The April Robin Murders

by Craig Rice

  “Well, well, well,” Victor Budlong said. “How very nice to hear from you! Is there any way I can be of any help?”

  “You sure can,” Bingo said. “And you sure have been. That office address has been a great help, and the office suite itself is going to be fine for a few weeks. But I’d like to talk with you about building. Perhaps you can help us find the right location? Introduce us to contractors?”

  “Well!” Victor Budlong said. “As a matter of fact, there are two splendid building lots available, one right here in Beverly Hills, the other on the Strip.” He lowered his voice and said, “The one on the Strip is the better buy.”

  “We’ll look them over,” Bingo said. “Right now, we’re in pretty much of a rush but—let’s say, three forty-five on Thursday?” He thought fast and said, “I may be able to bring my architect along.”

  “Well, well, well,” Victor Budlong said. “Fine, fine, fine!”

  “Now another thing,” Bingo said, this time rushing it. “We looked up your daughter, Janesse. My partner took some pictures of her. They are—” He paused for just the right timing. “I dislike to use the word. But—spectacular! She just hasn’t been photographed properly before. And what’s more, Mr. Budlong, that girl can act!”

  “I always thought she could,” Victor Budlong said. “Only it was a matter of getting started—”

  Bingo pulled all his salesmanship into working order and said, “The only reason was because—she was handicapped by being the daughter of a famous man.”

  “Oh now,” Victor Budlong said. “Come come, now. I’m not—”

  “Oh yes, you are,” Bingo said, fast. “You’re a very famous man, and you know it. Only because we came out here from New York—” He cleared his throat and said, “What I’m trying to tell you is this. We want to sign your daughter to a seven-day personal management contract. Right away. It obligates her to nothing—except not to sign with anyone else for a period of seven days. It obligates us to star her in our first production.”

  “Well—” Victor Budlong began.

  “We Easterners like to move fast,” Bingo went on, whipping up his own enthusiasm. “So our lawyer, Mr. Arthur Schlee”—he paused just long enough for that to sink in—“is sending the contract over to us, by messenger, with a notary, within the hour. And your lovely, talented daughter Janesse will be here to sign it. But since you’re her father, I really thought—”

  “Janesse is over twenty-one,” Victor Budlong said, and added hastily, “But not much over.”

  “Maybe you’d like to have Mr. Schlee read it to you?” Bingo suggested.

  It seemed to Bingo that Victor Budlong was counting ten. “Oh,” he said at last, “I don’t think it’s necessary—”

  They parted on a note of high mutual esteem.

  Bingo tottered out into the kitchen, poured himself a half cup of stone-cold coffee, came back to the phone and told himself, “The bigger you think—” He dialed Leo Henkin.

  “And what can old Leo Henkin do for you this late afternoon, h’m?” the mellow voice came over the phone.

  Suddenly Bingo found himself at a loss for words. He thought very fast about the carnival agent he’d known in New York, reminded himself how much Leo Henkin resembled him, armed himself with the thought that he was president of the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America, and tried to speak.

  “So you’re going to build your own office building,” Leo Henkin’s voice boomed. “Well, before you decide on the location, let old Leo Henkin advise you. And when you start looking for studio space—”

  “How did you know we’re planning to build?” Bingo said.

  The warm and friendly laugh came over the wire. “Oh, Leo Henkin knows everything.”

  “Not always, he knows everything,” Bingo said. He felt that same warm rush of triumph he’d felt the time he’d taken a swing at the carnival agent. “We’ve got our star. Mr. Schlee’s office is sending over a personal management contract, by messenger. She’ll be here within the hour, to sign.”

  There was a heavy silence at the other end of the line before Leo Henkin said heavily, “My dear boy. You are new in Hollywood. Perhaps you should have my advice—” There was another pause. “A personal management contract is a tricky thing, my dear young man.”

  “Not if Arthur Schlee draws it up,” Bingo said.

  Obviously Leo Henkin could have no answer to that one. After a third and this time longish pause, he said simply, “Who is she?”

  Bingo sat up very straight and said, “Janesse Budlong.”

  The fourth pause just sounded stunned. Then, “That little girl?”

