The Sunday Pigeon Murders

by Craig Rice

  But there were still problems, and they depressed him. He was just beginning to worry about them when Handsome returned, carrying a large brown grocery bag and the morning mail.

  There was an enormous handful of envelopes. Bingo grabbed them, sat down on the mussed-up davenport, and began sorting them out. Two were bills. He tossed those aside. One was an advertisement for hand-woven ties. He put that carefully into his pocket. The rest—he weighed them, one by one, while Handsome looked on excitedly. All of them were heavy.

  Bingo began ripping them open, shaking out the quarters and stacking them on the kitchen chair that had served him as a night table. The enclosed cards he stacked up in another neat little pile.

  Thirty-two of the prospects photographed yesterday on the site of Mr. Pigeon’s disappearance had sent in cards—and quarters. Bingo counted them twice, to make sure.

  “Have we all the print paper we need to make these up?” he asked Handsome. “And stamps to mail them out with?”

  Handsome nodded. “Sure. And we got plenty of envelopes, too.”

  “Good,” Bingo said. “Then all this dough is pure profit.”

  He carefully put twenty of the quarters in a pile by themselves. That was for the landlady, Ma. To the remaining twelve he added the crumpled dollar bill and the small change from his pocket. Then he counted the whole.

  Five dollars and sixty-four cents. Twelve quarters, three halfs, a dollar bill, two nickels, and four pennies.

  Handsome’s face brightened. “Maybe now,” he began timidly, “we can get the other camera back.”

  “Not yet,” Bingo said, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “That would leave us just sixty-four cents in cash. We better wait till we get our two hundred and fifty thousand bucks. Besides,” he pointed out, “we won’t have time to be using both cameras, not for a while yet.”

  Handsome said nothing. He picked up the stack of cards and stood riffling them between his fingers, looking at the floor, like a small boy who’s just been told that he can’t have the new skates after all. It was an expression that wrung Bingo’s heart.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Bingo said solemnly. “If enough more quarters come in this afternoon, we’ll get it back right away, tonight.”

  He slid the five dollars and sixty-four cents into his pocket. “That guy ought to be waking up pretty soon,” he said.

  Handsome nodded. “He will be. Say, Bingo, what are we going to tell him when he does wake up?”

  “I don’t know,” Bingo said. “I’ll think of it when the time comes. We’ll have to tell him he’s got to stay here for a while.”

  Handsome sighed. “Suppose he don’t want to stay?”

  “He won’t want to,” Bingo said grimly. “We’re going to have to keep him here by force. After all, it’s for his own good, isn’t it? You wouldn’t want the poor little guy to get murdered, would you?”

  “I should say not,” Handsome said forcefully. He sighed again. “But how are you going to make him stay here?”

  Bingo glared at him. “Handsome, don’t you trust me? Haven’t I always known just what to do?” And as Handsome nodded vigorously, he added in a milder tone, “So I’ll know what to do this time, and don’t bother me.”

  But the problems of the day descended on him in a rush. Suddenly he felt depressed, dejected, and almost discouraged. There were so many things to be managed.

  “You start making those pictures,” he told Handsome. “I’m going for a walk. I want to think.”

  “Without any breakfast?” Handsome demanded.

  “I’ll have some when I get back.” He scooped up the twenty quarters he’d laid aside. “I’ll give these to Ma on my way out. And if the little guy wakes up, don’t let him get away.”

  He went on down the stairs, jingling the quarters. Ma was the first problem of the day. With that out of the way, he could go on and worry about the rest. He knocked lightly at her door and stood waiting, hoping that Baby was in.

  It was Ma who opened the door. Baby, wearing the bright-red house pajamas, was setting the table. She waved at him as he came in.

  “Well?” Ma said.

  Bingo gave her a smile that was the equivalent of a pinch on the cheek. “You’re looking very beautiful this morning.”

  Ma bridled and tried to look fussed. “Mr. Riggs! A fat old thing like me!”

  “You’re what my Uncle Herman used to call a fine figure of a woman,” Bingo said solemnly. She was, too. She was tall and big-bosomed and, even in the morning, expertly corseted. Her luxuriant hair was dyed as blue black as a raven’s wing, and there was the faintest shadow of a mustache on her broad face.

