The Sunday Pigeon Murders

by Craig Rice

  Bingo said, “Who was he?”

  “Stranger to me,” Louie said. “Tall, skinny guy, with white hair, and eyeglasses. The glasses had fell off and was broke. Know him?”

  “Yes,” Bingo said. His voice seemed to be coming from some distant place, possibly Jersey City. “That was the guy whose office it was. That was Mr. Hardstone.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Louie said. “Somebody sure wants that will bad. I left everything the way it was and didn’t leave no fingerprints. So I guess everything’s O.K. Only there’s one thing I did that maybe it wasn’t right, because I thought the elevator man gimme a funny look, though it might have been my imagination.”

  Handsome said, “Yeah?” He was a little pale.

  “When I had to give him my name,” Louie said, “so he’d take me up in the elevator, naturally I couldn’t give my own name. So when I got there, in the lobby, so help me I couldn’t think of a name to give him except maybe Smith, and that’s no good. So at the same time I was trying to remember the name of this guy whose will I was looking for, and so that’s the name I gave him.”

  “Huh?” Bingo said.

  “I told him my name was Penneyth,” Louie said. “Mr. Penneyth. And he wrote it down in the book, and when I went out he said, ‘Good night, Mr. Penneyth.’ Only, I thought he looked at me funny, but as I said, it might’ve been my imagination.” His voice trailed away into nothing.

  Bingo and Handsome both looked at Louie and then at each other. Handsome’s brow wrinkled.

  “Did he do wrong?” Handsome said anxiously.

  Bingo tried to shake his head, but he wasn’t sure if it moved. It seemed to him that he was frozen or paralyzed, or both. “I don’t know,” he managed to say at last. “I don’t know. But I think he did wonderful!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “My old lady, God rest her soul, was half mick and half wop,” Handsome Kuzak observed, apropos of nothing, “and she used to tell me about some dumb guy who wished he had a horse. So one day he was going along the road, and what should come along but a little red horse that just about come up to his knee. So he run along the road with the little red horse, and when he looked again it come clean up to his shoulder, and pretty soon he looked again and it was a big red horse, and then he got on and rode, and after a while—”

  “I know,” Bingo said crossly. “It kept on getting bigger’n bigger, and pretty soon it began to breathe fire, and eventually it turned into a dragon and said, ‘You should never ride a horse that’s too big for you,’ and it ate him all up and spit out the bones. My Aunt Kate was Irish too, all Irish.” He was silent while the bus stopped to take on a couple of passengers, and then went on, “And my Aunt Kate used to tell me about a silver piece that had been buried by a wicked man, and some guy kept trying to dig it up, only every time he tried, it turned out the devil had been there ahead of him and dug it up first and moved it to some different place. And that’s the way it’s been with us.” His voice rose a little. “Every time we almost get some place, some son of a bitch gets there ahead of us.”

  A gray-haired lady in the seat ahead of them turned around and gave Bingo a disapproving look. He blushed.

  From Columbus Circle to Eighty-fifth Street, he leaned one elbow on the window sill and stared out at the park. It was all very quiet and beautiful, there were a few lights flickering in and out of the trees, but not many. There was a faint, pleasant glow in the sky, reflected there from thousands of apartment-house windows and neon signs. A very fine-looking world, Bingo thought, and a damned shame that people had to go around stealing dough, and murdering other people, and getting into trouble. If only there were more people in the world like Mr. Pigeon, for instance, or like him, Bingo Riggs, if he could only behave the way he knew he ought to, it wouldn’t be so bad. In the future, he resolved, he’d be strictly honest, he wouldn’t misrepresent the pictures that would be mailed back to people who sent in quarters, and he’d do the developing and printing while Handsome rested up from the day’s picture taking. What was more, he’d even let Handsome carry half the money and have the better bed.

  By the time they got off the bus, he felt almost holy.

  Handsome said anxiously, “Bingo, listen. Maybe you didn’t understand what I was starting to explain to you. I mean, like this guy who found the little red horse—”

  “I know,” Bingo said, “it grew up and it turned out to be a hell of a big red horse.” He added to himself that a couple of guys who were just trying to make an honest living had found what looked like a very little pigeon, and it seemed to have grown up to be a thunderbird. “Handsome,” he said reprovingly. “Haven’t I always known what to do?”

  “Oh, sure,” Handsome said. “And I’ll do whatever you tell me to, Bingo.”

  “That’s fine,” Bingo said. They walked in silence up the dimly lighted street. Three guys had been killed, Bingo reminded himself, Mr. Harkness Penneyth, Art Frank, and now that lawyer, Mr. Rufus Hardstone. It was difficult to imagine a guy with a swell office like that being killed, just like any other guy might be. They’d all been killed because a half-million bucks was sitting around at the insurance company, waiting to be paid when a guy who wasn’t dead at all was called officially and legally dead.

