The April Robin Murders

Seven

“But look,” Bingo said. “He wasn’t going to be in his office today. Mr. Budlong wasn’t, I mean.”

“What Budlong?” Detective Hendenfelder said.

“Our Mr. Budlong,” Bingo said. “Mr. Courtney Budlong.”

Hendenfelder said nothing, and said it tactfully. He watched the street and concentrated on his driving.

Bingo was riding into Beverly Hills with Hendenfelder in a dark sedan which, to his great relief, didn’t look in the least like a police car, though he hadn’t seen any signs of either Mrs. Waldo (Myrtie) Hibbing or the great Rex Strober watching from their windows. Handsome was driving the convertible, with Perroni as a passenger. The idea had been Perroni’s.

“He said the office wouldn’t be open because of the holiday,” Bingo said, grasping at a straw.

“What holiday?” Hendenfelder asked, not skeptically, just curiously.

“Consolidation Day,” Bingo said. “Today is Consolidation Day.”

Hendenfelder slowed down, stared at Bingo, pulled over to the curb and stopped. From the glove compartment he took out a little paper-bound book marked Information, and turned to a page headed “California Legal Holidays.”

“I don’t see anything here about Consolidation Day.”

Bingo looked at the page. He looked at it for a long time. Then he said weakly, “There must be some mistake.”

“Sure,” Hendenfelder said soothingly. “People are always making mistakes.” He put the book away and started the car again. “It’ll all get straightened out.” He added, “One way or another.”

A few blocks farther Bingo pointed and said, “That’s where he lives,” grasping at another straw.

Hendenfelder glanced up the curving driveway toward the big and beautiful house. “Sure,” he said. “Andy.”

“No,” Bingo said. “Mr. Budlong. Mr. Courtney Budlong.”

“That’s where Andy lives,” Hendenfelder said. “I mean Andy of Amos and Andy.” He added, “A very nice house, too.”

“But Mr. Courtney Budlong’s car was parked in the driveway,” Bingo said desperately. “A blue Continental. He left it there and we rode in our car so Handsome could learn his way around this part of town. And then when we left him at his office he said he had a few things to tend to there, and that — I think his name was Yoshiaki — would pick him up later—” His voice trailed away into a miserable nothing.

“This’ll get straightened out,” Hendenfelder said again. “Things do.”

Bingo settled back and tried to admire the houses, the lawns, gardens and clipped hedges which had seemed so beautiful yesterday, and thought with longing of upper Broadway and 92nd Street in the dead of a rainy winter.

Suddenly he said, “His cuff links. And his tie pin. Mr. Courtney Budlong’s. They had initials on them. C.B.”

“Could’ve stood for almost anything,” Hendenfelder said. He glanced at Bingo. “But don’t get me wrong. I don’t disbelieve you. I don’t disbelieve anybody. It don’t pay. Especially here in Hollywood.” He braked the car to a stop in front of Budlong and Dollinger, and said, “Perroni got here first, like always.”

The handsome little building with the chromium letters hadn’t changed since yesterday, but to Bingo it seemed to have a slightly sinister look. The interior was handsome too, and under any other circumstances he would have appreciated and admired it, right down to the last ceramic ashtray. But today he only wanted to get everything over with and get out, and fast.

The other Mr. Budlong — Bingo still refused to consider him the only Mr. Budlong — was as impressive as his building, tall and almost military, with heavy horn-rimmed glasses and iron-gray hair. He greeted Bingo as cordially as though there were no “little difficulty,” as he expressed it, in a beautiful, sonorous voice that was accompanied by a firm, warm handshake. A little difficulty, he added, that could be straightened out.

Bingo recognized and admired, with a professional eye, the air of a fellow super-salesman. Somehow he began to feel unaccountably better.

Perroni, it seemed, was on the telephone to headquarters with a description of “Mr. Courtney Budlong.” Meantime, Victor Budlong said, the trustee of the Lattimer estate — or, the representative — Mr. Herbert Reddy, was on his way over.

“Trustee?” Bingo said. He hoped there wasn’t a quaver in his voice.

