The April Robin Murders

by Craig Rice

  “Oh,” Handsome said. “They shot each other. And then his relatives and her relatives both wanted to inherit all the money. So it was a question of who shot who first. And who died first. And if the one who died last shot in self-defense, so it wouldn’t be murder. It was kind of a problem because it looked like they both shot at about the same time.”

  “How did it come out?” Bingo asked, fascinated in spite of himself, and forgetting his own troubles for the moment.

  “Well,” Handsome said, “it turned out there wasn’t any money anyway because it seemed he had invested all of it in a tin mine somewhere where there wasn’t any tin. So it didn’t really matter.”

  “But this does matter,” William Willis said. “I loved my sister very much. But I’ve got to think of myself, too. If Julien Lattimer is dead, and then if anything would happen to Lois—” His voice faded away.

  “You’d be able to buy a lot of birdseed,” Bingo said, “and food for those rentable reptiles.” He counted to ten and said, “Where is your sister now?”

  The look on William Willis’ face simply said that he was not going to answer that. Whether or not he knew where she was hiding was another question.

  “A little more coffee,” Bingo said. He felt another rush of sympathy for their visitor. “Mr. Willis,” he said warmly, “I’m beginning to think we’ll all get a little further if we’re friends.” He looked at the man who had so obviously been up all night, who must have been through a bad few years. He was glad to see Handsome bring some warmed up coffee cake along with the pot of coffee.

  The smile he gave William Willis came from his heart. “You were prowling around what may or may not be our house. We don’t care, and I speak for my partner as well as myself.” He felt the smile widening. “Maybe if you’d tell us why you were trying to get in the house, and what you were looking for, we could help you find it.”

  William Willis looked up at him with anguished eyes.

  Handsome brought some butter to put on the coffee cake and said, apologetically, “I wish we had some jam. Or some eggs.” He set the butter on the coffee table, produced a handful of paper napkins he’d found somewhere, and said, “Like in that story, Mr. Willis. I mean, if Mr. Julien Lattimer is dead but if your sister didn’t kill him, then she inherits this house and almost everything else, and then if anything happened to her this would be your house, so in a way you could consider us trespassers.” He handed William Willis the sugar. “But if you look at it this way, if Julien Lattimer is alive, and if he did sign those papers, why then we practically own this house and you are a trespasser.”

  Bingo had a sudden and fleeting thought that maybe Handsome should have been a lawyer instead of a photographer.

  Handsome handed William Willis the cream and said, “But it’s nicer to have you as our guest.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Bingo said. “So drink your coffee, and then let’s us all go looking for what you came here to find.”

  “I don’t know what I’m looking for. Believe me, I’m telling the truth. It just seems to me that there must be something—” He paused. “I never was able to get into the house before. There was the caretaker guarding it. Last night I thought I could break in. I had no idea you would be here. I thought the house would be empty. That I could get in and dig around and look around—” He paused. “I don’t know what I expected to find, or where I expected to find it. Believe me, believe me, it was just that I wanted to search the house, by myself.”

  Bingo said gently, “The police have done everything but tear down the walls.”

  William Willis said, “I loved my sister very much.” He lifted his head and suddenly he didn’t look quite as tired, quite as defeated. “She was beautiful. She could have gone a long way in show business, if she hadn’t married that horrible, really horrible man for his money. She did, and it was a terrible mistake.” He stopped himself suddenly and said, “Look, I can’t possibly tell you all about it right now. Only it wasn’t just because of Julien Lattimer’s money. She was very frail, very delicate, her heart wasn’t too good. This Julien Lattimer offered her what seemed to be a snug harbor, a secure refuge. She didn’t realize—” He paused, bit his lip, and said, “She was an artist, a real artist. She did a slack-wire act—” His eyes suddenly looked into faraway and unseen places, as though he were seeing his little sister perform on the stage. For just an instant, Bingo could see her too, a dream image as April Robin was a dream image, frail, delicate, lovely, floating over space on a slack wire—

  Bingo brought himself back to this earth and this day with a jolting effort. “Look, pal,” he said. “If we’re going to be friends, let’s you answer me just one or two quick questions. Do you know anyone named Courtney Budlong?”

