The April Robin Murders

Eighteen

Bingo didn’t answer. He sank down on the davenport and whispered, “The poor little guy!”

“Well!” Perroni said. “So he was a friend of yours?”

Bingo didn’t answer that, either. He was thinking of Chester Baxter, a con man and not a very successful one, but with great plans for his future. Maybe if he’d succeeded in his mission it would have brought him the stake he had obviously needed so badly. Enough to take him back to San Diego and the rich widow. Maybe everything would have turned out fine. Little Chester Baxter had left the house, not so long ago, with a gleam in his eye and high hopes in his heart. And then, in an alley in Ocean Park — Bingo felt his stomach tilt a little.

Little Chester Baxter had been a man of honor, in his profession and according to his lights, and someone had cut his throat.

Bingo didn’t want to talk to Perroni, he didn’t want to talk to anybody. He just wanted to get away by himself and think things over. To his relief, Perroni turned his morose gaze on William Willis.

“All right, Willie, what are you doing here? Looking for your sister? We’ll find her first.”

William Willis moistened his lips. “It’s like these gentlemen said. I came over here to talk picture business.”

“Birds,” Handsome said helpfully. “Birds and reptiles.”

Perroni ignored him and went on coldly, “You sure pick a funny time of day for a business visit.”

“I get up very early every day,” William Willis said, his voice a little shaky. “That’s the way I am.”

“Sure,” Hendenfelder said amiably. “That’s the way you are because that’s the way you are.”

William Willis smiled at him wanly. “It’s what you might call a — well, like a—”

“Just a personal foible,” Hendenfelder said. “We know. This is Hollywood. Everybody’s got their little foibles.”

Perroni looked as though he wished Hendenfelder had smothered in his cradle, and said, “We’ll skip that. We can check why you’re here. Tell me, Willie—”

“Just because my sister was involved in a murder,” William Willis said, with sudden and incredible dignity, “just because she is suspected of a murder of which she is entirely innocent, there is no reason to call me Willie.” He lifted his chin another half inch and said, “My name is William Willis.” Even Perroni was put back on his heels for a moment or so.

“All right, Mister Willis,” the sad-eyed detective said icily, “did you know Chester Baxter?”

“I never heard of a Chester Baxter.” The look on his face dared Perroni, the whole police department, or anyone in the wide world to prove otherwise.

“And if I may be so rude as to ask,” Perroni said, “where were you last night and what were you doing?”

William Willis’ stare returned icicle for icicle. “I was in Bakersfield until one o’clock,” he said. “With my birds. Doing a benefit performance for a homeless dog shelter.”

Perroni nodded to Hendenfelder. “Check,” he said. Hendenfelder went into the kitchen to telephone.

Bingo reached for a cigarette. His hands were trembling, but only a little. He wanted to tell somebody about everything. About the deal with Chester Baxter. About Lois Lattimer’s name being DeLee. About Courtney Budlong having murdered Pearl Durzy. But he didn’t want to tell Perroni. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to tell Hendenfelder. He wished he were back in New York, twenty blocks from home, without carfare, and in the middle of a blizzard.

Perroni turned his unhappy gaze on Bingo and said, “And Mister Willis came here, at this early hour, to talk about the picture business?”

Bingo looked him straight in the eye and said, “You don’t think I’d lie to the police, do you?”

“Yes,” Perroni said, and settled that question once and for all.

“Handsome,” Bingo said, in a voice he hoped sounded bored, “call up our lawyer, Mr. Arthur Schlee. Tell him there’s a couple of cops bothering us, for nothing. Tell him if it’s out of his line, to get” — he searched his memory fast — “Jerry Giesler!”

Perroni held up a hand and said, “Any time you are going to need a lawyer, I’ll let you know. Right now, this is only a routine investigation. Me, I don’t care about this Chester Baxter character being murdered.”

“I do,” Bingo said, before he could catch himself.

Hendenfelder had come back from telephoning, and stood in the doorway, listening.

“And just what was this Chester Baxter character to you?” Perroni demanded.

“Nothing,” Bingo said miserably. Chester Baxter had been a crook, a con man, one who picked on wealthy and gullible widows. He thought of the ugly smile he’d seen on Chester Baxter’s mouth at the thought of catching up with the man who called himself Courtney Budlong. But he said, “It’s just that, well, nobody wants to be murdered.” There wasn’t anything else to say.

“That’s why you have a police department,” Perroni said. “But this Chester Baxter character doesn’t count.”

He’d counted very much to Chester Baxter, Bingo thought.

“My particular job is arresting Lois Lattimer for the murder of her husband,” Perroni said doggedly.

“Lois didn’t kill him,” William Willis said.

“And besides,” Bingo said, “he can’t possibly be dead.”

Hendenfelder eased himself into the room and said quietly, “It checks, Perroni. This guy’s bird act did a show last night in Bakersfield, the dog shelter benefit. Drew a big crowd and went over great.” He acknowledged William Willis’ thanks with a nod and a smile and said, “He didn’t get away from Bakersfield until almost one o’clock, so he couldn’t have gotten back here in time to cut Chester Baxter’s throat.” He coughed and said, “Besides which—” and then paused.