  “That little girl,” Bingo said back at him. “Victor Budlong’s little girl. That’s what everyone here has thought of her, all this time. But we took some pictures of her. We know she can act.”

  “Old Leo Henkin would like to see those pictures,” the great agent said.

  “Why not?” Bingo plunged on recklessly. “In fact, if you have the time free, why don’t you stop by within the hour? She’ll be here, and the contracts.” This, he reminded himself, was the town of “Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” the town of great protocol among secretaries as to which party should be put on the line first, the town where men like Leo Henkin kept visitors waiting in anterooms.

  “Leo Henkin will be there in half an hour,” the agent said.

  Bingo hung up and realized he was dripping with sweat. He wished Handsome would get back with the money.

  He made another attempt to reach Adelle Lattimer and then Mariposa DeLee, again with no success. He wondered if he ought to call Hendenfelder and confide that Adelle Lattimer might be in danger.

  He realized, with a sudden start, that he’d been sleeping all day in his clothes and that it had been a long time since his last shave.

  He moved fast. By the time Handsome returned, he had shaved, showered, dressed in the avocado-green slacks with their matching shirt, and the plain saffron tie. This, he felt, was an occasion for informal garb. He’d just finished slicking down his sandy hair when Handsome came in.

  “Two hundred and fifty dollars,” Handsome said, handing it over. He had the expression of someone who’s just sold his mother into slavery.

  Bingo put the bills in his wallet and said gently, “Handsome, we’ve had to hock cameras before. We’ve always gotten them back. Believe me, I know what I’m doing.” He managed to smile with a confidence he didn’t really feel, and said, “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  The partners exchanged a long, silent look. It would have been nice, Bingo thought, it would have been pleasant and peaceful, just to go along like this, living in the April Robin house, taking sidewalk pictures just the way they’d done in the past, and letting the future do its own worrying. But it wasn’t going to be that way. It wasn’t a matter of his own doing, it was just the way things had happened.

  “And anyway,” he said at last, “we came to Hollywood to get rich. And famous.”

  Handsome said, “Sure, Bingo, and anyway those weren’t the best cameras, just the ones that cost the most money. We can get along fine until we get them back.”

  The doorbell rang. It was not a messenger from Arthur Schlee’s office. It was Arthur Schlee himself, accompanied by a secretary who was also a notary. She looked as much like a lawyer’s secretary as Arthur Schlee looked like a lawyer. She was that young Hollywood age which stretches anywhere from eighteen to fifty-five. Her brownish hair had evidently been done by one of the better hairdressers. She wore a neatly tailored outfit which was exactly what the best-dressed lawyer’s secretary should wear and yet still hinted that she would look better in a strapless bathing suit. Her expression said that, as Arthur Schlee’s secretary, she had drawn many contracts, heard many secrets, seen many things, told nothing and was incapable of being awed, but there was still a gleam in her eye. She carried a professional-looking manila envelope under her arm.

  Arthur Schlee introduced
her as Joyce Grimstead.

  She sat down on the sofa, smiled at Bingo, looked interestedly at Handsome, drew a handful of papers from the envelope and said, “I hope these are satisfactory.”

  Arthur Schlee said, “As I told you. You must understand. This sort of thing is a little unusual.”

  “Where we come from,” Bingo said, “nothing is unusual.” He drew a long breath. “There will, of course, be many papers to draw up later. This is just, shall we say, staking a claim.”

  He detected a faintly sordid glint in Arthur Schlee’s ice-blue eyes, and added hastily, “Let’s get your fee out of the way first.” He reached for his wallet. “Two hundred and fifty. Plus, of course, the notary fee.”

  “We can skip that,” Arthur Schlee said, getting his hands on the bills. “I’ll submit an expense account later.”

  “But something,” Bingo said graciously, “for the young lady—her overtime—her extra work—” He smiled at her. “Flowers? Candy? Theatre tickets?”

  To his surprise, she smiled back at him. “Nothing. It’s worth it to see the inside of this house.”

  “Now, now,” Bingo said, in mock reproof. “You’re not old enough to have been an April Robin fan!”

