The Sunday Pigeon Murders

by Craig Rice

  “He’ll be right along,” he told Handsome confidently. “Maybe he just stepped out for a minute. Even a guy who lives in a swell dump like this has to go to the toilet.”

  Handsome said nothing. He looked a little worried.

  The two men stood there for a moment, just inside the vestibule door, waiting. There wasn’t a sound in the apartment. Bingo’s feeling of uneasiness began to swell up into a touch of panic.

  “Maybe we’d better look around,” he said.

  He took a couple of tentative steps into the living room, breathing in quick little gasps. Mr. Pigeon had disappeared, had been one of the great, unsolved mysteries of the year, and now had inexplicably returned from—from nowhere. And here was Harkness Penneyth’s apartment, Mr. Penneyth, the Sunday Pigeon’s partner, who would collect that half a million dollars if Mr. Pigeon didn’t show up for seven days. And the apartment was silent, too silent, and it had a strange, uncomfortable emptiness about it that made Bingo’s pulse do curious things in his wrists.

  “He must be here someplace,” Bingo said.

  He took another step into the room.

  “Sure,” Handsome said. “He is here.”

  He too stepped into the living room, laying one hand on Bingo’s arm, and pointing with the other toward one of the sofas, the one that faced the fireplace. Just a wisp of dark hair showed above the back of the sofa, but it was a wisp that seemed to belong to a human head.

  Bingo crossed the distance to the sofa—it seemed like half a mile—with Handsome close behind him.

  “There he is,” Handsome said. “That’s Mr. Penneyth.”

  Mr. Penneyth was crouched in a corner of the big sofa, bent over the book in his lap. He didn’t look up as Bingo and Handsome came near.

  “Very rude of him,” Bingo said, “going to sleep over a book when he was going to have visitors.”

  He reached out and tapped Mr. Penneyth’s shoulder, lightly. Mr. Penneyth rolled over off the sofa to land in a curiously distorted pose at Bingo’s feet. The book slid from his lap and fell to the floor, face down.

  “It’s Mr. Penneyth, all right,” Handsome said in a whisper. Then he added, “I mean, it was.”

  Bingo didn’t say anything. He picked up the book and glanced at its title. It was Life Begins at Forty.

  “If this guy was forty,” Bingo said hoarsely, “then he was reading the wrong book.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  He’d been a small, rather ordinary-looking man, with black, slightly wavy hair. There was a mark on his nose where glasses had been, but no glasses were anywhere around now. He looked terribly surprised.

  Bingo wiped the sweat from his face. He felt uncomfortably cold all over. “Well, there goes a half of a half million bucks,” he said, glancing down at the body.

  “Maybe he had a heart attack,” Handsome said. He bent over the body, his face deeply concerned, as though by examining it he could revive it.

  “He was murdered,” Bingo said. “I don’t know how, but he must have been. Because a guy who wears glasses wouldn’t sit down to read with them off. Besides,” he added, “he looks murdered.” He turned away and said, “Somebody sure worked fast, to murder him between the time we were down in the lobby and when we walked in the door. And what killed him, anyway, did he get shot?”

  “Uh-uh,” Handsome said, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Nothing shows on him. Maybe he was poisoned or something. But he’s been dead for three or four hours. I mugged a lot of stiffs when I was working for the Clarion, and I can tell.”

  “Oh,” Bingo said. Then he started. “Say. Then he didn’t get our letter and call us up to come right over. And he didn’t answer our ring when we were down in the lobby. Who did?”

  Handsome looked at him in silence for a good thirty seconds. Then he said in a slightly squeaking voice, “It must have been the murderer. And he’s probably still here, hiding out some place.”

  “Nuts,” Bingo said. He didn’t make it sound convincing.

  No one could be hiding in the living room, unless he’d made himself invisible. Bingo opened a door, slowly and cautiously. It led into Harkness Penneyth’s bedroom. After waiting a moment, listening, Bingo switched on the light.

  “Nobody here,” Bingo whispered. He heard a faint, relieved sigh from Handsome.

  For a moment he stood in the doorway, admiring the bedroom. It was large, with soft, shaded lights, a thick pale-green carpet, and oversize, luxurious furniture. A very elegant place, Bingo reflected, even if it was a bit mussed up at the moment.

