Эд Макбейн - The April Robin Murders

“The rest of the downstairs—” Courtney Budlong began.

Handsome clutched Bingo’s hand, said “Psst!” and pointed.

Up on the balcony was what Bingo decided first was a ghost, on second thought, an optical illusion, and finally, a possible human being. In the duskiness of the big room, and at the distance from the floor to the balcony, he could barely make out a woman in gray. Gray dress, gray hair, and — even in the dusk and across the distance he could see — a gray and unpleasant, unfriendly, even malevolent face. The face glared down at them for a few seconds and then the gray figure darted away and was eaten up by the shadows.

Bingo laughed nervously and said, “Does a ghost go with the house?”

Courtney Budlong laughed too, but his was reassuring. “Just the caretaker. Someone has to look after the place. The new owner can fire her, and probably will. Now here in the left wing—”

The door to the left wing led to a club-sized dining room, naked of furniture and pictures but boasting a dusty chandelier. “You ought to see this with the furniture back in it, and the paintings.” More French doors showed a vista of another shaggy lawn, a mass of weed-choked flower beds, and a small fountain, now waterless. “Be absolutely nothing to get these wonderful grounds in shape.” There was a breakfast room, small for this house, but living-room size anywhere else. It, too, looked out on the desolate garden. “The furniture for this room is Early Colonial. Beautiful stuff.”

There was a butler’s pantry, with empty shelves. “China and glassware are all carefully packed in barrels, of course—” And at last, a good-sized kitchen that showed signs of human occupancy. There were pots and pans on the stove that looked sizable enough to provide for a busy metropolitan restaurant, there was a clutter of ten-cent-store china on the drainboard of the sink, and the big refrigerator was cold to the touch. It was, somehow, reassuring.

“The caretaker lives in,” Courtney Budlong said, as though he just faintly disapproved. “Her quarters are right through here—” He tapped lightly on a door leading from the kitchen, heard no answer and opened the door.

The room was not large, nor ornate, but it looked as though someone lived there, and had lived there a long time. A person of simple tastes, though. There was a neatly made-up bed, a slightly shabby carpet on the floor, two hard chairs, a dresser covered with a fresh scarf and sporting a comb, brush and pair of scissors. On the wall was a large and garish reproduction of a Maxfield Parrish painting.

“Pearl was the housekeeper here for a long time,” Courtney Budlong said, “and she’s stayed on as caretaker. Pearl Durzy. Very efficient woman.”

And a frightening one, Bingo said to himself. But Courtney Budlong had said that he could — he caught himself — that the new owner could fire her.

Back in the immense living room, Courtney Budlong paused a moment, and then said, “Let’s see — what part of the house shall we see next?” He thought for another moment, his face broke into a smile, and he said, “The library, of course, and what used to be a replica of a Victorian parlor. Can be again, with the furniture out of storage.”

The library was the size and shape of the dining room, and it, too, looked out on the dreary lawn and silent fountain. “You have no idea how delightful this vista can be, with a little care. And notice these walls.”

The walls, as near as Bingo could make out, were of marble. Pale, pink-grained marble. There were bookshelves along one side of the room, which, Bingo assumed, entitled it to the name of library. “A library, or a study,” Courtney Budlong said. “Or even a music room.” He touched the pink-grained marble almost lovingly. “Beautiful stuff!”

He led them back into the hall that led back into the living room in one direction and apparently came to a dead end in the other one. Another flight of stairs led up from it, a narrower, shadowy and dust-laden one.

Bingo looked back toward the immense living room, then into the pink-grained marble library, and finally looked at Handsome. “This,” he said ecstatically, “certainly beats the Skylight Motel, doesn’t it!”

“The Skylight Motel?” Courtney Budlong said, faint surprise in his voice.

This had to be shrugged off fast, Bingo told himself. He smiled and said, “Coming from New York — well, regular hotels just didn’t seem to have any appeal. You know. We didn’t know anything about Hollywood and a couple of friends recommended the Skylight—”

He didn’t add that the friends had been the classified section of the telephone directory, and a street map of Hollywood.

“I’ve heard of it,” Courtney Budlong said. “Nice, clean place.” His tone indicated that these two bright young businessmen would be well out of it, though.

At that moment the caretaker appeared at the bottom of the stairs as unexpectedly as though she’d done it with ectoplasm. She stood there for just an instant glaring at them, and then scuttled — yes, Bingo thought, that was the only word for it — down the hall and across the living room.

No one spoke for a moment, then Courtney Budlong said, “Poor old soul!” in a kindly voice. “Now let me show you what’s right across the hall—”

What had been the Victorian parlor was almost inky dark. There was one smallish oval window halfway up to the ceiling, but it had been almost completely overgrown by the untended vines. Courtney Budlong reached for the light switch and disclosed another empty room, its walls tinted a dusty and faded green. “Can be charming,” he said. “Completely charming.”

Handsome spoke for the first time since they’d turned in the drive. “Gosh,” he said, and there was real enthusiasm in his voice. “What a place to fix up a darkroom!”

“My partner’s hobby is photography,” Bingo said hastily.

There was another flight of stairs leading up from behind the library, an enclosed, shadowy and dust-laden one. At the top of it, Courtney Budlong flung open another door and announced, “The master suite.”

The master suite was an affair of two bedrooms, two dressing rooms and a bath. One bedroom opened into a smaller room, which Courtney Budlong described as. “The boudoir, of course,” and the other into a similar room which he described as “And naturally, the den.”

From that point on, Bingo began to get lost and to lose count. There seemed to be bedroom after bedroom, bath after bath, connecting hall after connecting hall. The battlemented terrace and the tower, he was told, were purely outside decoration, but of course with a little remodeling — at not too much cost—

At last they came down the main staircase, Bingo’s head spinning a little. This house, with the furniture out of storage, a little paint thrown around, no swimming pool, of course, but there was a perfect space for one in that back lawn—

He pinched himself and reminded himself firmly that this was a mansion for millionaires. Perhaps someday — well, at least it had been fun seeing it.

He caught one last glimpse of the all-gray caretaker, still scuttling, across the living room.

“Let’s go out and have a smoke,” Courtney Budlong said. He led the way through the hall, through the big ornate door, and out to where the convertible was parked, looking a little small in its surroundings.

“And would you believe it,” Courtney Budlong said, “because the owner is anxious to get this off his hands, he’ll sell this as is, complete with the furniture, for twenty thousand dollars!”

He paused to let that sink in. “The furniture — just a matter of phoning the storage company to send it over. Gas — lights — telephone — all in, and paid up for three months ahead.”