by Craig Rice
He sat there until a cheer went up from the lakeside. He heard Handsome hailing him. He rose, stretched, tossed the empty beer bottle behind the tree, and strolled down to where the campers were assembled.
Will Sims made a speech and ended it with the announcement that the camp’s guests, Mr. Riggs and Mr. Kusak, were presenting beautiful pictures to the winners of the swimming contest, as special prizes. At this point Artie led the campers in a camp yell. Then Will Sims announced that every camper would receive a print of his picture, taken in full camper’s uniform, standing beside his tent. Whereupon Artie led the campers in a yell that all but blasted the leaves off the trees.
The swimming awards were made. Bingo and Handsome sat, looked impressed during the ceremony. The winners of the swimming tests were Artie, the red-haired skinny boy, and the tow-headed boy with the lisp. Handsome took a special photograph of the three winners, and everybody cheered again.
At last it was over. Handsome packed the cameras and equipment and stowed them carefully away. Bingo shook hands with Will Sims, assured him that summer camps were wonderful institutions and that sleeping out in the night air was the best thing in the world. Then he climbed into the car.
Handsome had just stepped on the starter when someone hopped on the running board. Bingo looked out the window. It was Artie, his face a trifle cleaner, his hair plastered slickly back from swimming.
“Hey, you,” Artie said breathlessly. “Can I honest and truly have your autograph?” He held out a slip of slightly soiled paper.
“Sure,” Bingo said. He took out his pen and wrote, “Bingo Riggs,” with a magnificent flourish. “My partner’s too.” He handed the paper to Handsome.
“And,” Artie said, “if I ever get as far’s Hollywood, do you think I’d ever be a success as a lyric writer? That’s my big ambition.”
“Frankly,” Bingo said, “I think you’d be a sensation.”
“Thanks, pal,” Artie said. “Say. These pictures you take. Do you ever sell ’em for cash money?”
“Not to you,” Bingo said. “You’re a friend of ours.”
“Damn it to hell,” Artie said in exasperation. “That ain’t what I mean. The pictures you took today of these dopes. If you were to sell them—pictures to them—, how much would you get, per picture? Talk business now, pal.”
Bingo gazed dawn at the twelve-year-old face and said, “Oh, about two bits.”
“Well,” Artie said, “gimme a nickel on every sale and I’ll see to it every ___ ______ ___ __ __ ______ in the camp buys one from you. I’m doing this because we’re pals, understand. The nickel is just to pay my expenses.”
Bingo looked at Artie. He’d felt all along that here was a kindred spirit. “Oke, it’s a deal.”
“Now you’re talking from the heart,” Artie said. “Gimme a quarter to bind the bargain and we’re in business together.”
Bingo handed over a quarter and said, “By the way, congratulations on the way you and your friends won the awards in the swimming tests.”
“—,” Artie said. “That was a setup. You don’t think any of these—dopes would have the nerve to try to beat me and my two best pals out of a prize, do you?”
“Well,” Bingo said, “since you put it that way.” He paused. “About this business deal we’ve just made. What’s the rest of your name, and where shall we get in touch with you?”
“McComb’s my name,” Artie said, “Arthur McComb. But just Artie to you. My old lady runs a bunch of tourist cabins. On County Highway K, just east of Thursday.” He winked and said, “You know what most of these tourists are.”
“Artie!” Bingo said severely. He went on, “We’ll get in touch with you at McComb’s tourist cabins, on County Highway K, about this business proposition. Let’s get going, Handsome.”
Handsome shoved in the clutch. Artie hopped off the running board and said, “See you later, pals.” The convertible started backing up the narrow roadway that led to Triple Oaks.
Will Sims had arranged a send-off. The campers were lined up alongside the driveway. As the car reached the end of the driveway, and Handsome prepared to turn into the highway, the campers sent up one final cheer:
Okey, okey, okey,
Come back to Triple Oak-y.
“Not in my lifetime,” Bingo said, leaning back and lighting a cigarette.
“You should of been awake when I was taking them pictures,” Handsome said. “Those kids—well, never mind, I took some good pictures, anyway. Say, Bingo. About those tourist cabins.”