“Naturally,” Victor Budlong said. “When Mr. Lattimer disappeared, and was believed to be dead—” Mr. Victor Budlong cleared his throat delicately and added, “Murdered, in fact, although neither legally dead nor legally murdered, and later when his wife disappeared, the court appointed a trustee for the estate. A trust company, of course. Their representative in charge of the Lattimer estate, Mr. Reddy, will be along shortly.”

He beamed at Bingo and Handsome as though suggesting that he would like to be on their side. Bingo suddenly found himself hoping, with a kind of desperation, that Victor Budlong would be on their side and in full force. It began to look as though they would need him.

“It’s just a little mix-up,” Bingo said, with what he hoped was an air of serene confidence, “and as you say, Mr. Budlong, it can be cleared up very quickly.” He thought it wise to add, “We like the house very much.”

Victor Budlong went right on beaming. He said, “I’m not familiar with the property myself, but—”

“Charming,” Bingo said, instinctively quoting Mr. Courtney Budlong. “Wonderful neighborhood, too. And it used to be the April Robin mansion.” He paused for effect. “You remember the star, April Robin—” He let his voice trail off.

“Remember her?” Victor Budlong said, almost with reverence. “I used to have an autographed picture of her! And to think this was her house!” He offered cigarettes. “Are you in the Industry?” He said that with an air of reverence, too.

Bingo hesitated between “In a way,” “More or less,” and just plain “Yes,” and finally silently handed over a card of the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America.

“Well!” Victor Budlong breathed.

“We’re not really settled yet,” Bingo said. “We only recently decided to transfer our headquarters to Hollywood. The logical place, of course. Naturally, we’re not particularly settled yet. But once we get this little tangle fixed up, then it’s just a matter of finding suitable office space, somewhere here in Beverly Hills or on the Strip, and getting everything under way.”

In the background he heard Handsome cough faintly. But this was no time to boggle at trifles.

“Well!” Victor Budlong said again, and this time he said it in a cordial and extremely helpful manner. “Exactly what kind of space do you have in mind?”

Bingo crossed his fingers, plunged in, and said, “Well, eventually of course, we want to build our own little building. Nothing elaborate, but tasteful.” There, that sounded just right.

“If you’re not looking for too large a place,” Victor Budlong said, as though the idea had just come to him, “I know of something that might do very nicely until you decide to build. Charming little suite of offices. Furnished, too. Very pleasant. Provincial style waiting room.”

This time Bingo said, “Well!” with just the right note of interest.

“As a matter of fact,” Victor Budlong said enthusiastically, “it’s only a step or so from here. Almost across the street. Would you like to take a look at it, just for fun, while we’re waiting?”

Bingo said that would be very pleasant indeed. Handsome went along, his face impassive. Officer Hendenfelder said, tactfully sounding very unofficial, he’d like to come too, if nobody minded, he always liked to see the inside of these classy buildings.

Across the street, and one door down from the nearly Georgian brick building wearing the name HENKIN, was a two-story nearly Colonial, done in well-nigh dazzling white.

“Upstairs is a model agency,” Victor Budlong said. “Fine outfit. One of the best. Don’t know if you use models or not, but in case you ever should—”

Handsome had decided reluctantly to enter into the spirit of things and said, “Oh, we do!”

This time Victor Budlong made it “Well, well!” with enthusiasm. He added, “I must show you my daughter’s picture.” He looked through his keys, nodded toward one of the white columns, and said, “Pure Ionic. Must admire their simplicity. You should see some of the buildings that go up in this town! Talk about ornate! But this—” He waved a beautifully manicured hand. “Simple!” He quoted Bingo right back at him. “Tasteful!”

He threw open the beautiful, simple door as though he were unveiling a war memorial. An instant later he said, “Excuse me a minute,” slipped into the waiting room, and closed the door.

Bingo stood perfectly still, saying nothing and almost not thinking. In the moment when the door had been open he’d caught a glimpse of the room beyond it, a quick, shadowy glimpse, but enough to reveal the outlines of a sofa. There had been a girl on the sofa, a girl with extremely white skin, and wearing a pair of deep orchid pants and brassiere, a small string of pearls, and a lot of long, red hair. He noticed too, in that brief glimpse, that she was a trifle plump.