  Before she could mention the rent Bingo said, “I thought maybe you’d like some money. Not that anyone ever needs it.” He spilled the quarters out on the table. “’Course, that’s only a small installment. I’ll give you the rest in a day or so.” He added, “My partner and I, we had a run of luck yesterday.” It was wonderful, he thought, how Ma could manage to look coy even while she was counting money.

  Out on the sidewalk, he told himself that had been easy. There was still seventeen dollars due, but he’d pay that soon. When he collected that two hundred and fifty thousand bucks, he’d pay the back rent all at once, and add four weeks in advance, just to see Ma’s eyes pop out.

  When he collected it. If he collected it.

  Suddenly the magnitude of his undertaking began to appall him. He walked slowly toward the park, deep in thought. Once he said aloud, “I don’t give a damn what Uncle Herman would say. Besides, it isn’t blackmail.” This was his chance to get into the big money; he wasn’t going to let it get away from him. He repeated to himself all the arguments he’d given Handsome, until at last he believed them.

  Finding Mr. Penneyth’s heir, making a deal, letting the police know that Mr. Penneyth had been murdered—those were things he would cope with in the future. He felt serenely confident that he’d be able to do so. But the more immediate problem was something else again.

  Little Mr. Pigeon would be waking up pretty soon. He might even be awake at this very minute. Somehow he’d have to explain to Mr. Pigeon why they’d slipped him a Mickey and kept him overnight, and why they weren’t going to let him get away now. It wasn’t going to be easy to do. Perhaps the best solution was not to explain at all. Just get tough. “Sorry, pal, but you gotta stay here for a while. Don’t ask questions.”

  But if Mr. Pigeon objected too strenuously, Ma might hear the disturbance and come up to investigate. She hadn’t asked after the health of the “visiting uncle” this morning, Bingo reflected, so evidently Baby hadn’t said anything to her. Baby was a very wonderful girl. However, he was still faced with the fact that Mr. Pigeon had to be kept shut up in the furnished room, without the knowledge of the landlady. It wasn’t going to be easy.

  The worst of it was dealing with Mr. Pigeon himself. He was such a nice little guy. His feelings were going to be hurt when he learned the truth about his new friends. And that was bad for such a gentle, trusting person as Mr. Pigeon.

  Of course, they could tell Mr. Pigeon that he’d been overcome by the heat and they’d kept him overnight. Give him his breakfast, let him go his way, and drop the whole business. That would solve a lot of things.

  And lose a half of a half a million bucks?

  The International Foto, Motion Picture, and Television Corporation of America would make that much someday under its own power. “Don’t you have any faith in your own business?” Bingo asked himself indignantly.

  He’d send an anonymous phone call to the cops about Mr. Penneyth. And he and Handsome would go out and take twice as many pictures, and do twice as good a sales talk when they handed out the cards. They’d get the other camera back, and save their money, and expand.

  And Mr. Pigeon would be their friend.

  Bingo felt good, just good all over, as he climbed the stairs to the third floor. He’d explain it all to Handsome, and as soon as Mr. Pigeon woke up—

 
He paused at the door, hearing voices from inside the room. Mr. Pigeon was awake then. Well, so much the better. He opened the door and went in.

  Handsome was bringing wet prints out of the bathroom-darkroom. Little Mr. Pigeon, his sleeves rolled up, was spreading them out carefully on the drying frame on the table. The coffeepot was bubbling merrily on the gas plate.

  “What goes on?” Bingo said, almost hoarsely.

  Handsome beamed at him. “It’s all O.K.,” he said. “He understands everything and he don’t mind. He thinks we oughta get our half of that dough.”

  “And it’s quite all right about the knockout drops,” Mr. Pigeon added cheerfully. “They didn’t hurt me a bit.” He laid a print on the frame with exquisite care.

  Bingo sat down on the nearest chair and felt for a cigarette with cold, slightly unsteady fingers.

  “For the love of Mike,” he said to Handsome. “What did you tell him?”

  Handsome paused, halfway across the room. “Why, I told him the truth, of course. I didn’t know anything else to tell him.” Suddenly he frowned, unhappily. “Did I do wrong?”

