by Craig Rice
He opened the door for Mr. Pigeon and said, “I hope you’ll excuse the way this looks. Our cleaning woman doesn’t come on Sundays.” Which was true. It was also true that the mythical cleaning woman didn’t come the six other days of the week.
Bingo hastily shoved clothing, old newspapers, and used glasses out of sight and said, “Won’t you sit down? Take the green chair, it’s more comfortable.” He opened one of the two windows that looked over the alley, and said, “That’s the window sill. He’ll be along any time now.”
“Interesting,” Mr. Pigeon said brightly. “Very interesting.”
There was a brief silence. Bingo looked at Mr. Pigeon with a mixed feeling of excitement and wonder. The little guy had been missing for seven years, with nobody knowing where he was, and now he was right here in Bingo’s own room.
The first two problems had been solved very simply. Mr. Pigeon had been found. Then Mr. Pigeon had been lured to the rooming house. Bingo believed in solving his problems as they arose. He began to worry about the more difficult one of keeping the Sunday Pigeon now that he’d caught him.
Somehow he had to meet that difficulty, and meet it fast. Strong-arming Mr. Pigeon and tying him up seemed like the only way. It didn’t appeal to Bingo—indeed, it seemed definitely ungentlemanly—but he couldn’t think of anything else. Certainly Mr. Pigeon wasn’t going to stay of his own free will—even if, Bingo reflected, it was to save his life.
He was still puzzling over it, and trying to talk convincingly about the one-legged bird, when Handsome arrived, carrying a tray containing glasses, a bowl of ice, a siphon, and a bottle.
“Very good idea,” Bingo said heartily. He turned to Mr. Pigeon. “You’ll have a drink, of course.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Pigeon said, fanning himself with his hat. “Just a small one.”
Handsome had carried the tray into the kitchenette, now he came back with a tinkling glass which he put down in front of their guest. On a second trip he brought one for Bingo and one for himself.
“Deliciously cool,” Mr. Pigeon said, taking a long swallow.
“Yes, isn’t it?” Bingo said. “It’s been so warm today.”
“Unseasonably warm for August,” Mr. Pigeon said.”
“And tomorrow’ll probably be another scorcher.” Damn it, Bingo thought, conversation had gotten right back to where it had started, on Bolivar Hill. And he still hadn’t figured how to keep Mr. Pigeon from just getting up and going away.
“Yes,” he said, “looks like we’re in for a spell of real warm weather.” How would that affect pigeons, Bingo wondered, and should he say something about it? He took a quick gulp from his glass, realized that he was drinking first-class Scotch, and stared at the glass. Handsome hadn’t arranged this with fifty cents. Then he recognized the glass. It belonged to Baby. He looked across the room at the tray and recognized the siphon. It also belonged to Baby. Obviously, the Scotch did too.
Nice fast thinking on Handsome’s part, Bingo reflected. But what had he done with the fifty cents?
He glanced up at the dollar alarm clock. Five minutes after ten. Any minute now Mr. Pigeon would be wondering why the one-legged pigeon hadn’t shown up. He was going to have to think of something and do it fast.
“Incidentally, I don’t think we’ve introduced ourselves,” he said pleasantly. “This is my partner, Mr. Kuzak, and I’m Mr. Riggs.”
Mr. Pigeon acknowledged the introduction with a quick little nod. “I’m—Mr. Bird,” he said.
Handsome said, “Bird. Say, that’s a coincidence. Your name’s Bird, and here we’ve invited you over to look at a bird.”
“Quite right,” Mr. Pigeon said, glancing at the alarm clock. He finished his drink and put the glass down on the floor beside his chair. “And speaking of birds, I’m beginning to think you’re giving me one. What time is this one-legged pigeon supposed to show up?”
“Any minute now,” Bingo said. He felt a little, electric quiver along his spine. This was it. This was going to be the showdown. He was going to have to stall this nice little guy as long as he could and then punch him in the nose and tie him up. “Sure, he’ll be right along,” he said. “He’s a little bit overdue, but maybe he’s got a date.” He managed a feeble laugh.