  William Willis brought himself back to earth, too. He looked a little bewildered and said, “No.”

  “Do you know a Mr. Chester Baxter? A Mr. Charlie Browne?”

  William Willis had never heard of them, either.

  “Clifford Bradbury?” Bingo asked.

  William Willis shook his head and didn’t even bother to say no. Bingo realized he was running out of questions. Not only that, but he wasn’t getting any answers.

  “Mr. Willis,” Bingo said deprecatingly, “I’m what you might call sort of a fan of wire acts, and I don’t remember any Lois Willis.”

  William Willis looked at him wearily and said, “Her name wasn’t Willis. I thought I told you, she was my stepsister. Her name was Lois DeLee.”

  There was a little silence, and then Handsome said, “Oh.” Then there was a longer silence.

  Bingo had a gross of questions to ask now. The question was, which one to ask first. He was turning them over in his mind when the doorbell rang with a grimly authoritative sound.

  It was Perroni and Hendenfelder. They looked as though they’d been awake all night, too.

  Perroni flashed his hard and professional smile and said, “Well. You’re up and dressed early this morning.”

  Bingo cast desperately around for an answer and finally said, “We got up at dawn to watch the sunrise.”

  “You couldn’t have picked a better time for it,” Perroni said. He looked at William Willis and said, “What are you doing here?”

  William Willis looked helpless. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it.

  “We’re businessmen,” Bingo said indignantly. “Mr. Willis trains birds and rents out reptiles. We’re just talking over some future deals.” Why he should cover up for William Willis, he didn’t know, but it seemed to be the thing to do at the time.

  Perroni looked as though he believed William Willis had been there on a business deal, and also that flying saucers landed on a regular schedule at Giant Rock, but he didn’t make an issue of it.

  “We brought you a little news,” Hendenfelder said. “That’s why we’re here so early. About Chester Baxter.”

  “He’s dead,” Perroni said, making it obvious that he didn’t like to waste time.

  “Found in an alley in Ocean Park, with his throat cut,” Hendenfelder said.

  “And,” Perroni added grimly, “where were you boys all last night, and can you prove it?”

  eighteen

  Bingo didn’t answer. He sank down on the davenport and whispered, “The poor little guy!”

  “Well!” Perroni said. “So he was a friend of yours?”

  Bingo didn’t answer that, either. He was thinking of Chester Baxter, a con man and not a very successful one, but with great plans for his future. Maybe if he’d succeeded in his mission it would have brought him the stake he had obviously needed so badly. Enough to take him back to San Diego and the rich widow. Maybe everything would have turned out fine. Little Chester Baxter had left the house, not so long ago, with a gleam in his eye and high hopes in his heart. And then, in an alley in Ocean Park—Bingo felt his stomach tilt a little.

  Little Chester Baxter had been a man of honor, in his profession and according to his lights, and someo
ne had cut his throat.

  Bingo didn’t want to talk to Perroni, he didn’t want to talk to anybody. He just wanted to get away by himself and think things over. To his relief, Perroni turned his morose gaze on William Willis.

  “All right, Willie, what are you doing here? Looking for your sister? We’ll find her first.”

  William Willis moistened his lips. “It’s like these gentlemen said. I came over here to talk picture business.”

  “Birds,” Handsome said helpfully. “Birds and reptiles.”

  Perroni ignored him and went on coldly, “You sure pick a funny time of day for a business visit.”

  “I get up very early every day,” William Willis said, his voice a little shaky. “That’s the way I am.”

  “Sure,” Hendenfelder said amiably. “That’s the way you are because that’s the way you are.”

  William Willis smiled at him wanly. “It’s what you might call a—well, like a—”

  “Just a personal foible,” Hendenfelder said. “We know. This is Hollywood. Everybody’s got their little foibles.”