“We aren’t going to move into any tourist cabin,” Bingo said.
“I was just thinking,” Handsome said. “There ought to be a lot of people in tourist cabins who might want their pictures taken. People on vacations, and such.”
“I’m tired,” Bingo said. “I don’t want to be bothered.”
“O. K., Bingo,” Handsome said. He drove on in silence for a mile or so. “Bingo. A place like this ain’t like a city. Where a person can go to a hotel if he’s got the money, or a rooming house if he ain’t. But even in a place like this, a person has to find a place where he can go to sleep, and shave, and change his clothes.”
“No doubt,” Bingo said wearily. “What of it?”
“Well,” Handsome said, “this Mrs. McComb’s tourist cabins. That Clancy guy must be sleeping and shaving and changing his clothes somewhere. And he isn’t at Mrs. O’Callaghan’s rooming house. And he doesn’t seem like the kind of a guy who would be in a jungle. Or sleeping under a tree.”
Bingo sat up, wide awake now. There was sense to what Handsome was saying. A couple of itinerant photographers could visit a tourist camp without arousing any suspicion. Clancy might be there.
“How do we get to County Highway K?” he asked.
“I turned at the last corner,” Handsome said. “We’re on it now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Clancy seems to have been the guy who attended to details,” Bingo said thoughtfully. “He got in touch with Henry Siller’s daughter in New York and arranged for her to come out here and meet him. Gus’s shanty seems to have been picked as a meeting place for everybody concerned.” He paused and frowned. “Funny. That night she came in. You’d think she’d have known right away neither of us was Clancy. She’d seen him. But it was a couple minutes before she said, ‘You’re not Clancy.’”
“It was pretty dark in the shanty,” Handsome said. “Those oil lamps don’t give much light any time, and the lamp chimney needed washing, anyway. I washed it the next morning.”
“Well,” Bingo said. “She met up with him later. Because we saw her shopping for groceries and getting in his car. I wonder if Clancy knows those escaped convicts kidnaped her and that they’re holding her some place.”
“He must know it,” Handsome said. “Maybe he’s out looking for her right now. Only. Bingo. She isn’t the girl.”
“Are you going to start that again,” Bingo said in disgust. “Say, that looks like a bunch of tourist cabins ahead of us right now.”
Just a hundred yards before County Highway K crossed the concrete highway was a cluster of tiny frame buildings around a filling station and grocery, and a big sign reading HAPPY HOME HAVEN. CLEAN BEDS. $1.00 PER NIGHT. MRS. A. A. McCOMB, PROP.
“That’s it, all right,” Bingo said. “Remember now, Handsome. Let me do the talking.” He sighed. “Wish we could take that Artie to Hollywood with us. What a lyric writer! That ‘mother’s knee’ song! It’s terrific!” He caught a fleeting vision of Bingo Riggs as the discoverer of Artie McComb, the boy genius lyric writer. The money he could make! The pictures that would be taken! The interviews he would give out about his Precious Charge!
“We’re here to sell some photographs, remember?” Handsome said. He turned into the entrance of Happy Home Haven. “And that Artie would probably steal you blind.”
“He’s a bright boy,” Bingo agreed. “He’ll go far in the world.”
“That’s what they said of my second cousi
n Wilmer,” Handsome said gloomily, “but he never got no farther than Elmira Reformatory. Looks like that’s Mrs. McComb coming out of the filling station.”
“I’ll handle her,” Bingo said, adjusting his tie and smoothing his hair.
She was a short, stocky woman with yellow-gray hair cut short and a pink, friendly face. She had on a slightly soiled, printed cotton house dress that didn’t fit very well, and her stockingless feet were in old carpet slippers.
Bingo hopped out of the car, bowed, and said, “I trust you’re Artie’s mother. Though I must say, you certainly don’t look old enough to be the mother of a big boy like Artie.”
“I’m his mother,” she said. “What’s he done now?”
“What’s he done?” Bingo exclaimed. “Mrs. McComb! Let me be the first to congratulate you! Your son Artie—you should be very proud of him—has carried off first honors in the swimming tests at Triple-Oaks camp!”
