The April Robin Murders

Nine

Arthur Schlee’s office turned out to be a mere block and a half away, in a modest but businesslike tan stucco building, with Schlee and Schlee on a chaste bronze name plate beside the door.

Handsome parked the convertible, sighed and said, “When I was eleven years old I spent almost all summer with my Aunt Sophie’s mother-in-law. She lived in a little town in New Jersey, just like this.”

Bingo stared at him. He, too, had been in New Jersey, and he could think of nothing remotely like Beverly Hills. Certainly he’d seen no tan stucco buildings.

“I mean,” Handsome said, “everything is right close to everything else, and everybody knows everybody else. It’s real nice, Bingo, like New Jersey.”

“In New Jersey,” Bingo said severely, “you don’t see Hollywood stars.”

“No,” Handsome said. He didn’t add that so far they hadn’t seen any here, either.

Arthur Schlee looked just a little like a character actor made up for the role of a successful lawyer. A fatherly, dignified and thoroughly respectable lawyer, one whose cousin was a judge. He greeted Bingo and Handsome cordially, but gravely.

“So you’re the young men who bought the April Robin house,” he said. “Glad to know friends of Leo Henkin’s.”

Bingo stopped himself on the verge of asking, “How did you know about it?” This was like that small town in New Jersey in more ways than one, he decided. Not only did everybody know everybody else, but knew everything about everybody else.

“And I understand you’re having a little trouble about some property,” he said. “Sit down and tell me about it.”

“Well,” Bingo said, “this is an extremely confidential matter. It mustn’t be mentioned to anybody. Not even to Mr. Henkin.” He’d almost said, “Especially Mr. Henkin.”

“My dear young man!” Arthur Schlee said. Just that, no more, but it was enough.

Bingo hoped he wasn’t blushing at even hinting that a respected member of the legal profession wouldn’t keep secrets.

“Just give me the details about this property,” the lawyer said. He pulled a pad of paper closer and picked up a pencil. “And how you acquired it. First, story, book, play—”

“No,” Bingo said. “I mean, neither. In fact, this hasn’t anything to do with our business at all. It’s a very personal matter. That’s why it’s confidential.”

Arthur Schlee laid down his pencil and said, “Woman trouble? In that case I’d better call in my brother. He specializes in—”

“No,” Bingo said. “No, no, no. It’s—”

Well, he reflected, if you have a lawyer, you’re supposed to trust him and tell him everything. He drew a long breath and told Arthur Schlee everything about the purchase of the April Robin mansion. Everything, that is, except the size of the dent the purchase had made in their capital.

“It isn’t the money involved,” he said at last. “It’s a minor loss.” He didn’t dare look at Handsome. “But we want to keep the house.”

“Of course you do,” the lawyer said. “Of course you do. Who wouldn’t want to keep that house? With its memories of April Robin.”

“You knew her?” Bingo said excitedly.

“I remember her,” Arthur Schlee said. He said it reverently.

There was a little silence.

“I,” Arthur Schlee said, “am a very busy man.” He leaned back in his mahogany chair, placed his fingertips together, and went into details about how busy he was, and with what important things, until Bingo began to feel apologetic for taking up even five minutes of that precious time.

“But,” Arthur Schlee said at last, “there is nothing I wouldn’t do for friends of Leo Henkin. Literally nothing. Yes indeed, I will take your case.”

The tone in which he said it gave Bingo the feeling that their ownership of the April Robin mansion was settled, right here and now. He mentally thanked Hendenfelder for his advice, and resolved to do something very nice for him, as soon as things straightened out.

“There are a great many things that will have to be looked into,” the lawyer went on. “And I shall look into them. I shall look into every aspect of the matter, and I shall advise you. And because you are friends of Leo Henkin, for whom I would do literally anything, my retainer will be extremely small. Five hundred dollars, and no other expenses. Unless we should have to go to court.”

There was no time to think it over, and if there had been, the decision would have been the same.

The five hundred dollars changed hands. Bingo pocketed a receipt and said, “What do we do in the meantime?”

“In the meantime,” Arthur Schlee said, “you go right on living in the house.” The assurance with which he said it was worth five hundred dollars to Bingo right there.

Outside in the car, though, he faced the matter of explaining it to Handsome. Again Handsome beat him to the problem.

“We’re still just protecting our property, Bingo,” he said.

Bingo sighed. “Any more of this,” he said gloomily, “and we’ll protect ourselves right out of business.” He drew a long breath. “Handsome, it was more than just having a lawyer make sure we keep our house all right. But Mr. Leo Henkin recommended that lawyer. If we’d just walked out when he told us how much it would cost, how would that have looked to Mr. Leo Henkin? To a valuable contact? Handsome, we need valuable contacts in our business.”

Handsome didn’t ask, “What business?” He started the car and drove silently in the direction of Sunset Boulevard.

“Handsome,” Bingo said desperately, “everything’s going to be all right. We came to Hollywood to get rich, and we’re going to get rich. You know that.”

“Sure, Bingo,” Handsome repeated. “I know that.”

