The April Robin Murders

Eight

“All right,” Perroni said. “All right! I admit the signatures look alike.”

“I’m not a professional handwriting expert,” Mr. Reddy said, “but I say they’re written by the same hand.”

Everybody, including Victor Budlong’s middle-aged and dignified secretary, had looked curiously at the signatures on the papers Bingo had been given, and at the undisputed Julien Lattimer signatures Mr. Reddy had brought with him for comparison purposes. Everyone had agreed that yes, they did look very much alike. Including Perroni.

“I guess I looked at his signature enough times to remember it,” Perroni said, looking as though the sorrows of the universe had accumulated on his narrow shoulders. “When the question arose of whether or not his widow might’ve forged his name to some checks before she took off, which it turned out she had done, and not too skillfully, either.”

“Skillful enough to fool a few people,” Mr. Reddy said coldly.

Hendenfelder threw everything into renewed confusion by suggesting that Mrs. Lattimer, whether wife or widow, had forged these particular signatures.

“These,” Mr. Reddy said, “are not forged.”

Victor Budlong helpfully pointed out that obviously it was time to refer the signatures in question to a handwriting expert. Los Angeles, he reminded them, had the best handwriting expert in the world.

“Me’n’ Hendenfelder’ll take these downtown to him,” Perroni said. “That way there won’t be no argument anywhere.”

Mr. Reddy announced in a determined voice that he was going right along as trustee for Mr. Lattimer’s estate, somehow managing to convey by his tone of voice that Mr. Lattimer was not only alive but probably in the best of health. “In the meantime,” he said, “the house—”

Everybody looked at everybody else a little helplessly.

“And the keys to the house—” he went on.

Everybody looked at Bingo.

“Mr. Budlong gave them to me,” Bingo said, in what he was afraid was a very weak voice. He took them out of his pocket. “I mean, Mr. Courtney Budlong.” He could feel his voice growing weaker. The keys still warmed his hand, though. If necessary, he’d fight anyone in the room, maybe in all Beverly Hills, for their possession.

“Mr. Courtney Budlong,” Perroni said, and snorted rudely.

“The man who called himself Courtney Budlong,” Bingo said. His fingers tightened on the keys.

“But where did he get them?” Hendenfelder asked suddenly.

This time everybody looked at Mr. Reddy. Mr. Reddy, in his turn, looked at the keys in Bingo’s hand and said unhappily, “I don’t know. He must have gotten them from someone.”

“From, for example, who?” Perroni asked.

Mr. Reddy spread his hands helplessly. “There were a few sets. I have one. The trust company had it made. Mr. Lattimer and Mrs. Lattimer had keys. And the caretaker. This Pearl Durzy.” His face lighted up. “They could have been gotten from her!”

Bingo thought of the look Pearl Durzy had given their Mr. Courtney Budlong. He thought of the fact that she’d had nothing in her possession except a few bus tokens. He decided to keep his mouth shut, slipped the keys unobtrusively into his pocket, and hoped someone would change the subject right away.

Someone did. Mr. Reddy said, “While we’re asking questions, I’d like to know how that letter, and that receipt, were on Budlong and Dollinger paper?”

Everybody looked this time at Victor Budlong, who came within an inch of his life of losing his composure, his dignity and his voice, but who managed to state that he had absolutely no idea, that he’d had no part in this disgraceful piece of chicanery, that he was a businessman of long and good standing in his community and a member of the Chamber of Commerce, and that he would ask Miss Meadows.

Miss Meadows stated efficiently that as far as she knew, it was impossible for anybody to get hold of any Budlong and Dollinger stationery or receipts, but she would make inquiries.

Suddenly Bingo said, “Look, yesterday Mr. Courtney Budlong came in here. We waited for him out in the car. He was in here just a little while, and then he came out with these papers. Maybe you’d better make those inquiries right now.”

The slightly alarmed young receptionist was called in. Yes, she remembered the man who answered the description of Courtney Budlong. He’d come in yesterday and spent some time trying to sell her a magazine subscription, and then gone out again. But he hadn’t been near any of the office stationery or anything else.

There didn’t seem to be any more questions from anybody. Finally Bingo got all his courage together, looked Mr. Reddy in the eye, and said, “Well—?”

“It’s an unprecedented situation,” Mr. Reddy said. Then he repeated, “This is very confusing.” He not only looked as though he wouldn’t bounce, he looked as though he’d been deflated.