  The little red horse had grown up to be a whole herd of dragons. What had started out to be a very simple little scheme to raise an investment for the International Foto, Motion Picture, and Television Corporation of America had turned out to be a monster, a whirlwind. And he, Bingo Riggs, seemed to be riding around on the edge of it, with Handsome hanging on.

  It was going to be very easy to get off that little red horse, though. Just go home and tell Mr. Pigeon that the whole thing had been a big mistake. Tell Mr. Pigeon he could leave and go home, wherever his home was. Forget all about the money, and the blonde babe, and June Logan, and the men who’d been murdered. It was as simple as that.

  By the time they reached the rooming house, he felt refreshed and lively again. He all but bounded up the stairs, way ahead of Handsome, anxious to tell Mr. Pigeon that the kidnaping party was over.

  He unlocked the door, threw it open, walked in, and came to a dead stop.

  There was a small battered table in the center of the room. Baby was sitting on one side of it, dressed in her bright-red house pajamas, holding a hand of cards. Little Mr. Pigeon was on the other side of the table, tied up like a Christmas goose.

  His legs were bound to the legs of his chair with silk stockings. A rope which appeared to be woven out of a number of pairs of pink panties fastened his chest to the back of the chair. His hands were tied behind his back with what was, unmistakably, a brassière.

  His gray hair was mussed a little, but his gentle face was serene and smiling. As Bingo came in the door, Baby picked up the hand of cards which had been lying, face down, on the table in front of Mr. Pigeon, and held it up so that he could see it.

  “Play the second from the left,” Mr. Pigeon said.

  Baby laid the cards back on the table, picked out the second from the left and played it.

  “A run of four,” Mr. Pigeon said triumphantly, “and one for the go.”

  Baby moved the pegs on the board and studied her own hand again. Finally she laid down a nine. Then she held Mr. Pigeon’s hand up to him again.

  “The one on the right,” Mr. Pigeon said. He watched while she laid it down. “Fifteen, for two! And that gives me the game!”

  “You’re too good for me,” Baby said amiably. She moved the pegs back to starting position and said, “That’s two games you’ve had so far.” Then she looked up, saw Bingo, pushed back her chair, pointed to Mr. Pigeon, and said loudly, “Look! He tried to get away.”

  Handsome came in behind Bingo and closed the door.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Pigeon said. “I owe you an apology.”

  Baby said, “He tried to get away, and I had to knock him down and tie him up. All I had to tie him up with was my laundry, so I used that.” She looked as th
ough her feelings were hurt.

  “Don’t you know any better than to do a thing like that?” Bingo said angrily. “Do you want to go running around the streets and get bumped off?” He sat down suddenly on the nearest chair. That, he realized, was exactly what would happen if Mr. Pigeon got away from them.

  Handsome looked wounded and unhappy, and said, “Sure. Here we’re trying to save your life, and you go running out on us.”

  “It’s a breach of friendship,” Bingo said.

  Mr. Pigeon looked deeply apologetic, and said. “I told you, I’m sorry. It’s that terrible tenor, down in the bar next door. It simply got to where I couldn’t stand him any longer.”

  And, as though in confirmation, the voice of the terrible tenor came drifting up, in an approximation of the Serenade from Blossom Time.

  “That’s O.K., pal,” Handsome said confidently. “I can fix that tomorrow.”

  “I hope so,” Mr. Pigeon said. “I can’t stand much more of it. And now if you boys will untie me, I won’t try to run away again.”

  Handsome untied the brassière, the rope made of pink rayon panties and the silk stockings, and handed them back to Baby. Mr. Pigeon rose, stretched, and sat down again.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I was beginning to get very stiff.”

  Baby said, “I’m sorry, really. But that’s the only thing I could think of to do.” She picked up the cards and put them back into their box and folded up the cribbage board.

  “That’s O.K.,” Bingo said. “You did exactly right.” He realized that Baby wasn’t looking at him, but at Handsome.

  Well, who else should a girl look at, when Handsome was around? Bingo felt a little pang, something like hunger. A girl like Baby—

  A person could be happy for a long time, maybe a lifetime, with a girl like Baby. Someone who was pretty, and smart, and cuddly, and honest, all wrapped up in one package. Sure, she was too young to get married, and sure, Handsome didn’t have enough dough to marry anybody, but there was always the future. If it weren’t for Handsome—

  A person needed to have a guy like Handsome for a pal, the kind of pal who’d go along with you, right up to the last drink in the last bottle at your wake. Not bright, maybe, but reliable, and substantial, and decent, a guy you could depend on in a pinch. The kind of guy that the kind of girl Baby was would fall for.

