Эд Макбейн - The April Robin Murders

“Leo Henkin will be there in half an hour,” the agent said.

Bingo hung up and realized he was dripping with sweat. He wished Handsome would get back with the money.

He made another attempt to reach Adelle Lattimer and then Mariposa DeLee, again with no success. He wondered if he ought to call Hendenfelder and confide that Adelle Lattimer might be in danger.

He realized, with a sudden start, that he’d been sleeping all day in his clothes and that it had been a long time since his last shave.

He moved fast. By the time Handsome returned, he had shaved, showered, dressed in the avocado-green slacks with their matching shirt, and the plain saffron tie. This, he felt, was an occasion for informal garb. He’d just finished slicking down his sandy hair when Handsome came in.

“Two hundred and fifty dollars,” Handsome said, handing it over. He had the expression of someone who’s just sold his mother into slavery.

Bingo put the bills in his wallet and said gently, “Handsome, we’ve had to hock cameras before. We’ve always gotten them back. Believe me, I know what I’m doing.” He managed to smile with a confidence he didn’t really feel, and said, “Everything’s going to be all right.”

The partners exchanged a long, silent look. It would have been nice, Bingo thought, it would have been pleasant and peaceful, just to go along like this, living in the April Robin house, taking sidewalk pictures just the way they’d done in the past, and letting the future do its own worrying. But it wasn’t going to be that way. It wasn’t a matter of his own doing, it was just the way things had happened.

“And anyway,” he said at last, “we came to Hollywood to get rich. And famous.”

Handsome said, “Sure, Bingo, and anyway those weren’t the best cameras, just the ones that cost the most money. We can get along fine until we get them back.”

The doorbell rang. It was not a messenger from Arthur Schlee’s office. It was Arthur Schlee himself, accompanied by a secretary who was also a notary. She looked as much like a lawyer’s secretary as Arthur Schlee looked like a lawyer. She was that young Hollywood age which stretches anywhere from eighteen to fifty-five. Her brownish hair had evidently been done by one of the better hairdressers. She wore a neatly tailored outfit which was exactly what the best-dressed lawyer’s secretary should wear and yet still hinted that she would look better in a strapless bathing suit. Her expression said that, as Arthur Schlee’s secretary, she had drawn many contracts, heard many secrets, seen many things, told nothing and was incapable of being awed, but there was still a gleam in her eye. She carried a professional-looking manila envelope under her arm.

Arthur Schlee introduced her as Joyce Grimstead.

She sat down on the sofa, smiled at Bingo, looked interestedly at Handsome, drew a handful of papers from the envelope and said, “I hope these are satisfactory.”

Arthur Schlee said, “As I told you. You must understand. This sort of thing is a little unusual.”

“Where we come from,” Bingo said, “nothing is unusual.” He drew a long breath. “There will, of course, be many papers to draw up later. This is just, shall we say, staking a claim.”

He detected a faintly sordid glint in Arthur Schlee’s ice-blue eyes, and added hastily, “Let’s get your fee out of the way first.” He reached for his wallet. “Two hundred and fifty. Plus, of course, the notary fee.”

“We can skip that,” Arthur Schlee said, getting his hands on the bills. “I’ll submit an expense account later.”

“But something,” Bingo said graciously, “for the young lady — her overtime — her extra work—” He smiled at her. “Flowers? Candy? Theatre tickets?”

To his surprise, she smiled back at him. “Nothing. It’s worth it to see the inside of this house.”

“Now, now,” Bingo said, in mock reproof. “You’re not old enough to have been an April Robin fan!”

“That doesn’t mean I haven’t heard of her,” Joyce Grimstead said. She glanced around the enormous room. “Funny. This isn’t the sort of house I’d have thought she’d have had.”

“It was a considerable house for those days,” Arthur Schlee said, and then, remembering who his clients were, added, “Or for any day.”

She nodded and said, “But somehow — you’d think of something more delicate. More birdlike—” Her voice faded into a thoughtful silence.

Arthur Schlee cleared his throat and said, “Well, you’d better look over those papers—”

Bingo looked them over, wishing he knew what their legal terminology meant. He nodded gravely and handed them to Handsome.

Handsome looked them over even more gravely. “Look perfectly all right,” he said, and handed them back.

Suddenly Bingo said, “If you’ll excuse me — I’d like to have a word with my partner—”

He led Handsome out into the front entryway, while Arthur Schlee and his secretary sat gazing at the magnificence of what had been the April Robin house.

“Listen, Handsome,” Bingo hissed. “We’ve got to do this big or not at all.” He handed over what was nearly half of the remaining bankroll. “Just a few blocks up the street — and make it fast—”

Handsome made the “okay” sign and said, “I’ll bring it in the back way.”

Bingo came back, sat down, smiled and said, “Nothing to do with this. Can’t think of everything, though. Just some important chemicals to be picked up.”

Arthur Schlee said, “I’ve been giving considerable thought to our problem. Regarding the ownership of the house—”

“Please,” Bingo said. “Let’s talk about it later. It’s going to be an easy problem to settle, one way or another.” He turned on his warmest smile and said, “And I know you’re the man to settle it for us. As my good friend Leo Henkin said, we couldn’t have a better lawyer.”

He spotted Arthur Schlee casting a surreptitious glance at his watch, and said, “In fact, old Leo Henkin himself should be dropping in any minute. And, of course, our—” He hesitated. Somehow he didn’t want to use the word “property” — “The young lady.”

There was a slight but awkward silence. Joyce Grimstead broke it, glancing again around the room and saying, “This place must be huge! Rooms and rooms and rooms and rooms! And all the murders—” She paused and said, “I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned those.”

“Why not?” Bingo said. “They happened. Would you like me to show you the room where the housekeeper was murdered?”

She said, “Oh!” and, for a Hollywood lawyer’s secretary, turned a little pale.

“I can’t show you where Mr. Julien Lattimer was murdered,” Bingo went on amiably, “because no one seems to know.”

Arthur Schlee opened his mouth, drew in a breath, and shut it again.

“Or,” Bingo said, finishing it for him, “if he was.”

He felt a little relieved at hearing Handsome stirring around in the kitchenette. The front doorbell rang, and Handsome came in through the kitchen door and said, “I’ll get it.”

“Well,” Leo Henkin’s voice boomed from the doorway. “So this is the house itself!” He came on into the living room, taking up an amazing amount of space for so small a man. “And Leo Henkin’s good friend Art Schlee, looking after my good friends of the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America!” He beamed at everybody, sat down in the center of one of the davenports, and said, “Well, where’s the young lady?”

“She’ll be here any minute,” Bingo said. “Maybe you’d like to see some of the pictures—?”

Leo Henkin would indeed like to see some of the pictures. So would Arthur Schlee. Even Joyce Grimstead showed a faint interest.