The Sunday Pigeon Murders

by Craig Rice

  “It’s all pretty confusing,” Handsome said.

  Bingo said, “It must have been confusing to Mr. Penneyth, too.” He picked up the paper and looked at it again. “Here’s the way that evening went, Handsome. Mr. Penneyth bumped off Wilkins. Then he had to hide on the fire escape while June Logan looked around. Then he decided he needed her help and sent for her. While he was waiting he dressed Wilkins and cleaned up the bathroom. And then our letter came.”

  “Bingo,” Handsome said unhappily, “then who was it that called us up and told us to come right over.”

  “Mr. Penneyth,” Bingo said patiently. “But then those two gunmen came. Mr. Penneyth had figured that he had to hide out from Steve Stone until he could collect the money, and then scram fast. So when the gunmen started coming up the front stairs he beat it down the fire escape. He didn’t have a chance to take our letter with him, or the suitcases he’d packed in such a rush, or to do anything about Wilkins’ body.

  “So then the gunmen walk in. They find Mr. Penneyth gone, the guy dead on the sofa, and our letter. They figure we must be coming over, so they decide to wait. Only, they don’t want to get mixed up with us right there in the apartment where the murdered guy is. So they wait till we ring, one of them hollers to us to come right up, and then they beat it down the fire escape like Mr. Penneyth had. Then they go sit in their car and wait for us to come out. You know what happened after that. Now is there anything else you want to ask?”

  “Uh-huh,” Handsome said, nodding. “Why did Mr. Penneyth kill Wilkins, and Art Frank, and that lawyer fella, and Miss Penneyth?”

  “For the love of Mike,” Bingo said impatiently. “They could prove Mr. Pigeon was alive. They were going to make him split with them, just like we were planning to. And he wanted to keep it all for himself, all that dough.”

  “Then,” Handsome said, “why didn’t he kill us, too?”

  “Because he couldn’t find us,” Bingo said. “He didn’t have our letter and, besides, it only had our phone number on it. He couldn’t find us and he couldn’t find Mr. Pigeon, or else we wouldn’t be here now.”

  “But, Bingo,” Handsome said, scowling. “Where’s he been all this time? Where’s he been hiding?”

  Bingo sighed. “At June Logan’s apartment, of course. The day we went up there to pay her a little social call, he was probably right there. Only he couldn’t make her tell him where we lived, because she knew what he’d do if he found out. It must have been tough for her.”

  He glanced at the paper again, at the paragraph telling of the disappearance of June Logan, once Mildred Murray. She’d vanished, and all her money, jewels, and valuables had vanished with her. Bingo hoped she’d made it all the way back to Rock Island and had enough dough to buy that house. She’d earned it.

  There was another paragraph in the story that he read over for a second time. It told how Harkness Penneyth’s confession had implicated the almost fabulous Stephen Stone, and of how, at the last, Stephen Stone had shot it out with the cops, in his soundproof office, and lost.

  Handsome’s voice broke into his thoughts. “To think Mr. Penneyth was hiding out all that time,” he said, “when we thought he was dead.” He shook his head slowly. “That Leonora Penneyth, she sure was a smart dame, to think up a scheme like that.”

  “It was the same scheme we thought up,” Bingo said indignantly.

  There was a little silence. “When I remembered he’d been in a knife-throwing act with his sister,” Bingo said, “and thought about everybody being killed by somebody who’d thrown a knife, I began to wonder what the hell had been going on. Then I thought about her saying he was a tall, good-looking guy, and I remembered that suit in his apartment being for a tall, slender guy, and I remembered the corpse in the icebox was a little guy, no taller’n me. That’s when I figured out, all of a sudden, how it had happened.”

  “Gee, that was smart, Bingo,” Handsome said.

  This time, it was a long silence. The room seemed very empty and very still. Mr. Pigeon had gone off with the police. Rinaldo was up on Bolivar Hill, writing impassioned Spanish verses on the sidewalk about Simon Bolivar, Liberator. Maybe they would never see either of them again, Bingo thought unhappily.