  “That doesn’t mean I haven’t heard of her,” Joyce Grimstead said. She glanced around the enormous room. “Funny. This isn’t the sort of house I’d have thought she’d have had.”

  “It was a considerable house for those days,” Arthur Schlee said, and then, remembering who his clients were, added, “Or for any day.”

  She nodded and said, “But somehow—you’d think of something more delicate. More birdlike—” Her voice faded into a thoughtful silence.

  Arthur Schlee cleared his throat and said, “Well, you’d better look over those papers—”

  Bingo looked them over, wishing he knew what their legal terminology meant. He nodded gravely and handed them to Handsome.

  Handsome looked them over even more gravely. “Look perfectly all right,” he said, and handed them back.

  Suddenly Bingo said, “If you’ll excuse me—I’d like to have a word with my partner—”

  He led Handsome out into the front entryway, while Arthur Schlee and his secretary sat gazing at the magnificence of what had been the April Robin house.

  “Listen, Handsome,” Bingo hissed. “We’ve got to do this big or not at all.” He handed over what was nearly half of the remaining bankroll. “Just a few blocks up the street—and make it fast—”

  Handsome made the “okay” sign and said, “I’ll bring it in the back way.”

  Bingo came back, sat down, smiled and said, “Nothing to do with this. Can’t think of everything, though. Just some important chemicals to be picked up.”

  Arthur Schlee said, “I’ve been giving considerable thought to our problem. Regarding the ownership of the house—”

  “Please,” Bingo said. “Let’s talk about it later. It’s going to be an easy problem to settle, one way or another.” He turned on his warmest smile and said, “And I know you’re the man to settle it for us. As my good friend Leo Henkin said, we couldn’t have a better lawyer.”

  He spotted Arthur Schlee casting a surreptitious glance at his watch, and said, “In fact, old Leo Henkin himself should be dropping in any minute. And, of course, our—” He hesitated. Somehow he didn’t want to use the word “property”—“The young lady.”

  There was a slight but awkward silence. Joyce Grimstead broke it, glancing again around the room and saying, “This place must be huge! Rooms and rooms and rooms and rooms! And all the murders—” She paused and said, “I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned those.”

  “Why not?” Bingo said. “They happened. Would you like me to show you the room where the housekeeper was murdered?”

  She said, “Oh!” and, for a Hollywood lawyer’s secretary, turned a little pale.

  “I can’t show you where Mr. Julien Lattimer was murdered,” Bingo went on amiably, “because no one seems to know.”

  Arthur Schlee opened his mouth, drew in a breath, and shut it again.

  “Or,” Bingo said, finishing it for him, “if he was.”

  He felt a little relieved at hearing Handsome stirring around in the kitchenette. The front doorbell rang, and Handsome came in through the kitchen door and said, “I’ll get it.”

  “Well,” Leo Henkin’s voice boomed from the doorway. “So this is the house itself!” He came on into the living room, taking up an amazing amount of space for so small a man. “And Leo Henkin’s good friend Art Schlee, looking after my good friends of the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America!” He beamed at everybody, sat down in the center of one of the davenports, and said, “Well, where’s the young lady?”

  “She’ll be here any minute,” Bingo said. “Maybe you’d like to see some of the pictures—?”

  Leo Henkin would indeed like to see some of the pictures. So would Arthur Schlee. Even Joyce Grimstead showed a faint interest.

  Handsome displayed the prints with an artist’s pride. Leo Henkin examined them as though they were uranium samples. When he reached the last in the stack, Janesse Budlong in the demure little navy blue sheath, with the tiny white collar, his mouth formed into a silent “Oh.” He handed the prints on to Arthur Schlee and his secretary, looked at Bingo and sighed.

  “This has been around Hollywood all this time,” he said. “And Leo Henkin never discovered her. Nobody”—he waved a hand indicating what he thought of those nobodies—“discovered her.”

  “America was around for a long time, too,” Bingo said. “Until Columbus.” The unhappy look on Leo Henkin’s face hurt him. He went on quickly, “The American Indians didn’t discover it because they lived there. It took someone from out of town.”