“Confusing,” Victor Budlong said, in his beautiful, sonorous tones, “but not impossible. I am not a lawyer. But I would say that if these two signatures are genuine, the gentlemen are at least temporarily entitled to live in the house in question.”

He read the letter aloud. “It states very clearly,” he said, “that having paid the sum of two thousand dollars — no mention of to whom — they are entitled to occupy the mansion pending delivery and signing of the deed—”

“But this guy who called himself Courtney Budlong didn’t have any authority,” Perroni said.

“If that is Julien Lattimer’s signature,” Victor Budlong said, “it doesn’t matter whether he did or not.” There was a silence while everybody thought that over.

“I don’t want to see any trouble, or any suits against the estate,” Mr. Reddy said, in a thin, worried little voice. “And there ought to be somebody staying there, now that Pearl Durzy—” He looked at Bingo and Handsome a little dubiously.

“I’ll vouch for these young men,” Victor Budlong said heartily. “They’re businessmen. Just rented an office, in fact. Important men in the Industry.”

Everybody looked impressed, except Perroni.

“All right,” Perroni said, back to his normal gloom. “Only don’t you guys go shooting your traps off to the columnists.”

Bingo upped his eyebrows at him.

“In this town,” Perroni said, “anything happens to anybody, even the old cat having kittens, they got to run right to the phone and call up the columnists. You guys keep this out of the newspapers. Until we find Mr. Lattimer’s body.”

Bingo suddenly remembered Adelle Lattimer and reflected that he was just as interested as anybody in finding Julien Lattimer’s body. He said, with all the dignity he could muster, “I’m sure nobody wants to see any of this get into the newspapers.” He wondered if he sounded anything like Victor Budlong.

Perroni looked skeptical, but he nodded glumly. “We kept that dame’s death quiet, so far.”

Hendenfelder softened things by adding, “And if none of this gets into print, maybe we can catch that guy and get your two thousand bucks back.”

He didn’t say it with conviction, and Bingo didn’t feel any real hope, but at least it was the brightest thought of the day so far.

Apparently everything was over, at least for a time. Victor Budlong wished them a cheery good morning, told Bingo and Handsome he’d be in touch with them soon and arrange a meeting with his little girl, and that meantime if they needed anything, call on him. Miss Meadows smiled at them amiably. Mr. Reddy shook hands nervously and said he would talk to them later. Perroni went to make one more telephone call.

Hendenfelder came over to the convertible and leaned an elbow on the door. “By Perroni,” he said, “Julien Lattimer’s murdered, and his wife murdered him. Probably right. But Perroni isn’t going to be happy until he finds the body. He don’t care so much about finding the wife, he just wants to find the body. And he’ll do it, too.” He sighed. “That’s the way he is because, well, that’s the way he is.”

“Hollywood,” Bingo said. “Everybody’s got foibles.”

“Even cops,” Hendenfelder said. He went on in a confidential tone, “My advice is, what you guys oughta do is get yourself a lawyer right fast. I don’t know much of that kind of law, but it sounded to me like you maybe own that house after all. Enough of it so you ought to have a lawyer. Everybody ought to have a lawyer all the time anyway. Especially out here in Hollywood. I come from Milwaukee, myself. Believe me, out here, people are different.”

“They have foibles,” Bingo said, nodding sagely.

“And you can repeat that any time,” Hendenfelder said. He dropped his voice. “Say, I know it’s been a long time since she was there, but you living in what was her house, you think maybe you might run into, sometime, some souvenir of April Robin?”

Bingo thought it was just possible.

“Account of,” Hendenfelder said, “I got a niece back in Milwaukee she collects stuff like that. Some real genuine souvenir of April Robin, why her Uncle Horace, he’d be a hero!”

“I’ll make it a point to look,” Bingo promised. He looked at Detective Horace Hendenfelder’s pink round face, and thought how nice it would be for him to be a hero, even if only to a movie-struck niece in Milwaukee.

“I’ll do something for you someday,” Hendenfelder said gratefully. “And don’t forget now, get you a lawyer fast!”

Perroni came out from his telephone call, walked over to the convertible and said grudgingly, “If we ever do find that guy, and if he has any of your dough left, you’ll get it back.”

Bingo thought that would be very nice, and said so.