  Evidently, Harkness Penneyth had been planning a trip. Two suitcases stood at the foot of the bed, and articles of clothing had been left about on the furniture. Bingo opened one of the suitcases and peered in.

  “He sure packed in a hurry,” Handsome said, looking over Bingo’s shoulder.

  Clothes and toilet articles appeared to have been thrown into the suitcase by someone standing ten feet away. Bingo looked into it for a moment, then snapped it shut.

  “Maybe our letter scared him into taking it on the lam,” Bingo said. “No, that can’t be right either. Because he was dead before our letter got here.”

  A gray suit, of expensive imported tweed, was laid out on the bed. A very superior-looking suit, Bingo thought. He held the trousers up to his waist and looked in the mirror. They were about four inches too long, but definitely snappy. He slipped on the coat. The sleeves came almost to his finger tips, and the rest of it fitted like a stretched-out gunny sack, but the color and the cut of the lapels were altogether wonderful. He laid it back on the bed with a long and wistful sigh.

  “We’re looking for the guy that killed Mr. Penneyth,” Handsome reminded him.

  Bingo shrugged his shoulders, walked across the bedroom, and opened a door that led into a black-and-green bathroom.

  “A very beautiful john,” he said, “but nobody’s hiding in it.” He tried another door; it disclosed a littered clothes closet. Bingo looked thoughtfully at a rose chiffon negligee hanging from one of the hooks.

  “Was this guy married, or just keeping in practice?” he asked Handsome.

  “Widower,” Handsome said. He was silent a moment, remembering. “He married a girl, Lucy James. October 22nd, 1934. There was a picture of her in the newspapers. It was the same day Pretty Boy Floyd got his out in East Liverpool, Ohio. His picture was on the same page as Mrs. Penneyth. Page three. She killed herself by jumping out a window on the Fourth of July, a year ago.”

  Bingo started to ask what else had happened on the Fourth of July a year ago, then changed his mind. This was no time to delve into history. He went out into a narrow hallway, Handsome close at his heels.

  “I don’t think anyone’s hiding here,” he said, “but we’ll look just the same.”

  There was no one in the guest room, or in the dining room, or in any of the closets. In the kitchen they found a note on the table.

  WILKINS:

  Will be gone all next week. Take a vacation.

  H. PENNEYTH.

  “Who’s Wilkins?” Handsome demanded.

  “Probably the servant,” Bingo said. He frowned, and was silent on the way back to the living room.

  “We’ve been wasting time,” he said at last. “If that guy was killed three or four hours ago, the murderer wouldn’t be hanging around all this time.”

  “Somebody was here,” Handsome said. “Because somebody called down when we rang the bell and told us to come right up. And somebody got our letter, too.” He looked hopefully at Bingo. Bingo would know what to do next.

  At the moment, Bingo didn’t. He stood frowning at the late Mr. Penneyth. It seemed a little thoughtless just to leave him a murdered man lying around on the floor. The police ought to be looking for the murderer, right this moment. But on the other hand, Bingo didn’t want to have any personal dealings with the police just yet.

  “Whoever was here must have wanted us to drop in,” he said slowly. “He not only invited us to come right up, but he
left the door open for us. Now what would be the idea of that?”

  Handsome shook his head. He didn’t know.

  “Maybe he wanted to have somebody come in and find the body,” Bingo said, answering his own question. “Well, that somebody ain’t going to be us.” He scowled. “The murderer wouldn’t have stayed here any longer than he could help, and he wouldn’t have come back again. So some other person must have come in, and he was the one who called us up and then let us in.”

  “You’re right,” Handsome said admiringly. “But who was he, and why did he beat it while we were on our way upstairs?”

  Bingo said severely, “You ask too many questions.”

  “I’ve gotta ask one more,” Handsome said unhappily. “Why didn’t this guy call the cops when he saw that Mr. Penneyth was murdered?”

  “He must have had some good reason,” Bingo said noncommittally. “And so have we.”

  Handsome drew a long breath and almost smiled. “Let’s scram,” he said.