Perroni looked coldly at William Willis and said, “All right. Go home.”

William Willis lit a new cigarette and didn’t move. “Stay here, then,” Perroni said. He turned to Bingo and Handsome. “And where were you last night?”

“We weren’t out murdering Chester Baxter,” Bingo said. He was beginning to get mad now. “Handsome, go on and call Mr. Schlee.”

“Forget it,” Perroni said. “I only asked a simple question.”

“We were here,” Bingo said.

“I won’t ask you to prove it now,” Perroni said, in a very tired voice. He thrust his hands in his coat pockets, squared away and said, “Chester Baxter came back here to see you. Twice.”

Bingo started to say, “How do you know?” and then shut his mouth. But Perroni had caught his expression.

“We weren’t watching you, and we weren’t watching him,” he said. “But a guy from the bunco squad was keeping an eye on him. He came back here twice. So he must have had some kind of business with you. He went to a joint on Olympic. The Owl’s Roost. As might have been expected. It’s sort of a hangout for those guys. He bought drinks for a few people. He got confidential with a few people. To the effect that he was on the trail of some really important cash money. Then somehow the guy from the bunco squad lost sight of him around midnight. This morning a guy who lives a couple blocks from there went to take out his garbage, and found him.” He paused, fixed a grim stare on Bingo and said, “Well?”

“It’s a little complicated,” Bingo said. He wished William Willis weren’t present. Uncle Herman had told him, time and time again, “When in doubt, tell the truth.” He said uneasily, “Perhaps if I could talk with you alone—”

“I’m involved in this, too,” William Willis said. “My sister. My sister didn’t cut this man’s throat.”

“Nobody said she did,” Perroni told him, “and shut up.”

“Well,” Bingo said, “well, it’s like this. We wanted to find Mr. Courtney Budlong. I mean, the man who called himself Mr. Courtney Budlong.”

“Naturally,” Hendenfelder said soothingly. “Naturally.”

“And this Mr. Chester Baxter,” Bingo plunged on desperately, “was sure he could find him. He made a — we made a — an arrangement with him. In fact, he said he was sure he could find him last night.”

There was a little silence.

“I guess,” Hendenfelder said at last, and very gently, “your Mr. Courtney Budlong didn’t want to be found.”

Bingo had a sudden vision of Courtney Budlong’s friendly, benevolent face and silvery hair, and said, “No!” before he had time to think. “I mean. What I mean is — Mr. Courtney Budlong wouldn’t murder anybody—” He felt his voice stop dead in his throat.

“That type usually doesn’t,” Hendenfelder said.

“But,” Bingo said, “but he did!” He gulped. He looked at Hendenfelder as he said it. “He killed Pearl Durzy.”

No one said anything. It seemed to Bingo for a moment that he was completely alone in the world and probably at the bottom of a deep, deep well.

“Nice of you to tell us now,” Perroni said at last. “And why didn’t you tell us in the first place?”

He was not only alone in the world, but that world was coming to an abrupt end any minute, Bingo thought. He couldn’t, he daren’t involve Mariposa DeLee in this, since she was busily looking for the man who called himself Courtney Budlong. Yet, on the other hand, there was the chance that Mariposa DeLee could also be found up an alley with her throat cut.

Perroni began prowling around the room, ostentatiously looking under the davenports, behind the doors and in the fireplace. “What are you looking for?” Bingo asked. He was now beginning to wish the world would come to that abrupt end and get it over with.

Perroni stopped his prowling, resumed his stance and said, “I’m looking for the cat that got your tongue.”

William Willis thought that was very funny. Bingo didn’t.

Handsome said suddenly, “We figured out, Bingo and me, that he was the only person who needed to kill her. We were going to call you up and tell you about it, only it was sort of late at night, so we were going to call you up this morning.”

“And,” Bingo said quickly and with a smile, “being from out of town, we figured you were just like ordinary cops, and we didn’t want to disturb you too early. We didn’t know you cops work so hard and so long.”

Perroni didn’t fall for that one. “You should have called me right away if you had any ideas. On the Lattimer case, I’m working twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week and no holidays. How did you figure this out, or” — with the nasty smile — “am I being rude?”

“Well, look,” Bingo said. “Mr. Courtney Budlong — maybe we’d better go right on calling him that. It’s not so confusing.” Much less confusing than calling him Charlie Browne, or Clifford Bradbury. “When he showed us the house, this Pearl Durzy was around. She gave him some very dirty looks. And then, after we left—” He thought fast. A lot of details had to be skipped. “Well, I mean. We figured she knew he didn’t have the right to sell the house, and so she went and looked him up and tried to get some of the money, and he brought her back here and killed her.”

He realized right away that it didn’t sound convincing, it didn’t even sound intelligible.

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.