by Craig Rice
“People often do,” Handsome said politely.
“Not all of them,” Sheriff Judson said. “You take Ollie, now.” He paused, mopped his face with a bandanna handkerchief, and said, “Lordy, don’t it get hot these Indian-summer nights!” He lifted his voice and said, “Herb! Earl! If you got three bottles of cold beer out there, bring ’em out.”
“Thanks,” Bingo said, “that’s swell.” He was beginning to think better of the law-enforcement offices of Thursday County. “Who’s Ollie?”
“Huh?” the sheriff said. “Oh. Him. He’s just Ollie, that’s all. He was in jail here ’bout fifteen years ago when the courthouse burned down and all the records with it. And, same week, old Judge Henry—he was an uncle of Chris Halvorsen’s first wife—had a stroke and died. So nobody knew what Ollie was in for, or how long. There was a new sheriff—Bert Miller, he runs the Shamrock saloon now—and the old sheriff had skipped town with some of the county funds and nobody knew where he was. He was one of the Engan boys. They were a terribly unreliable lot. Chuck Engan died in jail. One of their uncles was hung, out in Nebraska, so I guess it ran in the family.”
Bingo felt a little bewildered. He clung to the name “Ollie” as a drowning man might cling to timber. “And Ollie’s been in jail ever since?”
“Sure,” Sheriff Judson said. Herb brought in the three bottles of beer, the sheriff expertly flipped the tops off on a handle of the desk drawer, and passed them around. “Nobody knows when he’s supposed to be let out. And Ollie, I guess he never did know. He ain’t what you call bright. But he cleans up around the jail and does the janitor work, and tends to the lawn, and he’s got the run of the premises, and eats reg’lar, so he don’t complain. Saturday night when they show the serial at the Elite, he goes to the movies.” He tilted his beer bottle and took down a third of the contents with a pleasant, gurgling sound.
“Every now’n then,” he went on, “the county supervisors bring up the subject at board meetings. There’s some of ’em figure if Ollie ain’t a prisoner, he oughta get paid for janitor work, or else be let loose. Fact is, we did let him loose once, but he came right back again. I figure he likes it here.”
Bingo tilted his own beer bottle, wishing he had the expertness displayed by Sheriff Henry Judson. “I should think,” he hazarded, “that if you knew what he’d been arrested for in the first place, you’d be able to figure out how long a term he’d been sentenced for.”
“That’s the whole trouble,” Sheriff Judson said. “Nobody knows. We tried to figure it out once. Couldn’t of been drunkenness, account of Ollie don’t drink. Couldn’t of been robbery, account of he don’t steal. Couldn’t of been murder or arson or none of those things, account of nothing like that had happened around the time Ollie was arrested. Couldn’t of been stealing a car. Ollie can’t drive one. Couldn’t of been rape, on account of Ollie doesn’t—” The sheriff paused, sneezed, and said, “Well, he’s never been known to.”
“But don’t he remember?” Handsome asked, incredulous.
“Him?” Henry Judson said. “He don’t remember from tomorrow to yesterday. I told you, he ain’t bright. His whole family was a trifle teched. Why, his aunt Nellie broke up a revival meeting fifteen, twenty years ago by rising right up in the sermon and claiming to be Saint Paul.” He listened, put down the beer bottle, and said, “This must be Will Sims now.”
It wasn’t Will Sims. It was a golden-haired girl in a blue-and-white checked gingham dress.
Bingo sat up straight and put down the beer bottle. This was what he’d imagined the Farmer’s Daughter would look like, before he left New York.
So far, he’d been disappointed in Farmers’ Daughters. But this time!
He looked at her appreciatively. Cute little white sandals with high heels. A gorgeous pair of suntanned ankles. From the way the gingham dress fitted, he deduced that the rest of her was as gorgeous as the ankles. What a figure, and what a face! And that golden hair—it was, hell’s bells, it had to be, the real McCoy. After all a Farmer’s Daughter wouldn’t be going to beauty parlors. This was really it.
She was looking at Handsome, of course, and not at him. But that was something to be expected. Girls always looked at Handsome first. It was usually quite a while before they got around to looking at Bingo, but, he reminded himself, sooner or later they always did. Meanwhile he straightened his tie, brushed a fleck of dust off the sport jacket, and smoothed a hand over his sandy hair.