  “No,” Bingo said. His voice was very gentle. “No, you didn’t do wrong. You changed some ideas of my own, but you’re O.K., Handsome.” He drew a long, slow breath. “You’re doing fine.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I like to see enterprising young men,” Mr. Pigeon said amiably, “as you certainly are. Imagine thinking up a scheme like this!” He shook his head, made a little clicking noise with his tongue, and smiled as he laid out the last of the wet prints. “And now would you mind if I help with breakfast? I have a grim suspicion that neither of you are particularly good cooks.”

  “We can both make coffee,” Bingo said helplessly, “and Handsome here can fry eggs, and I can cook hamburger.”

  “I thought so,” Mr. Pigeon said, still smiling. He pushed one sleeve a little higher up his arm. “Is there an egg beater in the house?”

  There was an egg beater. There were four eggs, a quarter pound of butter, and a little condensed milk. There was, miraculously, one onion, left over from last Saturday’s hamburgers. Coffee, sugar, salt, and pepper were already in the cupboard, and Handsome had bought a small loaf of bread.

  “Not much to make a breakfast of,” Bingo said. He felt a little embarrassed. A guy like Mr. Pigeon, whose life was insured for half a million bucks, must be used to more and better foods.

  “It would make a breakfast for kings,” Mr. Pigeon said, breaking the eggs and depositing the whites in one bowl and the yolks in another. “Particularly with the onion.” He grated a little of it, not very much, into one of the bowls.

  Handsome and Bingo watched in honest and wide-eyed admiration through the process that followed. Handsome toasted the bread and set the table, but his eyes were on what Mr. Pigeon was doing.

  “Now, who would have thought,” Bingo said, as they sat down to the table, “that four measly little eggs would make a great big omelet like this!”

  It was a masterpiece of an omelet, but Mr. Pigeon frowned and said that he’d done better. Tomorrow morning, if they’d be so good as to bring in a small can of tomatoes—

  Bingo lit a cigarette, poured out another cup of coffee, leaned back in his chair, and decided that he had to be firm. The situation was not only odd, but it was also getting to be a trifle uncomfortable. This wasn’t at all his idea of how a kidnaped man should act.

  “Now, look here,” he began, being as firm as he could. “I don’t know how much Handsome here explained to you about all this—”

  “He explained enough,” Mr. Pigeon said. “You discovered that I was still alive and walking around the streets of New York. You knew that Harkness Penneyth would collect a half-million dollars from the insurance company if I didn’t turn up for seven more days. So you decided to kidnap me and make Harkness split the half million dollars with you. A very clever idea, and you should be proud of it. I told you, I admire enterprising young men.”

  Bingo drew a long breath. “Listen, Mr. Pigeon,” he began again.

  “What’s more,” Mr. Pigeon said, smiling and nodding, “it will serve Harkness right.”

  Bingo looked across the table at Handsome. Handsome blinked and frowned and met Bingo’s eyes with an unhappy gaze that said, “No, I didn’t tell him Mr. Penneyth was dead. Did I do wrong?” Bingo’s eyes said “No, you did O.K.”

  “It’s like this, pal,” Bingo said to Mr. Pigeon. “We’re really saving your life. If you go walking around the streets in broad daylight, you’re likely to get bumped off for that half-million bucks. Any way you look at it, that’s a hell of a lot of dough.”

  “You’re quite right,” Mr. Pigeon said, “and I’m deeply grateful to you.” He put down his coffee cup. “Of course you must understand that if I have an opportunity to escape, I shall take it. I could not allow myself to be in the position of having been kidnaped without at least attempting to get away.” He smiled again. “I observe that while I was—unconscious—you took away my little gun.”

  “Of course,” Bingo said righteously. “You shouldn’t go carrying a thing like that around with you. Somebody’s liable to get hurt, and then how would we feel?” He thrust his hands into his pockets and tilted back his chair. “Well, anyway, I’m glad you’re not sore.”

  “Me too,” Handsome said, with a pleasant grin at Mr. Pigeon.

