Эд Макбейн - The April Robin Murders

Hendenfelder said, “But with Mr. Lattimer’s signatures on those papers, he did have the right to sell the house—”

“Julien Lattimer,” Perroni stated flatly, “is a murdered man. His wife killed him.”

“My sister,” William Willis said, “did not kill anybody.”

“You keep out of this,” Perroni said. He added, “Lois Lattimer would also have had reason to kill her. And to kill Chester Baxter.”

Everything came to another standstill. Handsome cleared his throat and said, “Only, I keep thinking. Pearl Durzy could’ve been anybody. Like she could’ve been, for example, April Robin.” He added diffidently, “On account of, nobody seems to know who Pearl Durzy is. Was.” He paused and then said even more diffidently, “Fingerprints.”

Perroni made a rude noise through his nose. “The Durzy woman evidently never had her prints made. The ones I got off her remains don’t match any other prints, anywhere.” Suddenly he relaxed a little, sat down on the arm of the davenport and said, “There just are no damned fingerprints anywhere. None of Mrs. Lois Lattimer. She didn’t drive a car much, and evidently when she did, she didn’t worry about a license. There aren’t any prints of Julien Lattimer, either.” He looked as though it were a personal affront to him.

There was another long pause. William Willis rose, stretched, looked at his watch and said, “I’ve got a fifteen-foot boa constrictor that has to be fed right on the nose of nine. And it’s quite a drive to my place—” He looked challengingly at Perroni.

“We know where to find you,” Perroni said sulkily.

William Willis looked at Bingo meaningfully and said, “I’ll be in touch with you. Soon.”

“Fine,” Bingo said heartily. “We’ll get some good pictures.”

Handsome said, “That reminds me. Mr. Hendenfelder. You wanted a souvenir to send to your little niece in Milwaukee. Why not a nice picture of you taken in the rose garden?”

Hendenfelder thought that was a wonderful idea. Handsome collected his camera and they followed William Willis into what was now sunlight.

Left alone with Perroni, Bingo said, “Believe me. I’m only trying to help.”

“You could have helped more if you’d stayed in New York,” Perroni said. “You guys come out here, you get into this house-buying mix-up, and all hell breaks loose. People get killed. I’ve been going along looking for Julien Lattimer’s body, and tracing Mrs. Lois Lattimer, and now, just where am I?” He lapsed into a melancholy silence.

“We’d like to help find Mr. Lattimer’s body,” Bingo said, “and Mrs. Lois Lattimer.”

Perroni gazed at him with mournful eyes and said, “Somehow I think my job would be easier if you didn’t help.”

Bingo said earnestly, “Look, the real reason we got together with Chester Baxter to locate our Mr. Courtney Budlong wasn’t because of the money we’d lost. It was because, obviously, our Mr. Courtney Budlong was a lead to Mr. Julien Lattimer.”

“I figured that out all by myself,” Perroni said sourly.

“Mr. Julien Lattimer did sign that letter and that receipt,” Bingo said.

“According to our top handwriting expert, he did,” Perroni said. “And when Clark Sellers says a signature is genuine, the signature is genuine.” He pulled his shoulders back in the gesture of one who will not concede the possibility of defeat. “But Julien Lattimer was murdered.” Perroni assumed the stance of a dedicated man.

“Mrs. Lattimer,” Bingo said. “She’s got to be somewhere.”

“That check in El Paso,” Perroni muttered. He wasn’t talking to Bingo now, nor to anyone, he was repeating something he’d said to himself over and over. “And the checks she passed here before she lit out. Those checks here were strictly phonies. She wrote them to herself, signed her dead husband’s name, endorsed them, and got away with it. Then, bang, she was gone. Reported in Acapulco, Kansas City, Toronto, hell, I can’t even name the places. Never the right babe, though. These small blondes all look alike. The check from El Paso, Lattimer’s signature was genuine. It was a check made out to Mrs. Lattimer by Julien Lattimer. Endorsed by her. Then she vanished. Where?” He glared at Bingo as though he might be hiding her in his pocket.

“She’s somewhere in this town,” Perroni said. “And she’s a killer. Maybe gone a little bit nuts, ready to kill anybody.”

Handsome and Hendenfelder returned before Bingo could say again that Julien Lattimer had been alive when he signed those papers.

Hendenfelder was beaming. He said, “I bet those pictures turn out swell! I’ll do something for you someday.”

Handsome said quickly, “You’ve done a lot already.”

Perroni stood by the door for a moment, glancing around the room as though he was considering searching the house again. Then he said, through tight lips, “I’ll find his body. And I’ll find her. You’ll see!” and went out with Hendenfelder.

Handsome looked anxiously at Bingo for a moment. Then he said, “I think there’s enough stuff left in the refrigerator to make us some breakfast—”

“Throw it all out,” Bingo said hoarsely. “It belonged to Pearl Durzy. Right now, I can’t eat a dead woman’s food.”

“Just as you say, Bingo,” Handsome said solicitously.

“Right now, I can’t eat anything,” Bingo said. He sat perfectly still for a moment. “Handsome, we’ll go to Goody-Goody’s after a few minutes, and get ham and eggs and fried potatoes.” He wasn’t going to admit he was scared, not to Handsome, not even to himself.

“Bingo,” Handsome said. “That Hendenfelder. He’s a very friendly person. He gave me the address of the Owl’s Roost. And the name of the bartender. And the names of some of the people who go there. He said the best time to drop in is around six or seven, after this bartender, his name is Matthew, comes on duty.”

It would be so easy to pack their belongings, take what cash they still had on hand, and head for New York. Fast. Bingo counted to five and then said, “Not a bad suggestion. We’ll drop in there tonight.”

The sun was streaming through the windows now, and this was a bright, brand-new, unused day.

He rose from the davenport and said, “While you finish up the pictures, I’ll take a shower.” He scowled. “We’ve got to get some TV show tickets for that guy in the Hawaiian shirt, and a studio tour for Mrs. Hibbing.” A thought struck him. “And I’ve got to call up our lawyer, and Mr. Henkin, and Mr. Victor Budlong, and I should call Janesse Budlong and tell her how well the pictures turned out, and most important of all, I’ve got to call Mrs. Mariposa DeLee—” He yawned. “Maybe I’ll take a quick nap first—”

He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the lumpy davenport. He heard Handsome’s footsteps going toward the improvised darkroom. He saw a dusty sunbeam high above him in the big room. He saw, in what began to be a dream, the body of little Chester Baxter, somewhere in some dark alley, his throat cut. Then he heard and saw nothing at all.

It was an itchy and uneasy sleep, troubled by dreams he didn’t want to remember, and interrupted by thoughts he didn’t want to think.

The unpleasant dreams were complicated ones, and in technicolor. In one of them Janesse Budlong appeared, wearing a brief, becoming and bright green bathing suit. She smiled and said, “Look, I’m not really Janesse Budlong, I’m Mariposa DeLee!” and suddenly there was Mariposa DeLee in a sequin-studded slack suit, confiding, “I’m really not Mariposa DeLee, you know, I’m Mrs. Waldo Hibbing.” Then Mrs. Waldo Hibbing, in a brightly printed chiffon dress and scuffed tennis shoes, said happily, “Please don’t tell anyone, but actually, I’m Lois Lattimer—” She faded into a vague and shadowy figure who whispered through a mist, “No one must ever know, but I’m Pearl Durzy—” and then the mist grew deeper, and a voice from somewhere breathed, “And all this time, I’ve been April Robin—”