“And if while you’re staying in that house,” Perroni said, “if you run into any helpful information, will you get in touch with me right away?” He said it as though he didn’t expect much.

“It’s my duty as a citizen,” Bingo said, a little stiffly.

“Nuts,” Perroni said. “Do it as a favor to me.”

The two plainclothesmen walked away. Bingo lit a cigarette and sat brooding.

This was Hollywood. This was where they’d come with their two thousand, seven hundred and seventy-three dollars and some odd cents, to get rich. Rich, and famous, and own a beautiful and beautifully furnished mansion like the ones Louella Parsons described in her Sunday interviews, preferably one that once had belonged to a movie star. All they’d accomplished so far — he corrected himself, all he’d accomplished so far — was to sink two thousand dollars of their working capital in a house that probably wasn’t going to belong to them, and two hundred more in a suite of offices they probably never would have any use for. There wasn’t any furniture for the house and, what was more, there wasn’t going to be any furniture, ever. The antiques, the oil paintings, the boxes of linens and silver didn’t exist.

And half of the lost investment was Handsome’s. And he still didn’t have the faintest idea of what they were going to do in Hollywood to get rich and famous. He thought longingly of Columbus Circle, and didn’t dare turn his head to look at his partner.

“You did swell, Bingo,” Handsome said suddenly and admiringly.

Bingo did turn his head, to stare. He knew Handsome had spoken truthfully. Handsome was incapable of not telling the truth.

“I mean,” Handsome said, “protecting our investment that way. Like making friends with Mr. Victor Budlong and putting a deposit on that office place so he’d be on our side when the trust company man got there. And making friends with that Hendenfelder, too. It was smart, Bingo.”

Bingo flicked an ash off his cigarette and said, “Well, in the business world, you learn things like that. Some people might call putting out that two hundred dollars throwing good money after bad, but I look on it as an investment.”

“And if we find Mr. Lattimer’s body for that lady,” Handsome said, “we’ll get everything back, and a lot extra.”

Bingo was silent. He hadn’t thought of that angle, not thoroughly at least. But if a cop like Perroni thought enough of their position as inhabitants of the April Robin mansion to ask them to keep their eyes open, and if a shrewd-looking babe like Adelle Lattimer thought enough of that same position to offer them a sizable cut for finding her late ex-husband’s body, they were sitting very nicely. All the more reason, he told himself, for hanging on to their possession of the mansion.

“Except,” Handsome said thoughtfully, “if we do find Mr. Lattimer’s body, it proves he was dead when he signed those papers. I mean, Bingo, when he didn’t sign those papers. And then it isn’t our house.”

Bingo thought that over, too. He weighed the advantages of the cut of what Adelle Lattimer would get if they did find the body, against the advantages of possibly, even probably, owning the mansion if they didn’t.

“We better take that cop’s advice,” Bingo said. “We better find us a lawyer.”

Handsome suggested looking in the classified section of the telephone book. Bingo pretended he hadn’t heard.

The almost Georgian building across the street caught his attention, and the inspiration came to him.

“That Leo Henkin,” he said thoughtfully. “He’s the top agent — I mean, artists’ representative — in Hollywood.” He decided not to add that it had been Courtney Budlong who had told them so. Anyone could see from a look at that building how important Leo Henkin was. “And we ought to get acquainted with him anyhow. Asking his advice about a lawyer is as good an excuse as any.”

Again he sat thinking. He considered a number of ways to introduce himself and Handsome to the great man. Most of them were romantic, and all of them were impractical.

“Okay, Bingo,” Handsome said agreeably. “Let’s go in and ask him.” He began getting out of the convertible.

Of course, Bingo thought. To Handsome, it would be as simple as that. Handsome had the direct and uncomplicated mind of a newspaper photographer, Handsome who had once found a missing heiress by looking in the telephone book. And, he realized, Handsome was right. He looked in the rear-view mirror, straightened his tie, ran a comb through his sandy hair, and said, “Let’s go.”

He was glad that he’d worn the herringbone worsted suit he’d debated buying as possibly too conservative for Hollywood, the land of the Hawaiian sports shirt and the gaudy slacks. Today it was just the right touch to make a good impression. Obviously it had made one on Victor Budlong.