  Baby had gone to work. She’d left a little note on their table—Ma was impatient about the rent again. They’d managed to avoid Ma on the way in, but she’d come pounding at their door any minute now.

  “Bingo,” Handsome said. “What are we going to do now?”

  Bingo started to say, “I wish I knew,” caught himself in time, and said instead, “I’ll think of something, don’t worry. You trust me, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” Handsome said.

  Maybe, though, this would be the one time when he wouldn’t be able to think of anything.

  The world was pretty dark. There wasn’t going to be any two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. There was sixty cents in his pocket, left after buying two hamburgers for their dinner.

  There were pictures that had to be printed and mailed to customers whose quarters had already been spent, and there was no paper, no developer, no envelopes, and no stamps.

  His two favorite suits were in hock, and Ma wanted her rent. And the usual procedure followed in these emergencies—that of hastily taking pictures and praying for quarters to come in fast—wasn’t possible this time, because both the cameras were in hock. And even if they’d had the cameras, there wasn’t any film.

  “I’ll think of something,” he repeated.

  The financial situation wasn’t the only thing that worried him. So far the part he and Handsome had played in the series of crimes had been kept secret. Both of them had hastily left the scene immediately after the police had arrested Harkness Penneyth. And obviously, so far Mr. Pigeon hadn’t said anything.

  But any minute now the police were going to find out all about it. And, however cordial Mr. Pigeon had been, the police were apt to take a very narrow-minded view of kidnaping with intent to defraud an insurance company, of hiding two bodies, and of looting one safe, no matter how unsuccessful the results had been.

  He consoled himself with a reminder that, anyway, he wouldn’t need money in Sing Sing.

  But there was Handsome to think about, and right now Handsome was looking at him anxiously and trustingly.

  There was just one thing to do, Bingo told himself. Get Handsome out of here, before the cops came. It hadn’t been Handsome’s fault, anyway. Handsome had trusted him, and look what had come of it.

  Send Handsome over to those Polack relatives of his in Canarsie. Tell him not to come back. Then tell the cops that Handsome didn’t have anything to do with it, didn’t know anything about it, and had gone some place—he didn’t know where.

  Bingo drew a long breath. “Handsome,” he began as calmly as he could.

  There was a knock at the door. Bingo stared at it for a full minute before moving. It might be Ma for her dough or to throw them out, or it might be the police. Whichever it was, there wasn’t anything he could do about it now.

  He called, “Come in,” and hoped it would be Ma. Then he could at least get Handsome out of the way before the police did arrive.

  It was neither Ma nor the police. It was little Mr. Pigeon, smiling and friendly, in a freshly pressed gray flannel suit. He was carrying an enormous jug of sour red wine. There was a man with him, a stranger.

  “Everything is all over and settled,” Mr. Pigeon said happily. “And I thought that you might like to have your check now.”

  “Check?” Bingo repeated stupidly. He wondered if the whole affair had affected Mr. Pigeon’s mind. But no, the man with Mr. Pigeon was smiling, and taking a long envelope out of his pocket.

  “Did you forget?” Mr. Pigeon said. “There was a reward for finding me. Ten thousand dollars. Or didn’t you know?” He nodded at the stranger. “This is Mr. Newberry, from the insurance company.”

  Bingo and Handsome looked at Mr. Newberry and then at each other. “You remember al
most everything,” Bingo said indignantly to Handsome. “And then you forget the damnedest things at the damnedest times.”

  Mr. Newberry gave Bingo the envelope, said, “We’re deeply grateful to you for finding Mr. Pigeon and saving his life. If you have any trouble with so large a check at your bank, let me know and I’ll give references for you,” and went away.

  “And,” Mr. Pigeon said, putting the jug on the table, “I thought we could celebrate.”

  Bingo just looked at him.

  Then Baby arrived back from work, panting from the run up three flights of stairs. She hugged Bingo, then Handsome, and then Mr. Pigeon. “I knew you could do it,” she said ecstatically. “And Ma says it’s all O.K. about the rent. The man from the insurance company told her about the check.”

  “It really was easy,” Bingo said modestly. He was beginning to believe it, too.