“Hello, Christine,” the sheriff said. “Where’s your pa at?”
“He’s busy right now,” the girl said. “He couldn’t get in himself.” Her voice, Bingo noted joyfully, was definitely on the musical side. “But he wanted me to stop by and tell you to be sure you don’t let those two men get away before pa finds the turkeys.”
“He don’t need to worry,” the sheriff said jovially. “They ain’t gonna get away, on account of I got ’em right here.” He nodded toward Bingo and Handsome and added, “This here’s Christine Halvorsen. Chris Halvorsen’s girl.”
Bingo jumped to his feet and said, “Delighted to meet you, Miss Halvorsen.”
She looked at him coolly and thoughtfully, then turned to Sheriff Judson. “So these are the men that stole pa’s turkeys!”
“Now, Miss Halvorsen,” Bingo said reprovingly. “Do we look like the sort of people who would go around stealing turkeys? A couple of important motion-picture producers like us?”
Her blue eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed again. “You wanted those turkeys bad enough to buy ’em from Gus. For a thousand dollars.”
“Just a whim,” Bingo said airily. “A hobby, you might say. I’ve always wanted to own a herd of turkeys. And if this—this Gus, cheated us, why—” he snapped his fingers, “after all, what’s a thousand dollars to me? It was worth it, just for the laugh.”
He whipped out a card and handed it to her. Riggs and Kusak, International Foto, Motion Picture, and Television Corporation of America, Hollywood, California.
She stared at it almost reverently and said, “Gee!”
“Any time you’re in Hollywood,” Bingo said, “be sure to look us up.”
Handsome stirred uneasily in his chair. He frowned. He said, “But, Bingo—”
“Never mind now,” Bingo said hastily. “I recognize talent when I see it. This is a very beautiful young lady, Mr. Kusak. She should be given every opportunity and encouragement.”
The beautiful young lady gazed at Bingo with melting eyes. “Oh, Mr. Riggs! I wish I knew you better.”
“Don’t worry,” Bingo said happily. “You will.”
He wanted to say more, but the telephone rang. Sheriff Judson answered it, said, “Yeah. Oh sure. Yeah, I’ll tell her.” He hung up and said, “Christine, your ma wants you should come home now.”
Christine sighed wistfully, shrugged her shoulders, smiled shyly at Bingo, and said, “I lead such a sheltered life!” She gave him one of those looks that mean, “I’d love to see you again, soon,” and said modestly, “It’s been so thrilling, meeting you—both of you.” She flashed a magnificent smile at Handsome, waved at the sheriff, and was gone.
“What a girl!” Bingo said admiringly. He closed his eyes for a minute and indulged in a vision of a big office with paneled walls, a huge, polished desk, a beautiful secretary ushering in Miss Christine Halvorsen, of Thursday, Iowa. He would rise, shake her hand cordially, and say, “Ah, yes—the charming little lady I met in Iowa. How nice of you to look me up.” It was a wonderful vision. Again Bingo found himself ardently wishing that he could smoke cigars. A big, expensive cigar in his hand was the one thing needed to make the picture a perfect one.
He opened his eyes to the unpleasant realities of Sheriff Judson’s office and said, “That little girl has a great future. Just a poor little farmer’s daughter, but—” There was some quotation he wanted to think of, something about roses blushing unseen, but he couldn’t remember it.
“Dunno’s I’d call Christine poor,” Sheriff Jud
son said mildly. “Chris Halvorsen’s got one of the biggest farms around here. Worthy fifty, sixty thousand dollars—mebbe more—Chris Halvorsen is.”
Bingo swallowed a gasp, but he couldn’t catch his eyebrows in time to keep them from going up. “That so!” he said at last.
“Chris is a good farmer,” the sheriff said, “and a mighty determined man. He wouldn’t like it at all if I was to let you leave town before he finds them turkeys. And Chris is not only a county commissioner but a good shot with a rifle.”