The nearly Georgian illusion vanished the instant they opened the ivory enameled door and walked into a waiting room that seemed to be furnished almost entirely with odd-shaped articles of wrought iron and pale gray leather. Bingo glanced around curiously for the small-paned windows he’d seen from the street and realized that they were either ornaments attached to the outside walls, or had been covered over by the grayish white of the interior. Light obviously came from some source, but it was impossible to tell where.

The result, Bingo decided, was effective and he admired it, but he was glad when a plate-glass panel on the far side of the room slid open, and an unglamorous office girl said, in a nasal voice, “Well?”

He handed her a card and said, “Mr. Henkin, please,” in a voice that indicated he wasn’t going to put up with any waiting or any other nonsense. She looked down her nose at the card, went away with it, came back and said, a shade more amiably, “Mr. Henkin wonders if you’d mind waiting just a minute. He’s on a long distance call.”

There were trade papers on the wrought-iron objects which appeared to serve for tables, and Bingo glanced at them with the idle air of one who has read them already with his morning coffee, and resolved to subscribe to them before the day was over.

A buzzer sounded, and the girl ushered them into a hallway papered in a red and gold oriental design. She was a trifle dumpy, and wore black oxfords, Bingo noticed. Several doors were open along the hall and he glanced into the offices curiously. One of them appeared to have its walls entirely covered with oversized photographs of very young and very beautiful men and women, the next had its walls covered from floor to ceiling with shelves filled with multicolored books. Beyond, a door opened into the office of Leo Henkin himself.

Bingo was beginning to consider himself an authority on offices, but he wasn’t entirely prepared for this one. Like Victor Budlong’s, it was neither small nor simple. Unlike Victor Budlong’s, it hadn’t been copied from anything Bingo had ever seen before.

There seemed to be horses, or reminders of horses, everywhere he looked. The walls were covered — instead of with pictures of young and beautiful people, or with brightly colored books — with framed color prints of famous thoroughbreds; an uncomfortable-looking occasional chair had apparently been fashioned from a western saddle, two standing ashtrays had been cunningly made from stirrups, and the crystal ashtray on the desk was framed with a horseshoe.

Leo Henkin rose to his full five foot three and a half, from behind his leather-topped desk, and said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, sit down and make yourselves comfortable,” all in one breath. He looked at the card, which, Bingo reflected, he’d had more than time to memorize by now, and said, “Moving here from New York, h’m, well, you’ve come to the right place.” He said that in one breath, too, like a set speech. Then he relaxed, smiled and said, “And what can old Leo Henkin do for you, h’m?”

For a long time Bingo had wondered what a Hollywood agent looked like, especially a top Hollywood agent like Leo Henkin. Earlier in his life he’d had dealings with an agent who handled carnival attractions exclusively, and in spite of his better judgment, he’d unconsciously expected all Hollywood agents to look just like him. Now, to his surprise, Leo Henkin did, except that his beautifully cut suit was pearl-gray instead of off-purple. Leo Henkin had a perfectly round head on his short, stocky body, his eyes were bright blue and threatening to twinkle, his thin hair was pure white. He looked fatherly, benevolent and helpful.

“If you’re looking for talent,” he said, “if you’re looking for stories, if you’re looking for new faces or old faces, Leo Henkin can help you.” He paused, waiting.

“All of that,” Bingo said, plunging right in for the second time that morning. “But not at the moment. In fact, we really just came in to get acquainted. We’re going to be neighbors, in a manner of speaking.”

Leo Henkin nodded and said, “Vic Budlong just rented you the old DeFosse building. Not so old either. You got a good deal on it.”

Bingo opened his mouth and shut it again.

“Leo Henkin knows everybody and everything that goes on,” the great man said, with what was close to a chuckle. He looked at the card again.

“We’ve just come out here,” Bingo said quickly. “Decided to shift our headquarters to Hollywood. So right now we’re just beginning to get organized. Just picked our building this morning. And as a matter of fact, we wanted to ask you for a little information.”

“You’ve come to the right place,” the agent said. “Leo Henkin’s been here a long time.”

“Well,” Bingo said, “it’s this way.” He paused. No, he was damned if he was going to tell Leo Henkin the story of Courtney Budlong and the questioned purchase of the April Robin mansion. He had a secret hunch that if Leo Henkin knew everything, it would usually be only a matter of time before he’d passed it on to the everybody he also knew. A lawyer, now, was supposed to keep secrets. “My partner and I need a little legal advice.”