“Artie?” she said. Her faded blue eyes widened. “He swims like an old cow.”
“Oh, come now,” Bingo said. “You’re just being modest. He won, and we took a picture of him receiving his award.”
She gasped and said, “Well I’ll be _____ __ _________ _____ and damned!”
Bingo remembered Artie saying innocently, “All I know I learned at my mother’s knee.” He went on hastily, “As soon as the pictures are printed, we’re going to bring you a really swell print of it.”
“For how much?” she said suspiciously.
Artie, Bingo reflected, had learned more than a nice command of language at his mother’s knee. “For free,” he said, in a hurt voice. “Naturally, we wouldn’t charge you for it. After all—” He caught himself on the verge of saying that photography was just a hobby with himself and his partner, and realized just in time that Artie’s mother wouldn’t fall for that hobby gag. “We were engaged to take pictures of the prize-winning campers, the pictures to be extra prizes they could give to their folks. And since Artie was one of the winners, we’ll bring you a really good picture of him, as soon as it’s printed.”
Artie’s mother beamed at him and said, “Say, that’s wonderful!”
“We thought we’d drop in and tell you,” Bingo said. “Since, naturally, you’d want to know right away.” He glanced around and said, “You’ve got a nice place here.”
“Well,” she said, “it’s clean and quiet and cheap, and no questions asked. Are you gentlemen looking for a cabin?”
“I wish we were,” Bingo said. “It looks so pleasant and comfortable here. Next time we go on a vacation trip, we’ll let you know, and you can hold your best cabin for us.”
“I sure will,” she said cordially.
“Say,” Bingo said, “while we’re here. Why don’t you let us take some pictures of your nice little place here?”
Immediately her sales resistance went into operation. She said coldly, “I haven’t any money to waste on pictures.”
“Who said anything about money!” Bingo said. “It’s just a little present from us, to celebrate Artie winning the swimming award.” He turned on all his charm, full force. “You just get into your prettiest dress and we’ll take a picture of you under that big sign out in front. And in front of the filling station. And some pictures of your beautiful place here.” He added, “Any mother of Artie’s is a friend of ours.”
She giggled and said, “Well—I’ll fix up a little—if you don’t mind waiting—”
“Take your time,” Bingo said. “We’ve got an hour or so to kill. We’ll just stroll around and admire the place. Maybe we can take a few pictures while you’re dolling up.”
She fled toward the cottage back of the filling station. Bingo glanced over the camp. There were two rows of the little cabins, five in each row. A buck a night. If they were kept rented all the time, Artie’s mother was doing all right for herself.
A decrepit 1936 touring car was parked beside one of the cabins. A collection of homely and disreputable-looking children began piling out of the cabin. There were eight of them, altogether. Then a pair of homely, tired, and disreputable-looking parents emerged. They all stood staring admiringly at the convertible.
“Get the camera, Handsome,” Bingo murmured. “The little one. There’s a lot of business to pick up here.”
A plump woman in slacks, with stringy brown hair and eyeglasses, looked out the door of the cabin across the way to see what all the commotion was about.
“Are you on a vacation?” Bingo asked politely.
She nodded, bewildered.
“Wouldn’t you like to have a nice souvenir picture to take home With you, and show the folks where you stayed?”
“Ohhh!” she said. “I’d loooove to!” She turned to the door and called, “Mamma!”
Another woman, also plump and wearing glasses and slacks, came out of the cabin. The only difference was that her stringy hair was gray. “Did you call me, Gertrude?” she asked.
“Mamma!” the first woman said. “These gentlemen are going to take a picture of us!”
“Well, I declare,” Mamma said, smiling. “That’s mighty nice of them. Wait’ll I comb my back hair out.”
“Only twenty-five cents a print,” Bingo said. “Postcard size. You can mail ’em home, if you want to.”
Handsome shot three pictures. In between poses Gertrude explained that she was a schoolteacher—fifth grade—in Indiana, and that she was spending her vacation taking Mamma on a nice trip. Mamma, who explained that she hadn’t been more than a hundred miles away from home since she was married, kept thinking of more friends she wanted to mail pictures to, and the final order was for ten prints of each pose.
