Эд Макбейн - The April Robin Murders

“Not a bit too high,” Bingo said bravely, “but make it fast.” He hung up the receiver, turned to Handsome and said, “How much can we raise on the car, fast?”

Handsome said, “Well—” He paused. “Maybe quicker, Bingo. Those two big cameras we got in New York.”

“Look up a good hock shop,” Bingo said. “Near here. And get over before they close.” He looked at Handsome. “I know what I’m doing, believe me.”

“Sure,” Handsome said cheerfully. “You always have.”

Bingo lit a cigarette, and then called Janesse Budlong. She said, before he could do more than identify himself, “I’m so sorry I ran away last night, but honest, I got scared and—”

“Forgotten and forgiven,” Bingo said warmly. “To you, everything is forgiven. Because we’ve looked at the pictures of you.”

There was a little gasp at the other end of the line. Not the gasp of the would-be model and/or actress who would go to any extremes for that one good break. It was the gasp of a very small child coming down the stairs on Christmas morning. “You mean, they’re — any good?”

“So good,” Bingo said, “that right now our lawyer is drawing up a personal management contract and he’ll have it here within the hour. Now don’t be alarmed. It’s a very simple thing, obligates you to almost nothing, and even that for a very short time, and obligates us to star you in our first production.”

Janesse Budlong said, “Oh!” It sounded like a prayer.

“Can you be here within an hour?” Bingo asked. “Would you like a lawyer of your own, or your father, or anybody else along to approve the contract?”

“Oh no,” she said. “No. I mean, I want Pa to know, he’ll be so pleased, but, well, what I mean is, I trust you guys. I’ll be there.” She giggled. “With clothes on.” She hung up.

Bingo lit a new cigarette, glanced briefly at the afternoon paper Handsome had brought in and dropped on the coffee table. The murder of Chester Baxter was a small paragraph. There was no mention of his possible connections. A man identified as Chester Baxter had been found up an alley with his throat cut, that was all. He tossed the paper aside.

He’d gone this far, he couldn’t stop now. Think big, he reminded himself, and go right on thinking big. He dialed Budlong and Dollinger and asked for Mr. Victor Budlong.

“Well, well, well,” Victor Budlong said. “How very nice to hear from you! Is there any way I can be of any help?”

“You sure can,” Bingo said. “And you sure have been. That office address has been a great help, and the office suite itself is going to be fine for a few weeks. But I’d like to talk with you about building. Perhaps you can help us find the right location? Introduce us to contractors?”

“Well!” Victor Budlong said. “As a matter of fact, there are two splendid building lots available, one right here in Beverly Hills, the other on the Strip.” He lowered his voice and said, “The one on the Strip is the better buy.”

“We’ll look them over,” Bingo said. “Right now, we’re in pretty much of a rush but — let’s say, three forty-five on Thursday?” He thought fast and said, “I may be able to bring my architect along.”

“Well, well, well,” Victor Budlong said. “Fine, fine, fine!”

“Now another thing,” Bingo said, this time rushing it. “We looked up your daughter, Janesse. My partner took some pictures of her. They are—” He paused for just the right timing. “I dislike to use the word. But — spectacular! She just hasn’t been photographed properly before. And what’s more, Mr. Budlong, that girl can act!”

“I always thought she could,” Victor Budlong said. “Only it was a matter of getting started—”

Bingo pulled all his salesmanship into working order and said, “The only reason was because — she was handicapped by being the daughter of a famous man.”

“Oh now,” Victor Budlong said. “Come come, now. I’m not—”

“Oh yes, you are,” Bingo said, fast. “You’re a very famous man, and you know it. Only because we came out here from New York—” He cleared his throat and said, “What I’m trying to tell you is this. We want to sign your daughter to a seven-day personal management contract. Right away. It obligates her to nothing — except not to sign with anyone else for a period of seven days. It obligates us to star her in our first production.”

“Well—” Victor Budlong began.

“We Easterners like to move fast,” Bingo went on, whipping up his own enthusiasm. “So our lawyer, Mr. Arthur Schlee” — he paused just long enough for that to sink in — “is sending the contract over to us, by messenger, with a notary, within the hour. And your lovely, talented daughter Janesse will be here to sign it. But since you’re her father, I really thought—”

“Janesse is over twenty-one,” Victor Budlong said, and added hastily, “But not much over.”

“Maybe you’d like to have Mr. Schlee read it to you?” Bingo suggested.

It seemed to Bingo that Victor Budlong was counting ten. “Oh,” he said at last, “I don’t think it’s necessary—”

They parted on a note of high mutual esteem.

Bingo tottered out into the kitchen, poured himself a half cup of stone-cold coffee, came back to the phone and told himself, “The bigger you think—” He dialed Leo Henkin.

“And what can old Leo Henkin do for you this late afternoon, h’m?” the mellow voice came over the phone.

Suddenly Bingo found himself at a loss for words. He thought very fast about the carnival agent he’d known in New York, reminded himself how much Leo Henkin resembled him, armed himself with the thought that he was president of the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America, and tried to speak.

“So you’re going to build your own office building,” Leo Henkin’s voice boomed. “Well, before you decide on the location, let old Leo Henkin advise you. And when you start looking for studio space—”

“How did you know we’re planning to build?” Bingo said.

The warm and friendly laugh came over the wire. “Oh, Leo Henkin knows everything.”

“Not always, he knows everything,” Bingo said. He felt that same warm rush of triumph he’d felt the time he’d taken a swing at the carnival agent. “We’ve got our star. Mr. Schlee’s office is sending over a personal management contract, by messenger. She’ll be here within the hour, to sign.”

There was a heavy silence at the other end of the line before Leo Henkin said heavily, “My dear boy. You are new in Hollywood. Perhaps you should have my advice—” There was another pause. “A personal management contract is a tricky thing, my dear young man.”

“Not if Arthur Schlee draws it up,” Bingo said.

Obviously Leo Henkin could have no answer to that one. After a third and this time longish pause, he said simply, “Who is she?”

Bingo sat up very straight and said, “Janesse Budlong.”

The fourth pause just sounded stunned. Then, “That little girl?”

“That little girl,” Bingo said back at him. “Victor Budlong’s little girl. That’s what everyone here has thought of her, all this time. But we took some pictures of her. We know she can act.”

“Old Leo Henkin would like to see those pictures,” the great agent said.

“Why not?” Bingo plunged on recklessly. “In fact, if you have the time free, why don’t you stop by within the hour? She’ll be here, and the contracts.” This, he reminded himself, was the town of “Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” the town of great protocol among secretaries as to which party should be put on the line first, the town where men like Leo Henkin kept visitors waiting in anterooms.