Эд Макбейн - The April Robin Murders

“Adelle Lattimer,” a voice said suddenly, and Bingo sat up, wide awake. He realized instantly that it was no longer morning. He realized, too, that he was hungry. Very hungry. And there was a tantalizing odor of bacon and coffee in the air.

The voice had been Handsome’s voice, and it went on apologetically, “I didn’t like to wake you up, Bingo, only I got to thinking about Adelle Lattimer—”

He yawned, looked at his watch. “Gosh, I’ve slept the whole day away.” He blinked and stretched. “What about Adelle Lattimer?”

“Well,” Handsome said worriedly, “it could be, she’s in danger. Account of, Chester Baxter being murdered.”

“Slower, please,” Bingo said. “And maybe a little louder.”

“I mean,” Handsome said, “account of her having also made a deal with Chester Baxter. Which possibly somebody might’ve known about. And if Chester Baxter was murdered by somebody who didn’t want him to find where Julien Lattimer is—”

Bingo tried to sort that, and a lot of other things, out in his mind, which was still a little clouded over by the technicolor dream. He said at last, “Maybe we ought to warn her. Maybe we ought to call her up.” He paused. “But she must know about it already. Why, the whole day’s gone. The newspapers—”

“Sure, Bingo,” Handsome said. “Only it seems like if she’d read about it in the newspapers, she’d’ve called to tell us.”

“All right,” Bingo said. “We’ll call her. We’ll call a lot of people, too. Especially, Mariposa DeLee. Because of what William Willis told us last night.”

He rose, stretched his aching muscles and went to the telephone.

Adelle Lattimer was not in her little hat shop in Pacific Palisades. She had not been in all day. Her residence phone didn’t answer.

A strange voice at the Skylight Motel said that Mariposa DeLee was out, and no one knew when she’d be back.

Bingo went back to the couch, sat down and said, “We’ll try a little later.”

Handsome came in with a tray. Bacon and eggs and hot buttered toast, and a pot of coffee. “I went to the store and bought things,” he said, “right after I came back from the post office.”

Bingo paused in the act of stirring his coffee. “The post office? Why?”

“To mail the pictures,” Handsome said. “There were a lot of them. Ninety-one cards came in today.”

“Gosh!” Bingo said fervently. He began doing some mental arithmetic, paused and said, “But those cards—”

“Well,” Handsome said, “I didn’t want to wake you up. But I’d printed up all those other pictures and mailed them out. So I went down to our office—” He paused.

“That’s right,” Bingo said. “It’s our office. Go on.”

“And there were ninety-one cards there. So I made them up and mailed them out. Including the man who wanted the TV tickets.”

That brought up another problem, a minor but annoying one. “We got to do something about that.”

“Oh, sure,” Handsome said. “I put a note in with his pictures. Where he’s to call for the tickets. They’ll be in his name.”

Bingo looked up blankly, his mouth full of bacon.

“The Red Skelton Show on CBS,” Handsome said, “and the Groucho Marx Show on NBC. And a couple of others. I hope he likes them.”

“I’m sure he will,” Bingo said. He didn’t want to ask, but he had to. “How did you get the tickets—”

“Why,” Handsome said, “I just called up the big TV studios and asked.”

After a few minutes Bingo said, “Oh.”

“And, Bingo,” Handsome said, “the nice old lady next door. That Mrs. Hibbing. She lived out here all this time and she never got to go through a movie studio. And she being such a friendly lady, and a next-door neighbor and everything, I didn’t think you’d mind if I fixed it up. For day after tomorrow. She was very pleased when I told her.”

Bingo laid down his fork and said heavily, “I suppose you just called up a movie studio.”

“Well,” Handsome said, “naturally.” He drew a long breath. “I remember Twentieth-Century Fox especially because I read an article once about how they paint the sky out there. The big background sky, I mean. How many men it takes to do it, and how they work, and—”

“Never mind the sky,” Bingo said.

Handsome looked a little hurt. “They were very nice and helpful,” he said. “After I explained that I was with the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America. And I gave him the number of our Beverly Hills office and explained it was only temporary until we could build our own building. A very nice and helpful lady arranged everything for Mrs. Hibbing.”

He paused and looked anxious. “Did I do wrong, Bingo?”

“No,” Bingo said, a little hoarsely. “No, Handsome, you did just fine.” He said it with all his heart.

Handsome beamed and looked relieved. “And after postage stamps and some gasoline for the car, and the groceries, we cleared—”

“Don’t bother me with details,” Bingo said. “We have things to do.” A seemingly endless number of them, and the big question was, which was to be done first.

“When in doubt,” he told himself, “call your lawyer.” He drained the last of the coffee, went to the phone and called Arthur Schlee.

Arthur Schlee said that he was terribly sorry, but he simply hadn’t had time to go into all the details of the very complex situation.

“We understand,” Bingo said smoothly. “We know what it is to be busy. But I have something else, nothing to do with this case, and something immediate.” Think big, he told himself, and think big fast! “I — we — need a personal management contract drawn up just as quickly as possible. We have something just too good to let get away from us.”

Arthur Schlee made them a little speech regarding personal management contracts, bringing in the detail of the laws against non-licensed agents, and the Thirteenth Amendment.

“We understand all that,” Bingo said. “We just want a brief little personal management contract between a certain party and ourselves. No money changing hands except the customary one dollar given in good faith. We guarantee to star her in our first production. In return, she will not—” He paused on the verge of saying “run around in bathing suits” and said, “Will not pose for any photographs or discuss any picture roles.”

“Within how long a period?” Arthur Schlee said.

“Within a period of seven days,” Bingo said. “That’s how sure we are of immediate production.”

“I see,” Arthur Schlee said. “And what is the name of the party?”

“Janesse Budlong,” Bingo said. “Janesse with two esses.”

Arthur Schlee seemed to be catching his breath. Finally he said, “How soon—?”

“It’s a simple thing,” Bingo told him. “Have your secretary type it up, the customary number of copies” — he wondered how many that would be — “and rush it over here by messenger within the hour, with a notary.” He ignored the muttered protests on the other end of the line and said, “We’re from the East, Mr. Schlee, and we’re used to doing things fast. Fast, and big. Now can you get that over here right away? And incidentally, how much will your fee be on this?”

This time Bingo had the impression that Arthur Schlee was counting on his fingers. Finally the lawyer said, “My dear young man, a friend of Leo Henkin’s is a friend of mine. I hope I may have the pleasure and privilege of representing you in your entire picture setup. Ordinarily, a contract like this might take days, and run into thousands. But under the circumstances—” He seemed to sigh. “I’ll rush it right over. And shall we say — two hundred and fifty?”