While the pictures were being taken, the resident of the next cabin came out to see what was going on. He was a small, mousy man, a traveling salesman for a fertilizer company. He decided that he wanted a picture to send home to his wife. Yes, and maybe one to send his sister Ida, who lived in Minneapolis. And one for his wife’s mother, in Terre Haute. And maybe a couple of extras. Six in all.
“Thirty-six times twenty-five,” Bingo murmured under his breath, “is nine dollars. Add that to two hundred and fourteen dollars—”
“I spent a dollar for gas today,” Handsome said. “Ninety-six cents, to be exact. So the total is two hundred and twenty-two dollars and four cents.”
A station wagon was parked beside the next cabin. On the side was lettered, neatly:
F. HOSKINS
GLEN ECHO, MD.
Bingo knocked at the door of the cabin. There were faint sounds inside, but no answer. He knocked again, louder. The faint sounds ceased. Still no answer.
“Bingo,” Handsome said uneasily. “Don’t bother—”
“Might be Clancy,” Bingo whispered. “Or might be a customer.” He knocked, good and loud.
The cabin door opened about six inches. A round, anxious masculine face peered out gingerly. Beyond, Bingo could see one shapely, and unclad, feminine leg.
“Want your picture taken?” Bingo said.
There was a howl of laughter from the bed. The door slammed shut. Bingo mopped his brow and hoped he wasn’t blushing.
“As our friend Artie remarked,” he said, “you know what tourist camps are!”
The next cabin in the row was empty. At the fifth one a deaf but garrulous old lady spent ten minutes explaining why she didn’t want to subscribe to any magazines. The cabin across from it was likewise empty. The next one had a sign on the door, DO NOT DISTURB! “We won’t,” Bingo muttered. “Once is enough!”
A bright-eyed middle-aged woman popped out of the next cabin, caught Bingo and Handsome’s attention, held a finger to her lips, and said, “Ssssh!” She motioned toward the cabin with the DO NOT DISTURB sign.
“Newlyweds!” she hissed at them. As they came closer, she giggled and said, “Isn’t it romantic! Isn’t it sweet! That darling Mrs. McComb told me all about it. They eloped. And she’s the most adorable girl!” She giggled again. “Last night when he brought her hom
e he carried her over the threshold. Isn’t that cute? I shouldn’t have been watching, but I couldn’t help it. Just think, they’ve only been married a week! Isn’t it just too precious? You wouldn’t dream of disturbing them, would you?”
“I should say not,” Bingo said.
“Are you really taking pictures? Would it cost very much to take one of me? It wouldn’t take me a minute to take my curlers out and put my girdle on. I’d just adore to have a picture taken of me.”
“We’d adore to take one of you,” Bingo said. “In fact, I’d adore to help you”—he paused artfully—“take your curlers out.”
“Oh” she said, simpering. “You bad boy! Now, you wait here just one minute. I’ll be right back.” She ducked back into the cabin.
In a surprisingly short time she reappeared, her platinum-gray hair fluffed out, her face made up, her girdle very obviously on. She was tugging at it as she came through the doorway.
“I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve had a picture taken,” she said. “And I’d simply adore to send one back to the office. Could you take one of me beside the car?”
“We could take a picture of you,” Bingo said gallantly, “beside anything.”
She giggled again and said, “Now please be serious!”
A coupé was parked beside the cabin. She posed herself artfully beside it, one foot on the running board, and said coyly, “Do you think this really looks cute?”
A gold-lettered sign on the car door read KATZ KORSETS, and in smaller letters, When better Korsets are made, they’ll be the Katz.
“It looks cute,” Bingo said. “It looks adorable. Hold that pose.”
Handsome snapped the picture. She relaxed.
“I bet you’re a businesswoman,” Bingo said admiringly.
“I sell corsets,” she said. “Isn’t that a silly thing to do for a living? Cheap corsets, too. I wouldn’t dream of wearing one myself. I don’t know why people pay good money for them. Naturally, I don’t say that to the department-store buyers. I just say, ‘Look at my figure. I’m wearing a Katz Korset.’”