  Handsome began getting glasses down from the cupboard. He put out four, then said, “Hello, I guess we need a fifth one,” as Rinaldo came in, an enormous package in his arms.

  “I met a friend,” Rinaldo said joyously. His face was glowing. “A friend who is giving a great party tomorrow, because the daughter of a sister of his wife’s husband’s aunt is becoming married. So I offered to visit him, and I have borrowed these.”

  He dug into the bag and drew out two plump chickens, a handful of tomatoes, and miscellaneous other edibles.

  “It is not too late to cook,” Mr. Pigeon said happily. “We are all hungry, and the wine will go well with these.”

  Rinaldo beamed at everyone and looked proudly at the provender he had brought. “After all,” he said, “they were the chickens of my friend.”

  Mr. Pigeon peeled off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, lighted the oven, and started to work. Baby pinned a towel around her waist and began peeling onions. Rinaldo poured himself a glass of the wine, sat down by the window, and began composing a poem about Bingo and Handsome, who were heroes.

  Bingo was watching approvingly. He had just dreamily spent the first thousand dollars of their check when Handsome came over to him, his face hopeful.

  “Gosh, Bingo,” he said. “Can we get both cameras out of hock now?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The suit in Finchley’s window, the one with the narrow brown pin stripe, needed only a few alterations. Bingo insisted they be made at once and said he’d wait.

  While he waited, he picked out a pale-green shirt, a blue and yellow striped one, a brown and tan plaid, and a dark brown with fancy stitching. He selected twelve ties and three pairs of shoes.

  Handsome had gotten the cameras out of hock as soon as Uncle Max had opened his doors. Now he was turned loose in a photographic-equipment store, with orders to buy one of everything he saw that he wanted.

  Ma had been well-nigh overcome with her roses, and Baby had cried a little over her orchids.

  He’d enjoyed telling Ma that they’d decided to take the three rooms, on the second floor front, so Handsome could use one room as a darkroom and the bathroom wouldn’t smell of developer. He’d enjoyed even more giving her four weeks’ rent in advance.

  The International Foto, Motion Picture, and Television Corporation of America was really going to boom, now.

  He wore the new suit home and walked part of the way, so that as many people as possible could admire it. Handsome was there ahead of him. Bingo noted approvingly that he’d done himself proud in the photographic-equipment store.

  “Bingo,” Handsome said. “I’ve been thinking about Baby.”

  Bingo nodded. He felt a faint pang. Oh, well, a pal was a pal.

  “Now that you’re in the bucks,” he said, “you’d better take her out, dinner, and a swell show, and stuff.”

  “Oh, no,” Handsome said. “I was thinking you ought to.”

  They looked at each other for a minute.

  “She likes you best,” Bingo said. “She’s your girl.”

  Handsome shook his head. “She’s always liked you best. She’s always been your girl.”

  “Well,” Bingo said after a pause, “we could always flip a coin, to see who’d ask her out.”

  “That,” Handsome said, “wouldn’t be gentlemanly.”

  Bingo thought it over. “All right,” he said, “we’ll let her decide. We’ll both ask her.”

  “O.K.,” Handsome said. He looked happy again. “And, Bingo, if she should like me best, you won’t be sore at me, will you?”

  “Of course not,” Bingo said. He was going to be sorry, though. “And if it turns out she does like me best, promise you won’t feel bad.”

  “Oh, sure,” Handsome said.

  Bingo picked infinitesimal specks of dust from his suit, while Handsome brushed his hair and retied his tie. Then they went down the stairs, side by side, and knocked at her door.

  It was Baby who opened the door, her face freshly made up, her black hair tied up with a bright-red ribbon. From the look on her face, Bingo realized that she knew why they were there. She’d probably already made up her mind and chosen between them.

  Only, he didn’t know which one of them it was. In another minute now, she’d tell.

  Then both of them went in and shut the door.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Bingo Riggs and Handsom Kusak Mysteries

  CHAPTER ONE

  The white cement road curved around a small grove of trees and began to climb a low hill. Halfway up the hill a large black-and-white sign beside the road announced:

  SLOW DOWN!