“Maybe he has,” Mr. Pigeon said amiably. “But it just happens that I have one, too.” He rose. “It’s been very pleasant, meeting you,” he said. “It might interest you to know that the one-legged bird I was photographed with some eight years ago died shortly after that picture was taken. I doubt very much that there could be two such birds in Central Park.” He slipped his hands into his pockets and stood smiling at Bingo and Handsome. “I couldn’t help being curious about what your game was, so I came along with you. So now that I’m leaving—perhaps you’ll be kind enough to explain.”
Bingo was up on his feet, thinking fast. “All right, Mr. Pigeon, I’ll tell you. Sure, we tricked you into coming here. But it was because your life is in danger. All that we want to do is protect you.”
Mr. Pigeon smiled. “I’m surprisingly adept at protecting myself,” he said, in the same amiable tone. Then suddenly, before Bingo could make a move, the little man was standing beside the door. One hand was on the knob, the other held a gun. “One has to be prepared for every emergency,” Mr. Pigeon said, almost apologetically.
Bingo said, “Wait a minute. Let’s talk this over.” Half of a half of a million bucks was going to walk right out that door if he didn’t think of something fast. Damn it, why didn’t Handsome make a move, instead of sitting there like a bump on a log? “Wait a minute,” he repeated. Maybe a low tackle would do the trick, an innocent expression on his face and then a quick dive. He drew in his breath.
“If you ever do find a one-legged pigeon,” Mr. Pigeon said, still smiling, “bring him up to the park some Sunday. Then—” Suddenly his voice broke. A gray pallor began to spread over his face.
“Hey!” Bingo said. “What—”
“Some—Sunday—” Mr. Pigeon’s knees buckled, he gasped once, and then slipped down to the floor in a limp heap, like a wet washcloth. The gun rolled over onto the rug.
CHAPTER FOUR
Bingo Riggs didn’t move, and hardly even breathed, for a good two minutes. He stood staring at the motionless form at his feet.
Mr. Pigeon. Such a nice little guy, too. And how were they going to get his body out of here without being seen?
Then he realized that Mr. Pigeon was breathing. He wasn’t dead. Just passed out cold.
Handsome bent over the unconscious man for a moment, then looked anxiously up at Bingo.
“It was a Mickey Finn,” Handsome said. “I slipped it in his drink. That’s what I did with the fifty cents. Because we had to keep him here some way.” His eyes were wide with worry. “Did I do wrong?”
Bingo drew a long, slow breath. “It wasn’t exactly ethical,” he said severely. “Inviting a guy over and then doping his drink. But you did the best you could.” He knelt down beside Mr. Pigeon and looked at him closely. “It won’t hurt him any, will it?” he asked anxiously.
“Hell no,” Handsome said. “I remember once in 1939—”
“Never mind,” Bingo said hastily. He stood up. “Put him to bed. He might as well be comfortable. Put him in my bed, it’s the best one.”
Excitement began to go through his nervous system again, like an electrical current. Mr. Pigeon, missing seven years, and worth half a million bucks in an insurance policy, was right here in their furnished room, helpless.
Now, all they had to do was make a deal with this Penneyth guy, and keep Mr. Pigeon under cover until the dough was collected from the insurance company. He wondered if it would be possible to keep a person full of Mickey Finns for seven days without doing him any harm. Oh well, keeping Mr. Pigeon in their hands was a problem for the future; he’d meet that when he came to it.
While Handsome tended to the task of getting the unconscious Mr. Pigeon into a pair of Bingo’s orange and green st
riped pajamas, Bingo sat down at the table and wrote a letter to Mr. Penneyth. It was, he thought, a masterpiece of artful hinting.
DEAR MR. PENNEYTH:
There is a bird flying around which you would like to catch and keep in a cage until after seven days from now. Well, my partner and I have caught that bird and have him caged. Maybe we can do a little business together.
Bingo paused at that point, looking at the end of his pen. Maybe he was being too vague. He thought the whole thing over and then began to write again.
I am a Pigeon fancier myself, and so I can understand your interest. Call me up right away and maybe we can talk turkey. (I mean, Pigeon.)
He felt very pleased with himself over those last words. Yes, the letter was one that ought to promote an immediate response from Mr. Harkness Penneyth. He signed it “Bingo Riggs” with a flourish.