“Well, then,” Bingo said. There really didn’t seem to be anything else to say, not at that moment.

Handsome sighed and said, “Bingo. You remember when we kidnapped Mr. Pigeon?”

“We didn’t kidnap him,” Bingo said severely. “We were only protecting him from harm.”

“Okay, Bingo,” Handsome said. “Only, while we were protecting him from harm we used all our money, and we had to provide for him because he was our guest, and we had to hock both the cameras.”

“And my best suit,” Bingo said.

Handsome said, “And it turned out fine.”

It not only had turned out fine, it had provided them with the maroon convertible, suitcases filled with clothes, and the means to head for Hollywood.

“And, Bingo,” Handsome said, “you remember when we were in Thursday, Iowa, and we ran out of money again?”

Bingo winced. Their stay in Thursday, Iowa, had been the result of one of his investments that hadn’t turned out too well. Not at first, at least.

“But everything turned out all right,” Handsome said, “and when we left Thursday, Iowa, we had five hundred and twenty-seven dollars and forty-seven cents more than we got there with.”

Bingo said cheerfully, “Well, see what I mean? And we’ll do a lot better than that right here in Hollywood.” He thought everything over for a moment and then said, “Handsome, how much money do we have left?”

“Fifty-two dollars and twenty-five cents,” Handsome said. “And, Bingo—”

“All right,” Bingo said. “I know. We’ll get out the cameras and buy a permit.” He drew a long breath. “And here in Hollywood, we ought to do fine. With all the tourists that come out here, probably wanting to have their pictures taken in front of the Brown Derby and places like that to send home to the folks. And we’ve got lots of film and paper and everything, so at two-bits a picture we’ll be making a clear profit.” He began to add up the profit in his mind. “And we’ll take Mrs. Mariposa DeLee the pictures we made for her for a present, and maybe she’ll want to order some to advertise her motel.” The profit began to mount. “Why, there are all kinds of opportunities out here, Handsome.”

He wondered if they ought to take time to have lunch at Romanoff’s, since they were so near. No, he decided, better to wait until another time and take a guest with them, such as Leo Henkin, or their other new-found friend, Victor Budlong. Someday, perhaps, Rex Strober himself.

There was a good chance that the police would find Courtney Budlong and get part of that two thousand dollars back. With a good lawyer like Arthur Schlee, they could hang on to the April Robin mansion. If Julien Lattimer had been murdered, they could quite possibly find his body and collect enough from Adelle Lattimer really to own the April Robin mansion and get a nice start in business. If Julien Lattimer should, by chance, turn out to be alive, well, there was his signature on the papers, Courtney Budlong or no Courtney Budlong. Chester Baxter, rather. In the meantime, they had friends in high places, and they practically had an office. The rest was just a simple little matter of getting started.

The April Robin mansion looked even better than before as they turned in the driveway. He hadn’t noticed that there was a small rose garden to the left of the house, just coming into bloom. He made a mental note that something would have to be done about getting that vast expanse of lawn mowed, and the driveway swept clear of leaves.

Too, he reflected as they went into the enormous living room, something would have to be done about furniture. But all that could be attended to as soon as Arthur Schlee had cleared up everything.

He sat down to smoke a cigarette while Handsome prowled the kitchen in search of something for an early lunch. There was no point in going out to take pictures on an empty stomach. After lunch Handsome could get out the cameras and load them, they’d find a place to get cards printed while they waited, take out a permit, and go back in business.

He heard a car come to a stop outside in the driveway, and instinctively stiffened. But no, it couldn’t be bad news. They had a lawyer now, and they had friends.

The buzzer sounded. Handsome opened the door and Hendenfelder came in, beaming. “Some nice fast work,” he reported. “We got that Chester Baxter right away from your description. Perroni’s outside with him now. Couldn’t’ve had time to spend much of your dough.”

“See,” Bingo told Handsome. “I knew everything was going to be fine.”

Hendenfelder went back to lend a hand, in case Chester Baxter came in under protest.

There was protest, all right, but it was purely vocal. From where they waited, Bingo and Handsome could hear a furious insistence to the general effect that, “Never saw this house before in my life. Never heard of these two guys from New York. Who do you think you’re pushing around, anyway? I never used the name Courtney Budlong, and I never heard of a Courtney Budlong. What’s more, I was in San Diego all day yesterday, and I can prove it.” There was a little indignant muttering about “false arrest.”

Detective Perroni ushered a plumpish, well-dressed man of medium height, with silvery white hair, into the room. “Here he is,” he announced. “Chester Baxter. You identify him and we’ll go down to headquarters and sign a complaint, and then we’ll see where he hid your money at.”

Bingo took a long, close look. Then he shook his head regretfully and said, “No.”

“What do you mean, no?” Perroni said crossly. “This guy is Chester Baxter. He even admits it.”

“He may be Chester Baxter,” Bingo said, “and he looks a lot like Mr. Courtney Budlong. But he isn’t Mr. Courtney Budlong. In fact, he isn’t anybody I ever saw before in my life.”