Suddenly, with a startling whir, the blinds shot up behind the windows, and the door was reopened. Victor Budlong looked perspired and very pale, but not rattled. Angry, perhaps, but not rattled.

“Wanted you to see this at its best,” he said, not sounding angry, either, but magnificently calm. “With the glorious California sun shining in. You being from New York, you’ll really appreciate this.”

“This” was a medium-sized room. Even to Bingo’s unpracticed eyes it was beautifully and probably expensively decorated, with its small receptionist’s desk, pale pink telephone, carved chairs, end tables, oil paintings and sofa. There was a heady and heavy odor of perfume in the air.

Victor Budlong said, “Beautiful room. Simple.” He opened a window and said, “Now right down this way—”

“Down this way” was a narrow hall with three more oil paintings. From the hall opened three offices, a conference room, a bathroom complete with tub, a ladies’ powder room, and a tiny kitchenette.

“Everything,” Victor Budlong said. “And everything furnished!” He added, “Simple! Utilitarian! Tasteful!” He began to draw a long breath.

Bingo beat him to it with “Charming!”

“Well,” Victor Budlong said modestly, “I just wanted you to see it.” He led the way back to the reception room. “And the rental—” He paused. “As a matter of fact, the building is for sale. With the model agency’s long-term lease on the top floor, it would pay for itself. But since you’re planning to build—”

“We are,” Bingo said quickly. He thought he heard a soft sigh of, relief from Handsome.

“The rental is absurdly low,” Victor Budlong said. “Twelve hundred a month. And while you’re building—” He paused again, to prove he was no high-pressure salesman. “You’ll want to look around before you decide.” The next pause was longer, and meaningful. “But since I feel that the inadvertent use of my name has put you to a little difficulty — I think I can arrange to have it held for you — for an extremely small deposit.”

He clapped an almost paternal hand on Bingo’s shoulder. “We’ll talk it over back in my office, yes?” and led the way out.

Crossing the street on the way back, he walked a good distance ahead with Detective Hendenfelder, chatting idly, and giving his prospects a chance to talk things over.

There wasn’t time, Bingo thought, to explain to Handsome all that was in his mind. He said, “Handsome—”

“Everything’s going to be all right,” Handsome said. “That girl probably wears glasses.”

Bingo blinked. “You saw her too?” Obviously Handsome had seen her too, he reminded himself. He wondered if Detective Hendenfelder had. “How do you know she probably wears glasses?”

Handsome said seriously, “Because, Bingo, girls with that color skin and that color hair, natural, always have bad eyesight. If they have brown eyes, I mean.” He added, “They usually get fat easy, too, and freckle. I read about it in a magazine article once. Of course, I couldn’t see the color eyes she had. The article said—”

But they were in through the entrance of BUDLONG AND DOLLINGER before Handsome could go into more details.

“While we wait,” Victor Budlong said, with that warm cordiality, “shall we be comfortable in my private office? And talk over the possibilities of that little office suite?”

Victor Budlong’s private office was not small, nor was it simple, but Bingo decided it must be tasteful. Handsome gazed around with a puzzled and faintly reminiscent look, and finally said, “I been here before.”

Victor Budlong chuckled happily. “So you think, so you think. This is a small-scale, but almost exact, replica of the Mayor’s office in New York’s City Hall.” He smiled proudly and said, “Just a little foible of mine.”

Hendenfelder spoke up unexpectedly and said, “This is Hollywood. Everybody’s got to have some foibles.”

Bingo wondered suddenly, and uncomfortably, where Perroni was, and what he was doing.

“How right you are,” Victor Budlong said, offering more cigarettes. “Now that little suite of offices—”

The extremely small deposit turned out to be a mere two hundred dollars. The advantages were manifest and obvious. Bingo hesitated only a minute or two, keeping his eyes resolutely away from Handsome.

Drawing up the papers, turning over the money, and affixing signatures was also a matter of minutes.

“At least this time,” Victor Budlong said, handing over the receipt, “you’re dealing with a genuine Budlong.”

Bingo managed to pretend that he, too, thought that was very funny.