  Perroni looked as though he wished Hendenfelder had smothered in his cradle, and said, “We’ll skip that. We can check why you’re here. Tell me, Willie—”

  “Just because my sister was involved in a murder,” William Willis said, with sudden and incredible dignity, “just because she is suspected of a murder of which she is entirely innocent, there is no reason to call me Willie.” He lifted his chin another half inch and said, “My name is William Willis.” Even Perroni was put back on his heels for a moment or so.

  “All right, Mister Willis,” the sad-eyed detective said icily, “did you know Chester Baxter?”

  “I never heard of a Chester Baxter.” The look on his face dared Perroni, the whole police department, or anyone in the wide world to prove otherwise.

  “And if I may be so rude as to ask,” Perroni said, “where were you last night and what were you doing?”

  William Willis’ stare returned icicle for icicle. “I was in Bakersfield until one o’clock,” he said. “With my birds. Doing a benefit performance for a homeless dog shelter.”

  Perroni nodded to Hendenfelder. “Check,” he said. Hendenfelder went into the kitchen to telephone.

  Bingo reached for a cigarette. His hands were trembling, but only a little. He wanted to tell somebody about everything. About the deal with Chester Baxter. About Lois Lattimer’s name being DeLee. About Courtney Budlong having murdered Pearl Durzy. But he didn’t want to tell Perroni. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to tell Hendenfelder. He wished he were back in New York, twenty blocks from home, without carfare, and in the middle of a blizzard.

  Perroni turned his unhappy gaze on Bingo and said, “And Mister Willis came here, at this early hour, to talk about the picture business?”

  Bingo looked him straight in the eye and said, “You don’t think I’d lie to the police, do you?”

  “Yes,” Perroni said, and settled that question once and for all.

  “Handsome,” Bingo said, in a voice he hoped sounded bored, “call up our lawyer, Mr. Arthur Schlee. Tell him there’s a couple of cops bothering us, for nothing. Tell him if it’s out of his line, to get”—he searched his memory fast—“Jerry Giesler!”

  Perroni held up a hand and said, “Any time you are going to need a lawyer, I’ll let you know. Right now, this is only a routine investigation. Me, I don’t care about this Chester Baxter character being murdered.”

  “I do,” Bingo said, before he could catch himself.

  Hendenfelder had come back from telephoning, and stood in the doorway, listening.

  “And just what was this Chester Baxter character to you?” Perroni demanded.

  “Nothing,” Bingo said miserably. Chester Baxter had been a crook, a con man, one who picked on wealthy and gullible widows. He thought of the ugly smile he’d seen on Chester Baxter’s mouth at the thought of catching up with the man who called himself Courtney Budlong. But he said, “It’s just that, well, nobody wants to be murdered.” There wasn’t anything else to say.

  “That’s why you have a police department,” Perroni said. “But this Chester Baxter character doesn’t count.”

  He’d counted very much to Chester Baxter, Bingo thought.

  “My particular job is arresting Lois Lattimer for the murder of her husband,” Perroni said doggedly.

  “Lois didn’t kill him,” William Willis said.

  “And besides,” Bingo said, “he can’t possibly be dead.”

  Hendenfelder eased himself into the room and said quietly, “It checks, Perroni. This guy’s bird act did a show last night in Bakersfield, the dog shelter benefit. Drew a big crowd and went over great.” He acknowledged William Willis’ thanks with a nod and a smile and said, “He didn’t get away from Bakersfield until almost one o’clock, so he couldn’t have gotten back here in time to cut Chester Baxter’s throat.” He coughed and said, “Besides which—” and then paused.

  Perroni looked coldly at William Willis and said, “All right. Go home.”

  William Willis lit a new cigarette and didn’t move. “Stay here, then,” Perroni said. He turned to Bingo and Handsome. “And where were you last night?”

  “We weren’t out murdering Chester Baxter,” Bingo said. He was beginning to get mad now. “Handsome, go on and call Mr. Schlee.”

  “Forget it,” Perroni said. “I only asked a simple question.”

  “We were here,” Bingo said.

  “I won’t ask you to prove it now,” Perroni said, in a very tired voice. He thrust his hands in his coat pockets, squared away and said, “Chester Baxter came back here to see you. Twice.”