  Bingo started toward the door, then stopped. “Wait a minute. We gotta take that letter of ours out of here. When the cops come in and find him, we don’t want them to find a letter from us asking can we drop in and see him.”

  Handsome said, “Now I never would have thought of that.”

  Bingo glanced at the desk, littered with letters and papers. “It’s probably right here.”

  Before he could touch the desk, however, the doorbell rang, loudly and enthusiastically. Bingo looked at his partner. “Looks like we’ve got company coming. Do you remember if that door downstairs was locked?”

  Handsome shook his head. “It was unlocked.”

  The bell rang again.

  “Just to be on the safe side,” Bingo said, “let’s get that body out of here. Take it out and hide it, Handsome.”

  Handsome looked a little confused. “Hide it where?”

  “Anywhere. Use your own judgment. Just so it isn’t right in the middle of the living-room floor in case anybody comes in.”

  Handsome still looked confused. But he picked up the body of Mr. Penneyth and carried it off down the hall. Bingo turned over the seat cushion of the davenport and took a quick look around to make sure everything was in order.

  He could hear the self-service elevator stopping in the hall. Then there was a knock on the door.

  “Hello, darling,” a girl’s voice called. “It’s me.”

  As Bingo stood wondering what to do, he heard a key going into the lock. That made up his mind for him. He sprang forward and opened the door.

  The girl who stood there was a very gorgeous one, even to Bingo’s critical taste. She was just a bit on the flamboyant side, but he preferred them like that. Her hair was long and heavy and very dark; at first he thought it was black, but when the light struck it he could see that it was auburn. Her eyes were blue, a deep blue, and the mascara had been put on by a very artistic hand. Her figure was something Bingo was going to remember for a long, long time.

  She looked at him in startled surprise and said, “Oh!” Then she made a quick recovery and said, “Who are you? And where’s Mr. Penneyth? And why didn’t you answer when I rang the bell?”

  “The bell’s out of order,” Bingo said. “I was just fixing a card to put above it when you knocked. Mr. Penneyth’s gone on a trip.” He added after an instant’s hesitation, “He’ll be gone for a week.”

  The girl lifted her eyebrows. “Then they did scare him out of town. I’m not surprised.” She took a couple of steps into the room. “You still haven’t told me who you are.”

  “I’m a friend of Mr. Penneyth’s,” Bingo said. “I just dropped in to pick up his suitcases and take them to the station.” The only name he could think of, to save his life, was “Bird.” Finally he said, “I’m Mr. Bird.” He saw Handsome coming down the hall and said, “And this is Mr.—Floyd.”

  “I suppose he’s a friend of Mr. Penneyth’s, too,” the girl said. She looked as though Handsome could be a friend of hers any time.

  Bingo sighed. That was what always happened. Whenever he saw a gorgeous girl, she got a good look at Handsome, and that was the finish.

  “I’m June Logan,” the girl said. “I’m a friend of Mr. Penneyth’s, too.” She came on into the room and sat down on the sofa.

  Bingo wondered if that rose-colored negligee belonged to her. Quite probably, since she had a key to the apartment. Harkness Penneyth’s taste in women had been, if anything, even better than his taste in furniture.

  She lit a cigarette before either Bingo or Handsome could get a match out. “Since you’re friends of Mr. Penneyth’s,” she said, “you can give him a message from me. You can tell him he’s the lowest, filthiest, sneakingest skunk I’ve ever had the bad luck to meet, and that if I ever see him again, it’ll be because I looked him up to scratch his eyes out.”

  “Now, now, now,” Bingo said nervously. The remark seemed in thoroughly bad taste to him, even if the girl didn’t know that Mr. Penneyth was dead.

  She ignored him. “And I intend to do just that thing,” she finished, “unless someone sticks a knife in him first.”

  Bingo sat down on the edge of a chair. He felt a little chill down his spine. Handsome looked a shade pale.

  “Now what have you got against Mr. Penneyth,” he asked, “to say a thing like that?”

  “If you were another woman,” she said, “I could tell you. But I’ll tell you this much. All his women get to feeling the same way about him, sooner or later.”

  Bingo remembered what had happened to Mr. Penneyth’s wife.