Fifty or sixty thousand dollars! Who would have thought it! That little girl in gingham! “Oh, don’t worry,” Bingo said hastily. “We wouldn’t dream of leaving until those turkeys are found. Fact is, we mean to help find them.”
“But, Bingo,” Handsome began again, uneasily.
“Never mind,” Bingo said, raising one hand in a lordly gesture. “I know what’s right. In spite of all the important business waiting for us in Hollywood, I wouldn’t want to leave here with Mr. Halvorsen’s turkeys on my conscience.”
“Besides which,” the sheriff reminded him, “there’s been a murder.”
“It hadn’t slipped my mind for a minute,” Bingo said.
Will Sims, county attorney, came into the office. He gave the impression of being a very big man. It wasn’t until second glance that Bingo realized he was merely average height and weight. The illusion was caused by his air of athletic virility and the way he carried himself. He had black, curly hair, a tanned handsome face with a definitely noble brow; he was dressed in khaki slacks and a khaki shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He looked cross.
“You would have to call me into town,” he said to Sheriff Judson, “just the night when Eddie Hoskins was going to pass his woodcraft examination.”
“We had a murder,” the sheriff said, almost apologetically.
“You told me that over the phone,” Will Sims said. “Put the murderer under arrest and hold him until Monday. Camp’ll be over by then, and we’ll hold the inquest Monday afternoon.”
“We dunno who to arrest,” Sheriff Judson said. “Fact is. Will, we dunno yet who was murdered.”
Will Sims looked abused. He sighed. He turned, raked Bingo and Handsome with a glance, and said, “Who are these two?”
Bingo thought of several answers to that, but none of them seemed exactly tactful.
“They’re a couple of big movie guys,” the sheriff said. “From Hollywood.”
Will Sims thawed immediately. He strode across the floor, shook Bingo’s hand vigorously, and said, “Delighted to meet you, and welcome to Thursday, Iowa, Mr.—”
“Riggs,” Bingo said, producing the card of the International Foto, Motion Picture, and Television Corporation of America. “And this is my partner, Mr. Kusak.”
The county attorney went through the same handpumping routine with Handsome and said, “It’s a great pleasure!”
“Thank you, sir,” Handsome said. He frowned, and said anxiously, “But Bingo—”
“Never mind now,” Bingo said, “we’ll talk about it later.” He laughed deprecatingly and said, “My partner is worrying about a big deal waiting for us in Hollywood. But naturally this little difficulty comes first.” He added hastily, “I take it you’re interested in camping, Mr. Sims.”
“Greatest thing in the world,” Will Sims said heartily. “Finest experience in the life of a growing boy. Believe me, if I had children of my own—” He paused, and said, “I honestly believe that a great movie—a great movie—could be created around the subject.”
“I’ve no doubt of it,” Bingo said. He was thinking that Will Sims looked like one of those magazine; ads. You too can have muscles like these in six easy lessons.
“I’d like to talk to you about it,” Will Sims went on. “I’d like to have you and your partner spend a night at our camp. A great experience. You’ll be in Thursday for a little while, I trust.”
“They’ll be in Thursday till we find Chris Halvorsen’s turkeys,” Sheriff Judson said mildly.
Will Sims looked blankly at the sheriff. “Turkeys? Turkeys?”
“Chris Halvorsen’s,” the sheriff repeated. “Gus—you know Gus—sold ’em to these fellas and then somebody stole ’em, and there’s been a murder.”
“But,” Will Sims said, bewildered, “how could Gus sell Chris Halvorsen’s turkeys?”
“That’s the whole trouble,” Judson said. “He couldn’t.”
“And what would they”—he indicated Bingo and Handsome—“want with Chris Halvorsen’s turkeys?”
“Just a hobby,” Bingo said, hoping he’d get away with it.
“And who stole them, anyway?”
“Nobody knows.” the sheriff said. “And I told you, nobody knows who murdered that fella. And nobody knows who he is. That’s why I phoned you up.”
“I don’t get it,” the county attorney said in a dazed voice. He sat down in the nearest chair. Bingo offered him a cigarette. He shook his head. “Never touch tobacco. No moral objection, y’understand, but it sets a bad example to the campers. Will somebody please tell me exactly what’s gone on here?”