“And if you’d like to use the offices temporarily between now and when you move in permanently,” Victor Budlong said, “my girl here has a set of keys. And if you’d like to have a design drawn up for your firm name on the building, there’s an artist I can heartily recommend. He did ours.”

Bingo mentally measured the size of the little nearly Colonial building as a background for the name International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America, and decided that they would not need just an artist, but a genius. Possibly an engineering genius. But that was a detail to be worked out in its own time.

“Oh yes,” Victor Budlong said, as though he’d just remembered. “My daughter’s picture!” He pulled an oversize glossy print from his desk drawer and handed it to Bingo.

“Janesse is a talented girl,” he said, spelling out the name, and adding, “Numerology. Her mother’s idea, not mine. Could be changed, of course. Real talent. Not just a father’s prejudice, either.” Proudly.

Janesse Budlong’s black and white picture showed a delicate and almost lovely face, perhaps a little too thin, slightly parted lips curving in a delicious smile, large and incredibly soulful eyes, and a lot of glossy hair which tumbled over her shoulders, one of them invitingly bare.

“I can see she’s talented,” Bingo said admiringly. “And beautiful.” He meant that, too.

Handsome looked at the picture thoughtfully and critically. He said at last, “It’s hard to tell much from pictures. Even if you take pictures yourself, I mean. You have to see a person in person.”

“Exactly,” Bingo said, quickly taking the picture from Handsome and returning it. “We’d certainly like to meet the young lady, when we get settled and going.”

Victor Budlong looked pleased almost to the purring point, and said, “Well! I’m sure that can be arranged!”

Herbert Reddy from the trust company arrived at that moment, with Perroni a few steps behind him. He was a short, chubby, breathless little man, baldheaded and with a round, pink, bewildered face, who looked as though he might bounce like a rubber ball. He wasn’t bouncing now, though. He looked at Bingo, at Handsome, at Victor Budlong, at the papers in his hand, and finally said, “This is very confusing.”

“There’s nothing confusing about it,” Perroni said sourly. “These guys got took, that’s all.”

“But look—” little Herbert Reddy began anxiously.

Perroni waved him aside. “I been on the phone. Bunco squad has a make on this artist. Description fits. Small-time artist, works mostly on widows. Usually oil stocks. Uses the name Chester Baxter.”

“Courtney Budlong,” Bingo said, trying to sound firm. He began thinking of the initialed cuff links and tie pin.

“Same fella,” Perroni said. “It checks.”

Bingo found himself about to say, “Courtney Budlong,” again. Instead he said, wildly and unthinkingly, “The furniture.”

“What furniture?” Perroni said.

Bingo heard himself talking about the furniture that was in storage and that was to be delivered immediately, the antiques, all beautiful stuff, the paintings, the boxes of linen and silver. He heard his voice fading away.

“There isn’t any furniture,” Perroni said scornfully. “Lattimer’s widow sold every stick of it except those pieces of junk in the living room and the housekeeper’s room. When she found out we were on to her and the whole deal, and might find his body any day, she sold everything she could lay her hands on before she beat it. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right,” Hendenfelder said. He looked sympathetic about it.

“There isn’t any Courtney Budlong,” Perroni said. “There never was any Courtney Budlong any more than there was any furniture. You got took, that’s all.” He seemed to be glad of it.

Victor Budlong, the genuine Budlong, took a hand. He said smoothly, “Coming from New York, where everyone rents, naturally you wouldn’t know the complications of real estate transactions.” He gave a brief and bewildering lecture about contracts, escrow, payments, first and second mortgages, title search and other details.

“Maybe,” Bingo said, “we’d better go back to the big city, where a guy is safe!”

“This is all very interesting,” Herbert Reddy said stiffly, in a high-pitched, almost squeaky voice. “But you’re overlooking the important feature. Mr. Julien Lattimer’s signature.”

“Mr. Julien Lattimer,” Perroni stated flatly, “was murdered by his wife nearly five years ago.”

“Mr. Julien Lattimer’s signature,” Herbert Reddy said, “is on both those papers. Or maybe you think they were signed by his ghost?”