”