Between the three of them, they made out, beginning with the running over of the “prize” turkey and ending with the discovery of the well-dressed, bearded stranger murdered in Bingo and Handsome’s new home.
“Obviously, we had nothing to do with it,” Bingo said, “but we’re glad to do anything we can to help. We’ve had some experience with things like this, in a small way—”
“Bingo—” Handsome said. He sounded unhappier than ever.
“Never mind,” Bingo told him. “I’ve said we’d help, and we will.”
Will Sims thought the whole thing over for a long time. At last he said, “I guess we’d better try to get the victim identified, first.”
“I got that started a’ready,” Sheriff Judson said. “Herb’s been sending out descriptions of him. He’s an unusual-looking fella, and somebody oughta recognize him.”
“And find out if there’s been suspicious characters around,” Will Sims said.
“Ain’t none,” the sheriff said. “Without you include them two”—he nodded at Bingo and Handsome—“and those guys that busted out of state’s prison today and ain’t been rounded up yet. We figger they were headed this way, but they turned off at Lima Junction.”
“Then they’re Kern County’s worry, not ours,” Will Sims said. “And I don’t see what we can do before morning, as far as the other things are concerned.” He looked at his wrist watch and said, “I keep very regular hours. Nothing like it for keeping a man fit.”
“Just a minute, Will,” the sheriff said. “You don’t think we oughta send for some help, like some of them crime experts from Des Moines, or Cedar Rapids. On account of fingerprints and such.”
Will Sims drew himself up to his full five foot seven. “This is Thursday County’s problem,” he announced. “Thursday County will handle it in its own way.” He added cordially to Bingo and Handsome, “Can I drop you anywhere?”
“Our car’s outside, thanks,” Bingo said.
“Then I’ll see you in the morning,” he said. “In my office, about eight. I believe in starting the day early. A good set of exercises, a shower, a well-balanced breakfast, and by eight o’clock you have the best part of the day ahead of you. Good night and sleep well. You’ll find this fine country air makes you feel like a new man.”
“I don’t want to feel like a new man,” Bingo said after Will Sims had gone. “And I’m tired out.”
Sheriff Henry Judson chuckled. “Will does sort of affect people that way. You get so you don’t notice it, though. Will’s a good boy. Wanted to be a big athlete when he went to State College, but he never could make the grade, so he takes it out this way. I wonder if I oughta keep you in jail overnight.”
“Suit yourself,” Bingo said, “but we aren’t going to run away if you don’t.”
“If you did,” the sheriff said, “I dunno’s we’d be in more trouble than we ar
e right now. Anyhow, I could always have you brought back. So you might’s well beat it and get some sleep. When Will Sims says eight o’clock, he means eight o’clock.”
Bingo walked to the convertible, his mind spinning like a top. Was there a hotel in this place? He didn’t relish sleeping under his own roof as much as he had earlier in the evening. Who was the man who’d been murdered, and where were Chris Halvorsen’s turkeys? Was it true Christine Halvorsen’s pa had fifty or sixty thousand dollars? Would they ever find Gus and get their thousand dollars—or at least part of it—back?
Handsome’s voice broke in on his thoughts. “Say, Bingo,” he said plaintively.
Bingo paused, one hand on the car door. “Well, what?”
“Do you think I should of told them who that fella was?” Handsome asked.
“Who—what?” It was a good thirty seconds before Bingo realized what Handsome had been saying. “You mean you know who he was?”
“Sure,” Handsome said. “Only, do you think I oughta of told ’em?”
Bingo stared at him. “Why—”
“I didn’t want to,” Handsome said, “without I told you first.”
“We’d better go back in and tell the sheriff,” Bingo said. Then, “No, wait. No, maybe you had better tell me, first.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Drive on down the street a ways,” Bingo said, “so we can talk without anybody listening to us.”
“O.K., Bingo,” Handsome said. The convertible slid smoothly away from the curb and purred down the street. “I should have known him right off. It was a good picture of him. Only, it was the beard that threw me at first. Then when the sheriff mentioned Chuck Engan I remembered the bank robbery, and then it came to me.”
“Not so fast,” Bingo said. “You’re getting me confused. What picture?”