He raced down the stairs to the first floor, where the telephone was located, and began thumbing through the book. Pem—Pen—Penn—Penneyth. Harkness Penneyth. He copied out the address, a number just off Central Park West.
Bingo started toward the door, headed toward the corner cigar stand and a three-cent stamp. Maybe he’d even put a “Special” on it. Then suddenly he paused. Tomorrow’s mail would take too long. Bingo dug down into his pockets and counted the cash capital of the International Foto, Motion Picture, and Television Corporation of America. Four one-dollar bills, a half dollar, two quarters, a dime, three nickels, and four pennies.
He spent one nickel calling a Western Union messenger, and seventy cents sending the letter by messenger boy to Mr. Harkness Penneyth. After all, he reminded himself, it was an investment in a quarter of a million bucks.
He looked up at the clock. Ten-seventeen. He hoped Mr. Penneyth would be home when the messenger arrived. If he was, he should telephone before eleven. It was only a few blocks to where Mr. Penneyth lived.
Handsome had Mr. Pigeon tucked into bed, sleeping like a tired child. Bingo crossed the room and stood looking down at him for a moment, with a surge of something very close to affection in his heart. That little guy, that sweet little guy! He looked like somebody’s father, lying there with his head on the slightly dingy pillow.
“I like him,” Handsome said, straightening the covers.
“Who wouldn’t like a gold mine?” Bingo said, almost harshly. He sat down in the big chair, lit a cigarette, and waited for the phone to ring, watching Handsome as he moved about the room, putting things away.
He hoped he wasn’t getting Handsome into anything. Handsome was such a dumb, lovely lug. Maybe he’d done wrong, a year ago, when he’d talked Handsome into leaving the Clarion and going into business. But it hadn’t been such a bad business. Oh sure, it had its ups and downs, but now they were set for sure on one of the ups—and this time, a big, big up.
He glanced at Mr. Pigeon’s peaceful, sleeping face and glanced quickly away again. Look here, Bingo told his conscience fiercely, we’re not hurting the little guy, we’re just saving his life.
I wonder what my own old man looked like, he thought. Maybe he was a little guy too, little like me, and maybe he had a peaceful, happy face, and maybe he made friends with everybody. Gentle and friendly, like that tonsil doctor who used to visit the orphan asylum when Bingo was seven.
“You’re sure it’s all O.K.?” Handsome said anxiously. He was sitting in a straight chair beside Mr. Pigeon’s bed.
Bingo looked at him and again felt that surge of warmth, that rush of affection. Handsome was such a good guy, maybe not very heavy on the brain end, but good. No, not smart, but that memory of his made up for it. Just a good, healthy Brooklyn Polack, with eight brothers driving trucks and three sisters clerking in the five-and-dime. But with a map like a movie star, muscles like a wrestler, and a memory like that set of books they gave away on “Information, Please.” He handled a camera with all the trained skill of a cop handling a riot gun, he made friends with everybody, and he had a brain like a gnat. My partner, Bingo thought, warmly.
“Of course it’s O.K.,” he told Handsome. “Hell, we’re just keeping him so his ex-partner can’t murder him for that insurance payment.”
Handsome brightened. “Oh, sure,” he said. He rose and moved a portable screen so the draft from the window wouldn’t fall on Mr. Pigeon’s neck.
It seemed like a year before the telephone buzzer rang; actually it was only a bit over thirty minutes. Bingo glanced at the clock before he raced downstairs.
The voice over the telephone said, “Mr. Riggs? This is Mr. Penneyth. I’d like to discuss your proposition. Can you come right over?”
“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Bingo said.
He went up the stairs two steps at a time, flung open the door, waited one minute till he caught his breath, and then said as calmly as he could, “He’s interested. Get your coat and come on.”
He glanced at Mr. Pigeon while Handsome put on his coat and picked up his cigarettes.
“Maybe one of us ought to stay here with him, so he don’t get up and walk out on us.”
Handsome shook his head. “He won’t wake until the morning.” There was a faint note of pride in his voice.
“O.K., if you say so,” Bingo said.