  “Sore?” Mr. Pigeon said. “I’m having the time of my life. Mind if I help with the dishes? I noticed you don’t always get them clean.”

  There was a knock at the door as Handsome and Mr. Pigeon began to clear the table. Bingo opened it a crack. Baby stood out in the hall, her eyes blazing.

  “Be reasonable, Baby,” he began in his most placating manner. “I gave your Ma five bucks this morning, and as soon as the afternoon mail gets in—”

  She shoved him aside, walked in, and slammed the door shut.

  “Bingo Riggs,” she said furiously, “you let that man go right this minute, or I’ll call the police.” She sniffed. “Uncle, indeed!”

  “Sure, he’s my uncle,” Handsome said.

  “Last night,” she reminded them, “he was Bingo’s uncle. And besides, I was outside in the hall with the dustmop, and I heard every word you were saying.”

  Bingo sighed and sank down on the edge of the davenport. There went a fortune and probably a beautiful future. All because of a woman.

  Mr. Pigeon put two coffee cups down on the sink and picked up a dishcloth. “And just who is this young lady?” he asked agreeably.

  Baby stared at him. “For the love of Pete, are they making you wash the dishes, too?”

  “I offered to,” Mr. Pigeon said, almost apologetically. “I’m afraid they don’t always get them clean. Since neither of these boys is going to introduce us, apparently—I’m Mr. Pigeon, and you’re—?”

  “Baby Harrigan,” Baby said automatically. Then she remembered her indignation. “I tell you, I heard every word. They kidnaped you, and they’re keeping you here by force, and I’m not going to let them get away with it. They’ve got to let you go, or I’ll call the police.”

  “Oh, come, come, come,” Mr. Pigeon said gently. “I like it here.”

  Baby’s jaw dropped. She stood for a moment with her mouth open, then shut it with a snap.

  “We’re not committing any crime,” Bingo said hastily. “We’re only preventing one.” He pointed to Mr. Pigeon. “Look at him. He’s a nice little guy. We like him. You’ll like him too, when you get to know him.”

  Handsome put in, “He makes the swellest omelets.”

  “Wait till you taste my stews,” Mr. Pigeon said modestly.

  Baby folded her nicely rounded arms across her chest. “If the three of you are trying to make a fool out of me,” she began slowly and ominously, “just let me remind you that the rent—”

  “Nobody’s doing anything of the sort,” Bingo said quietly. “I just asked you to look at Mr. Pigeon. I told you, you’ll like him. Now would you w
ant a wonderful individual like him to go out on the street, without his friends to look after him, and get murdered? Is that what you want to have happen, Baby? I didn’t think you were that kind of a girl.” He put his hands into his pockets, turned away from the scene, and assumed a hurt, dejected stance.

  “See how it is?” Handsome said. He looked up at her with a hopeful smile, like a small boy asking for an ice-cream cone. Mr. Pigeon put down his dishcloth, cocked his gray head on one side, and gave Baby a quizzical, appealing, and winning look.

  Baby looked stern for a good fifteen seconds more and then melted to the extent of giving Mr. Pigeon a smile.

  “You want to give these fine young men a chance to get rich, don’t you?” Mr. Pigeon said.

  She opened her mouth, shut it again, and finally said, “Did they or did they not kidnap you, and are you or are you not the Mr. Pigeon I read about in the papers yesterday?”

  “I’m Mr. Pigeon,” he said, “and they did kidnap me. They lured me here under false pretenses, and then they gave me knockout drops so I couldn’t get away overnight. Now they’re keeping me here by force.”

  Baby said, “I’m going to call the police.”

  “Oh no,” Mr. Pigeon said, “because if you did, my ex-partner would learn that I was alive and kicking, and he’d have to murder me to collect that insurance. You wouldn’t want to see that happen, I’m sure.”

  “You see,” Bingo said, without turning around, “it’s just like I told you.”

  “And a half of a half of a million bucks,” Handsome added, “is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I figured it out yesterday, and I know I’m right.”

  “What’s more,” Mr. Pigeon said gently, “they’ll have earned it.”

  Baby sank down on a chair, took a cigarette out of her pocket, and lit it. “Just what do you James Boys propose to do with him?” she asked.