  YOU ARE APPROACHING THURSDAY

  “Slow down, Handsome,” Bingo Riggs said. “These small-town cops can smell a twenty-dollar fine two miles off.” He paused suddenly. “What the devil did the sign say?”

  “We’re getting into Thursday,” Handsome Kusak said.

  “Maybe you are,” Bingo told him, “but as far as I’m concerned, it’s still Monday.”

  Handsome said, “It’s the name of a town. Population one thousand and forty-two. It was founded in 1839 by Jacob McMillian, a settler from New York State. Thursday is located in the center of a rich farming area—”

  “That’s enough,” Bingo said hastily. He sighed. “I knew I should never have let you read those guidebooks before we left New York. And if you ask me, it’s a silly name for a town.”

  “Jacob McMillian named it that,” Handsome said, “because he got here on a Thursday. A lot of these midwest towns have been named like that. Remember Soldier’s Grave, Wisconsin, and Halfday, Illinois?”

  “I suppose Halfday got its name because it took a half day to get from there to anywhere else,” Bingo said.

  “Oh, no,” Handsome said seriously. “It was located on the old highway between Chicago and—”

  “Shut up!” Bingo said.

  They approached Thursday, population one thousand and forty-two, in a strained silence.

  The glittering maroon roadster was crammed with luggage. On the rear tire cover was printed, in gold paint:

  RIGGS AND KUSAK

  INTERNATIONAL FOTO, MOTION PICTURE, AND TELEVISION

  CORPORATION OF AMERICA

  HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA

  “We’re going to Hollywood, aren’t we?” Bingo had explained when the sign was painted.

  A month before, a series of fortunate circumstances had lifted Riggs and Kusak out of a life of sidewalk photography and placed them—temporarily, at least—in the moneyed class.* Bingo had come to the conclusion that only Hollywood offered proper scope for their unique talents, and that they might as well see some of the country on their way—neither of them having been farther from home than Brooklyn. A good share of the remaining capital had gone for the purchase of the maroon roadster and a fine set of calfskin luggage. What was left—about $1200—was in Bingo’s wallet.

  “We’ll double that in a week, when we hit Hollywood,” he reassured Handsome from time to time.

  And at that, the $1200 was approximately $1150 more than either of the two partners had posses
sed at any one time during their lives.

  The highway dipped down on the other side of the hill and ran through the village of Thursday. Handsome dropped the speed down to a good five miles per hour less than the local speed laws demanded, and idled along the main street.

  Thursday was a gloomy village, with a main street about three blocks long. Most of the store and business buildings were a dingy yellow brick, with awnings over the sidewalk. The gray concrete façade of the First National Bank stuck out like a monument, and the new red-brick post office looked enormous in contrast with the rest of the buildings. Beyond the shopping district were a few blocks of tree-lined street with well-cared-for frame houses on either side, then a block or two with a few houses, less well cared for, with no trees and no sidewalk. Then one large red wooden building with a sign reading:

  JOE HIBBS & SONS, ICE

  Finally, a roadside sign proclaiming:

  THANK YOU

  COME BACK TO THURSDAY

  “Not us,” Bingo said. “Step on it, Handsome.”

  Handsome stepped on it. The maroon roadster sped around a curve in the road. Suddenly there were screaming of brakes, some confused yells and squawkings. Handsome leaned on the horn as he applied the brakes and swerved. Something big and dark struck the front of the car, which careened across the road and came to rest with its front wheels in a ditch.

  “For Pete’s sake,” Bingo said, “what did we hit?” He climbed out of the car and stood for a moment, catching his breath. He was a small, skinny man with sandy hair, a sharp-featured face, and a wide grin. Right now he was wearing blue Hollywood slacks, a tan polo shirt, and a blue-and-brown jacket with two-inch checks.

  “Just a turkey,” Handsome said, getting out on the other side of the car. He was a good six inches taller than Bingo and his dark hair had a slight wave. He had on navy-blue corduroy slacks, slightly soiled, and an old pullover sweater.