He could feel his nerves tingling with excitement as they went down the stairs. He was going to come back up those stairs in a little while with two hundred and fifty thousand bucks in his pants. Well—maybe not. Mr. Penneyth would probably insist on holding out until the seven days were up. But meantime, surely the least he could do was fork over a couple of grand on account.
A couple of grand! Bingo could picture Baby’s ma’s eyes popping out when he paid up all the back rent, and a couple of weeks in advance. First thing in the morning, he’d rush out and get the other camera out of hock. Then he’d get that light-tan suit with the brown pin stripe, and a new almond-green shirt to wear with it, and that green and yellow necktie he’d admired in Finchley’s window.
Bingo did a little quick arithmetic on the last flight of stairs, subtracting the back rent, the dough owed Uncle Max, the suit, shirt and tie, and a pair of London-tan shoes from two thousand dollars. It left a total of $1812.50.
And all that, he told himself, is only the beginning.
Baby met them in the downstairs hall, just setting out for work. She looked very cute, Bingo thought, in that little black dress with the white lace collar and the big black hat. As soon as he cashed that check—
He came around in front of her and struck a pose.
“Take a good look at me, Baby. See anything different?”
She looked up and smiled indulgently. “Only the same old four-alarm necktie. What’s the gag?”
“Something new has been added,” Bingo sang out, grinning at Handsome. “I’m rich. I mean we’re rich. Half a million dollars—that is, half of a half—”
Baby frowned. “Oh, Bingo, be serious—once. You’re weeks behind in your rent—” She shook her head sadly. “Same old Bingo. Talking about half a million, and you can’t even meet a dinky little rent bill.”
“What’s that again? Listen, Baby. By this time tomorrow we’ll be ready to buy the house.”
“And give it away,” Handsome added.
“If you give it to me,” Baby said, “I’ll give it back. And don’t forget my emeralds, pals. Or Ma’s five bucks in the morning.” She trotted down the steps, waved at them, and headed toward the subway.
“Five bucks!” Bingo murmured contemptuously. “Here we stand with two hundred and fifty thousand—” He paused, sighed, and said, “Baby’s a wonderful girl, though.”
It was eighteen blocks south to where Mr. Penneyth lived. Bingo suppressed an impulse to take a cab. After all, he had cab fare to Mr. Penneyth’s and a couple of bucks besides, and he felt enthusiastically certain that he would come back with a check in his pocket. Still, you never could tell what was going to happen. He reminded himself of an old saying which had something to do with a bird in the hand, and, also, that e
ven if he did come away with the check, it would be ten o’clock tomorrow before the banks opened.
They walked up to Central Park West, rode eighteen blocks, got off, and walked half a block west to a little, yellow-brick apartment building.
“See,” Handsome said. “He still lives in the same place. There’s a red rug in the hallway, unless they’ve changed it.”
They hadn’t. Handsome said that Mr. Penneyth’s bell had been the second from the left, and it still was. Bingo punched it and waited.
A voice from the speaking tube said, “Come right up.”
They listened a moment for the buzzer. None sounded. Then Bingo tried the door. It was unlocked.
“He lives on the second floor,” Handsome said.
They rode up on the self-service elevator and stepped into a tiny vestibule. There was only one door leading from the vestibule, and it bore a neatly printed card, HARKNESS PENNEYTH. The door was slightly ajar.
Bingo knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer.
“He must have meant for us to come right in,” Bingo said. He pushed the door open and led the way into the apartment.
Harkness Penneyth’s living room was an interior decorator’s dream. It was large, with a high ceiling, so cunningly painted that it seemed to be disappearing into the clouds. The walls were dully unobtrusive. There were big, easy chairs, delicately carved tables, and three enormous divans arranged to form three sides of a square before the black marble fireplace. The Oriental prints on the wall had obviously been chosen not only by a person of taste, but by a broad-minded one.
“A very elegant layout,” Bingo said approvingly. “Only you can keep that big yellow china doll in the corner.” He glanced toward the statue of Kali and said, “If you ask me, he’s got a very mean-looking mug.”
“But where’s Mr. Penneyth?” Handsome asked.
Bingo looked around the room, feeling a faint twinge of uneasiness. It was a little odd that someone who’d asked them to come right up wouldn’t be at the door to greet them.