  Leo Henkin’s round face brightened. “That’s it,” he said, “it took two smart boys from out of town! Do you wonder, Arthur, why I’m so happy to do business with them? They’ve discovered a whole new continent!”

  Handsome coughed and said, “She’s only a little over five three, and doesn’t weigh very much—”

  “All right, all right,” Leo Henkin said. “We won’t call her a continent. Let’s say a jewel, a rare jewel. Who was it discovered the diamond fields in Africa—?”

  Handsome started to answer, but Leo Henkin waved him down and went on. “Whoever it was, it probably wasn’t an African. Leo Henkin isn’t interested in history.” He flashed his most ingratiating smile and said, “Now, don’t you think you ought to tell your old friend Leo Henkin just what you plan to do with this rare jewel?”

  “In a day or two,” Bingo said as nonchalantly as he could. In a few days any number of things could happen, but he didn’t want to think about them now. He searched his mind for a quick quote and said, “A rare jewel deserves a perfect setting.”

  “When you’re ready,” Leo Henkin said, beaming. “When you’re ready. Remember, there’s nothing old Leo Henkin can’t do for you.”

  There was another little silence. Joyce Grimstead cleared her throat and said, “I keep thinking of April Robin, here in this house—”

  “That was a long time ago,” Bingo said. “Long, long before your time.”

  “I know,” Joyce Grimstead said. “I never saw her on the screen. But whatever did happen to her? Doesn’t anyone know?”

  In that next silence a pale, grayish ghost of April Robin seemed to move lightly through the room. Bingo closed his eyes for a moment.

  It was Arthur Schlee who broke the spell. “My dear girl, in those days a lot of things were hushed up. April Robin—”

  Arthur Schlee’s sentence was broken by the doorbell, by a light and silvery voice as Handsome opened the door.

  “I’m so sorry to be late,” Janesse Budlong said. “I had to stop and change my dress and run a comb through my hair.”

  From her appearance as she came into the room, she’d had the comb run through her hair at Westmore’s, and changed her dress at Magnin’s. Bu
t it was a simple hairdo, soft around her face, the mane of magnificently red hair simply knotted at the back and caught with a lime-green ribbon. The dress, of a soft shade of green Bingo couldn’t even try to identify, was so plain, so exquisite and so becoming, that he didn’t want to hazard a guess at its cost. The small fur she carried over her arm had probably cost the lives of an untold number of valuable little animals. She dropped it on the arm of the davenport as though it were an empty popcorn bag.

  She looked delicate, she looked gentle, she looked simple and friendly, she looked expensive, she looked, by some magic of pose and smile, like a great actress.

  “I don’t believe you know all these people—” Bingo began.

  “Oh, but I do!” she said, with an all-embracing smile. “Mr. Schlee, how nice to see you again! Why, I don’t believe I’ve seen you since—some of those papers from my grandmother’s trust fund! I’ve never really thanked you for being so helpful! And Joyce, darling! We were always going to have lunch together and we just never did!” She turned to Bingo and said, “You know, Joyce was always so wonderful to me whenever I was in Mr. Schlee’s office! She was just a little kid, then—” Her smile implied that Joyce Grimstead had been about sixteen then, and couldn’t possibly be much more than twenty-one now.

  Janesse turned slightly toward the other corner of the davenport and said, “Mr. Henkin! Oh, please sit down! If you knew—if I could just tell you—what it means meeting you! You have no idea how long I’ve admired you! I’ve always wished I had the nerve to call on you!”

  “I wish you had,” Leo Henkin said. “Old Leo Henkin might not have made a star out of you, but he might have run you for president.”

  Arthur Schlee said, “And now if you’ll just glance over these papers—” She sat down between him and Joyce Grimstead, took them and said, “I know if you drew them up, they’re all right,” but she looked at them just the same.

  In the moment while she examined them, an echo of Bingo’s dream returned. The shadowy figures who blended into other shadowy figures, and all became the April Robin whose picture he had never seen, whose voice he had never heard, whose face, he felt sure now, he would never see, but whom everyone remembered, and no one would ever, ever forget. Then Janesse Budlong looked up, that sweet, half-tremulous little smile on her face.