“Lawyers!” Leo Henkin said. “The town’s full of lawyers. What kind do you want? What specialty? Divorce? Criminal? Lawsuit? Girl trouble? Income tax? Leo Henkin knows them all.”

“Well,” Bingo said, wondering how to explain what he wanted without telling too much of why he wanted it, “it’s like this. We’re in possession of some valuable property. In fact, I can’t tell you how valuable this property is.”

“Ah,” Leo Henkin said rhapsodically. “That’s the thing? A good property! A valuable property! With that, you can do anything! With that, you can get anything. You want stars? Leo Henkin can get you stars. You want big writers? Leo Henkin can get you big writers. Directors?” He waved a hand, hinting that he had them by the gross. “You need money? Studio space? Leo Henkin has a friend who can handle that. What do you need lawyers for?”

For one mad moment Bingo had the feeling that Leo Henkin could probably produce the body of Julien Lattimer from a desk drawer, on demand, or bring Mr. Courtney Budlong out of a closet. He said, coming back to earth slowly, “There’s a little complication.”

Leo Henkin waved the other hand. “Complications! What are complications? Ignore them. Think big.”

“If we didn’t think big,” Bingo said, trying to match him gesture for gesture, “we’d still be back in New York.” Taking sidewalk pictures at two-bits a throw and living in a furnished room. “But there’s a little question about the ownership of the property—”

“Well, in that case,” Leo Henkin said, also coming down to earth, “you need the best of lawyers. Always make sure your property is clear. No point in running into lawsuits after the picture’s made. And Leo Henkin has just the man for you.” He reached for the telephone and said into it, “Get me Arthur Schlee.”

Bingo opened his mouth to ask a question, and shut it again. This was no time to quibble about legal fees, when the future of the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America was at stake. This was a time to think big.

“Best man in town for this sort of thing,” Leo Henkin said, holding the phone and waiting. He added, “His cousin’s a judge.” Then he said into the phone, “Art, I got a couple of friends of mine here. Mr. Riggs and Mr. Kusak. They own the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America. Yeah, that’s the one. They have a little problem about that certain important property they own, and I recommended you.” He paused. He looked at Bingo. “If you’re free, he can see you right now.”

Bingo swallowed hard and said, “The sooner the better.”

“Right away,” Leo Henkin said into the telephone, and hung up. He looked at them closely and said, “How about telling your friend Leo Henkin a little more about this property?”

“Gladly,” Bingo said, “as soon as we know it’s all clear and completely ours.” He would, too.

“Good, good,” Leo Henkin said. “That’s the way to talk. Never give away any facts about a property to anybody until you’re ready, not even an old friend like Leo Henkin.” He pushed a cigarette box at them. “We’ll lunch soon and talk it over, h’m? But don’t tell me about it now. Let’s change the subject. I hear you’ve bought a house.”

Changing the subject was something Bingo could welcome with enthusiasm at that moment. “And what a house,” he said. “I haven’t counted the rooms yet!”

“Nineteen,” Handsome said, “and four porches.”

“Oh, Leo Henkin knows the house,” the agent said.

“It used to belong to April Robin,” Bingo said. “It was built for her. You remember April Robin,” he added, and then hated himself.

Naturally Leo Henkin remembered April Robin, and that the house had been built for her. “What a girl!” he said. “What a star! Another Norma Talmadge, believe me. And what depth! Great depth!” He shook his head sadly. “Too bad, too bad. What a tragedy!”

Bingo waited hopefully for details. None came.

Leo Henkin shook the sorrow from his benevolent face, beamed at them again and said, “This property of yours. Is it musical?”

“Not exactly,” Bingo said. “No.” He drew a long breath. “In fact, it’s quite the reverse.”

They finally got away only by promising to keep in the closest of touch.

Out in the convertible, Bingo loosened his tie a little and said, “One thing, out here these big, important guys are certainly easy to see and talk to.”

“Sure,” Handsome said. He started the motor. “Account of, Bingo,” he added with serene confidence, “we’re big important guys ourselves, now.”

“Naturally,” Bingo said. He hadn’t exactly thought of that before, but of course it was true. “What he was saying — whatever did happen to April Robin, anyway?”

Handsome was silent and looked miserable.

“I forgot,” Bingo said quickly. “It was long before your time.”

“Maybe it’ll come to me.” Handsome paused. “Maybe she was the first person who got murdered in our house.”