Эд Макбейн - The April Robin Murders

“I know,” Bingo said unhappily, relinquishing — but only momentarily — a cherished dream. “We’ve got to find a place to take pictures.”

“And, Bingo,” Handsome said. He paused.

“I know that, too,” Bingo said. “You’re hungry. Let’s drive out to that hamburger stand. Goody-Goody’s. It’ll give us a chance to think.”

Halfway to Beverly Hills, Handsome said, “Well, we got a few pictures in front of the Brown Derby. And that guy who might want some special prints. If we can get him some tickets to some TV shows.”

“Easiest thing in the world,” Bingo said, wondering how it was done. Of course, they knew Leo Henkin. He could probably get tickets to anything. Maybe Victor Budlong could, too. Or their next-door neighbor, Rex Strober.

But somehow he felt that the senior member of the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America should not be asking small-time favors like that, even if it meant a sale of extra pictures to the man in the Hawaiian shirt.

He sighed, leaned back, closed his eyes and wished he were asleep.

Coffee and the smell of hamburgers revived his spirits a great deal. He lit a cigarette, gave the waitress his best smile, and reached for one of the newspapers Handsome had been carrying. He glanced through it idly, coughed, put down his coffee, and said as calmly as he could, “I see there’s been a murder in our house.”

Handsome said, “It’s in this paper, too. Only it says, suspected murder.”

“That’s the conservative press,” Bingo said.

The stories told only of the death, probably murder, of one Pearl Durzy — not specifying Miss or Mrs. — caretaker in the house from which two Lattimers had disappeared, one presumed murdered, one presumed still in flight from the law. There were details about the carbon tetrachloride. There was a statement from Detective L. Perroni. There was, in one paper, a two-column picture of the house. There was no mention of Bingo and Handsome, nor of Mr. Courtney Budlong, nor any details of their purchase of the house. Bingo thanked his and everybody’s stars for that, and grumbled a little that the house was referred to as the Lattimer residence, with no mention of April Robin.

Handsome shoved the papers aside and said, “Bingo, something is all wrong about everything.”

“Nonsense,” Bingo said. “Every business has its little setbacks. We just picked a bad day and some bad locations, that’s all. And we still have half the afternoon ahead of us.”

Handsome stirred his coffee, scowled and said, “I don’t mean that. I mean, Bingo, everybody seems to be worried about all the wrong things. Like for instance—”

“Like for instance we’re worried about taking pictures and making money,” Bingo said grimly.

Handsome waved that aside. “The house,” he said. “I mean, like who owns the house. And this Perroni and everybody else seems to be mostly worried about, where is Mr. Julien Lattimer’s body, and where is Mrs. Lois Lattimer, if she did kill him, assuming of course that he was killed.” He looked up unhappily and said, “You know what I mean, Bingo?”

“It drifts my way,” Bingo said.

“Well,” Handsome said, “so far as I can see, nobody seems to care who murdered Miss or Mrs. Pearl Durzy. Nobody seems to be even trying to find out who murdered her. Or why, Bingo. In fact,” he finished, pushing his coffee cup to one side, “nobody even seems to be trying to find out who she was.”

“Handsome,” Bingo said sternly, “we bought a house. We practically bought a house. It had a caretaker and the caretaker got killed. It isn’t any of our business.”

“Okay, Bingo,” Handsome said unhappily, “if you say so. Only, it reads here like she didn’t have any folks anywhere, and she should be buried nicely, and besides, nobody seems to care who murdered her, except maybe us.”

Bingo waved his newspaper at Handsome and said, “The police are working on the case.”

Handsome said nothing. He just looked worried and miserable.

“All right,” Bingo said at last. “We’ll go home and call up—” He paused. “That Hendenfelder, not Perroni. Maybe they’ve found out some more about her by now.” He jammed his cigarette viciously in his saucer and said as reassuringly as he could, “If there’s anything to find out, we’ll find it.”

He added, out in the car, “And if we spot any likely places to take pictures—”

“We’ll stop,” Handsome said.

“Just a question of finding the right place at the right time,” Bingo said with false cheerfulness. A matter that was going to involve a little more careful study of the Visitor’s Guide. He yawned. The day was half gone. They had a roof over their heads and it was a roof that could stand a little exploring. He puzzled over that thought for a moment. The house itself could stand a little exploring. It wasn’t just a matter of finding a hint as to where Julien Lattimer’s body was hidden, assuming that he had become a body. Nor of finding a little souvenir of April Robin to please Hendenfelder. It had suddenly become a matter of finding out just what had happened to Pearl Durzy, and why.

“Bingo,” Handsome said, “there’s a bunch of people in front of our house.” He slowed down the convertible.

Bingo looked. There were a few cars parked along the street, and a few dozen people arranged at the edge of the driveway. One curious observer had ventured a little way up the driveway toward the house itself.

“If one more thing has gone wrong,” Bingo said, “we’re going right back to New York.”

“It’s the newspapers,” Handsome said, as though he were personally apologizing for them. “Account of Miss Durzy — Mrs. Durzy — either dying or getting killed here and it being the house from which Mr. and Mrs. Lattimer disappeared. It gives the address of the house in the story and there’s one picture of the house, only not a very good one. I remember when a Mr. Clement Hathaway, who was a society man and rich, hanged himself from a tree in Central Park, for no reason anybody ever knew, and for weeks afterward people were coming to look at the tree and cut off little pieces of it for souvenirs.” He added, “I don’t know why people act that way, only they do.”

“I don’t even care why they act, that way,” Bingo said happily. “I’m just glad that they do.” The word “souvenirs” had not only rung a bell in his mind, but set a whole series of them ringing.

“Pull up in the driveway,” he told Handsome. “After all, we almost own the place. But don’t run over anybody that might be a customer.”

The shining maroon convertible seemed to belong where it was going, and the curiosity seekers stepped back almost respectfully.

“This time,” Bingo said, “you take the camera!” He slid out of the car, pulled the quick give-away cards from his pocket, and smiled his most engaging smile.

“What a souvenir!” he said. “What an item for your memory book! A picture of you taken at the scene of at least one crime!” He waved majestically toward the mansion. “Come right on up the driveway, don’t hang back!” He beamed at a pair of embarrassed but happy matrons.

“An action picture of you,” he told them. “Go on, walk right up to the door and put your hand on the knob! That’s the ticket! What you’ll receive from us is practically a newsreel shot—”

The pair of matrons obliged, for three poses. “Just put your name and address on this card,” Bingo told them. “It’ll be twenty-five cents for each print, mailed to you within twenty-four hours!”

They decided, after a whispered conference, that they each wanted three prints of each pose. And this, Bingo reminded himself, was the day that had started off badly!