  Bingo started to say, “How do you know?” and then shut his mouth. But Perroni had caught his expression.

  “We weren’t watching you, and we weren’t watching him,” he said. “But a guy from the bunco squad was keeping an eye on him. He came back here twice. So he must have had some kind of business with you. He went to a joint on Olympic. The Owl’s Roost. As might have been expected. It’s sort of a hangout for those guys. He bought drinks for a few people. He got confidential with a few people. To the effect that he was on the trail of some really important cash money. Then somehow the guy from the bunco squad lost sight of him around midnight. This morning a guy who lives a couple blocks from there went to take out his garbage, and found him.” He paused, fixed a grim stare on Bingo and said, “Well?”

  “It’s a little complicated,” Bingo said. He wished William Willis weren’t present. Uncle Herman had told him, time and time again, “When in doubt, tell the truth.” He said uneasily, “Perhaps if I could talk with you alone—”

  “I’m involved in this, too,” William Willis said. “My sister. My sister didn’t cut this man’s throat.”

  “Nobody said she did,” Perroni told him, “and shut up.”

  “Well,” Bingo said, “well, it’s like this. We wanted to find Mr. Courtney Budlong. I mean, the man who called himself Mr. Courtney Budlong.”

  “Naturally,” Hendenfelder said soothingly. “Naturally.”

  “And this Mr. Chester Baxter,” Bingo plunged on desperately, “was sure he could find him. He made a—we made a—an arrangement with him. In fact, he said he was sure he could find him last night.”

  There was a little silence.

  “I guess,” Hendenfelder said at last, and very gently, “your Mr. Courtney Budlong didn’t want to be found.”

  Bingo had a sudden vision of Courtney Budlong’s friendly, benevolent face and silvery hair, and said, “No!” before he had time to think. “I mean. What I mean is—Mr. Courtney Budlong wouldn’t murder anybody—” He felt his voice stop dead in his throat.

  “That type usually doesn’t,” Hendenfelder said.

  “But,” Bingo said, “but he did!” He gulped. He looked at Hendenfelder as he said it. “He killed Pearl Durzy.”

  No one said anything. It seemed to Bingo for a moment that he was completely alone in t
he world and probably at the bottom of a deep, deep well.

  “Nice of you to tell us now,” Perroni said at last. “And why didn’t you tell us in the first place?”

  He was not only alone in the world, but that world was coming to an abrupt end any minute, Bingo thought. He couldn’t, he daren’t involve Mariposa DeLee in this, since she was busily looking for the man who called himself Courtney Budlong. Yet, on the other hand, there was the chance that Mariposa DeLee could also be found up an alley with her throat cut.

  Perroni began prowling around the room, ostentatiously looking under the davenports, behind the doors and in the fireplace. “What are you looking for?” Bingo asked. He was now beginning to wish the world would come to that abrupt end and get it over with.

  Perroni stopped his prowling, resumed his stance and said, “I’m looking for the cat that got your tongue.”

  William Willis thought that was very funny. Bingo didn’t.

  Handsome said suddenly, “We figured out, Bingo and me, that he was the only person who needed to kill her. We were going to call you up and tell you about it, only it was sort of late at night, so we were going to call you up this morning.”

  “And,” Bingo said quickly and with a smile, “being from out of town, we figured you were just like ordinary cops, and we didn’t want to disturb you too early. We didn’t know you cops work so hard and so long.”

  Perroni didn’t fall for that one. “You should have called me right away if you had any ideas. On the Lattimer case, I’m working twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week and no holidays. How did you figure this out, or”—with the nasty smile—“am I being rude?”

  “Well, look,” Bingo said. “Mr. Courtney Budlong—maybe we’d better go right on calling him that. It’s not so confusing.” Much less confusing than calling him Charlie Browne, or Clifford Bradbury. “When he showed us the house, this Pearl Durzy was around. She gave him some very dirty looks. And then, after we left—” He thought fast. A lot of details had to be skipped. “Well, I mean. We figured she knew he didn’t have the right to sell the house, and so she went and looked him up and tried to get some of the money, and he brought her back here and killed her.”