  “Just the same,” he said, “I wouldn’t go around saying things like that if I were you. Because if somebody did stick a knife in him sometime, people might remember you hadn’t liked him, and it might start them thinking.”

  She looked at him for a moment and then burst into a laugh. It was a good, hearty laugh. Bingo liked it. “It’s good advice,” she said, “but don’t worry. People as mean as Harkness Penneyth never get themselves killed. They usually do the killing, if there is any.”

  Bingo almost said, “Not this time.” He wished he could think of something else to talk about besides Harkness Penneyth.

  “Well,” she said, getting to her feet, “there’s a few things of mine around this place, but you can tell him to give them to his next girl. I’m going to make myself a drink and be on my way.” She rose. “Have one with me?”

  “I—don’t think there’s anything to drink in the house,” Handsome said unexpectedly.

  “Nonsense,” June Logan said. “There’s always plenty of liquor in the kitchen, and seltzer and stuff in the icebox. I know my way around here.”

  Handsome said, “No, no, wait a minute.”

  She stopped and stared at him. Bingo began thinking fast of ways to keep her out of the kitchen, since that evidently was the problem. But Handsome beat him to it.

  “Then let me fix you a drink and bring it to you,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’d like to,” Handsome said. “I’d like to fix it for you because you’re so beautiful.”

  She smiled at him and sat down on the sofa again. “Make mine rye and seltzer.” Her eyes followed Handsome down the hall.

  Handsome certainly had a wonderful gift with women, Bingo reflected, resisting an impulse to mop his brow.

  Fifteen minutes later there were three empty glasses on the coffee table, Handsome and Bingo had promised to come and visit June Logan sometime, and had taken her address and telephone number.

  She paused at the door, taking a key out of her handbag. Then she dropped it back in. “On second thought, I won’t send it back to him,” she said, half smiling. “It might give him a few uncomfortable moments now and then, to know that I’m quite likely to walk in, at the most inconvenient time possible.”

  She said good-by and was gone.

  Bingo picked up the glasses and carried them out to the kitchen. “We’ve probably left fingerprints all over,” he said,
“but if we started wiping everything, we’d never get out of here.”

  He stopped short just inside the kitchen door. A large collection of jars and bottles was on the kitchen table. But no sign of the late Mr. Penneyth.

  “Lucky it was a big icebox,” Handsome said proudly. “I stuck the wire trays in the pan cupboard, but I didn’t have time to put this stuff away. He fitted in swell, doubled up a little.” He looked at Bingo, waited for him to speak, and finally said anxiously, “Did I do wrong?”

  “No,” Bingo said, “no, you didn’t do wrong.” He drew a long breath. “In fact, let’s just leave him there, for the present.” He looked thoughtfully at the icebox. “It’s got a padlock on it, too. We’ll lock him in, and then nobody’ll find him.”

  “If you say so,” Handsome said. “I just hope we don’t have to take him out again.” He started to shut the refrigerator door.

  Bingo said, “Wait a minute.” He scowled at the refrigerator. “Just in case we do, maybe we’d better have a key.”

  “Where are you going to find one?” Handsome said.

  “In his pockets.” Bingo grimaced. He didn’t like what he was going to have to do, but there wasn’t any other way. “Give me a hand.”

  Together they eased the body out on the floor. Bingo felt through the pockets, the sweat cold on his face, until he found a bunch of keys. One of them fitted the padlock. Then they lifted the body back into the refrigerator, its knees doubled up under the ice-cube trays. Bingo hoped he wasn’t going to be sick, but he wasn’t sure. He drew a deep breath and started talking.

  “One of these must be a key to the apartment,” he said. “We’d better have it too.”

  Handsome slammed the refrigerator door, hard, looked at Bingo, and said, “Sure, Bingo. Only why?”

  “We might want to pay another visit sometime,” Bingo said. “When there’s nobody to let us in.” He slid the keys into his pocket.

  “O.K.,” Handsome said. He snapped the padlock shut, and added, “Maybe that guy Wilkins will come back and look in the icebox.”

  “No chance,” Bingo told him. “If Mr. Penneyth put a padlock on his icebox, he did it so that his hired man wouldn’t go robbing it. So the last guy on earth who’d have a key would be Wilkins.”