  The three swellest people in the world, Bingo thought, right here in this room—Baby and Handsome and little Mr. Pigeon, who was exactly what a person would pick out for his old man, if he had a chance to pick out his own old man: gentle and still hard as nails, friendly and still smart enough to ask questions, with a lot of good stories to tell and a lot of good advice tucked away in his brain, ready to be given out, just—oh, well, a hell of a swell old man, that was all.

  He’d come home, prepared to tell little Mr. Pigeon that the kidnaping was off. Now his own words came back into his mind. “So you want to go running around the streets and get bumped off?” Because that was exactly what would happen.

  Bingo drew a long breath and told himself that when the International Foto, Motion Picture, and Television Corporation of America got its two hundred and fifty thousand bucks, and expanded into a big company, a Big company, he’d cut Mr. Pigeon in for a share of it, even a bigger share than was coming to Louie. Meanwhile, he’d started something, and it began to look as though he’d have to finish it.

  Mr. Pigeon rose and said, “I hope you’ll excuse me, but it’s getting late.” He started toward the bedroom.

  “Oh sure,” Handsome said. “I’ll go with you and make sure your bed’s fixed O.K.” He followed Mr. Pigeon into the other room.

  Bingo sat down on the edge of the old leather rocker and rested his head on his hands, forgetting for a moment that Baby was still there.

  It was just like the little red horse in the story. Once you got on, you couldn’t get off. He and Handsome couldn’t abandon the scheme now. They owed it to Mr. Pigeon to see it through, no matter what happened.

  “For a guy who’s going to make all that dough,” Baby said, “you look terribly glum.”

  Bingo looked up at her. “I’ve got things on my mind,” he said reprovingly.

  “From the look on your face,” she said, sniffing, “I’d guess it was weevils.” But she smiled at him as she spoke, a bright little smile, her head on one side.

  Just a baby, Bingo thought, looking at her. A vest-pocket edition of a beautiful girl. Chubby (not fat, though, but pleasantly curved), short (her head would fit just nicely under Handsome’s chin), with a pretty little mug and a happy grin.

  “How old are you?” he said suddenly.

  Her cheeks turned a bright pink. “None of your business. And plenty old enough to be hat-check girl at the Swan Club, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything of the kind,” Bingo said apologetically.

  “It’s a good job,” she said. “And I need a good job, with Ma having roomers who get four weeks behind in their rent.”

  “Three and a half weeks,” Bingo said.

  “I was talking to Mr. Pigeon—” Suddenly she paused, smiled. “I asked him if he thought it was bad for me to work there. He told me he knew a girl once who cooked for Chinese bandits for a year when she was eighteen, and she didn’t turn out to be a bandit. He said if you had enough personality, other people couldn’t change you, and if you didn’t have, it didn’t matter much, anyway.”

  “Your personality,” Bingo said, “is a cross between a cannon cracker and a hunk of concrete.” It would be fun buying stuff for Baby, expensive stuff, like big fluffy furs, and elegant jewelry, and swell dresses. It would be fun to take Baby into some big fancy store, and say, “Go ahead now, pick out six of everything you like.” She’d look wonderful in clothes like the blonde baby or June Logan wore. She’d look wonderful parading down Central Park West with Handsome, both of them dressed up. “Baby,” he said, “have you ever thought much about getting married?”

  “Bingo Riggs!” she said. “Are you proposing to me, when you still owe seventeen dollars and fifty cents on the rent?”

  This time, Bingo blushed. “I wasn’t proposing,” he said, “I was just being curious. Would you give up your job and get married to a guy who was rich, and owned a share in a good business, and was good-looking, and had a nice disposition, and was crazy about you?”

  She opened the door. “Sure I would,” she said, grinning at him. “I would in a minute. Only I’m afraid Mr. Pigeon isn’t going to ask me.” Before he could say a word, she was out the door, had shut it behind her, and was halfway down the stairs.

  Women, Bingo thought disgustedly, women!

  Maybe she’d even turn Handsome down when the time came. And if she’d turn down a guy like Handsome, she wouldn’t even look at a guy like Bingo Riggs.

  It would be so swell, though, to have a girl. Maybe not a wife yet, with a big, expensive apartment and a couple of maids, and a high-class butler, and a bunch of pictures on the walls like at Mr. Penneyth’s. That too, of course, sometime. But for now—well, just a girl you could take out, to strictly nice dance halls, and second-run movies, and band concerts in the park. A girl who’d take your arm when you went out walking together, and let you kiss her when you brought her home, and who’d giggle whenever you make a joke. A girl like Baby.

  And when you got rich you’d buy her gorgeous presents, furs, and jewelry, and all the different stuff that girls like. And you’d give her dough to buy nice presents for Ma. Though, Bingo added on a second thought, Ma could look after herself. With Baby off her hands, Ma would probably get married again. That is, after Baby and Handsome were married.

  Baby and Handsome. Bingo sighed heavily. No dame could resist Handsome, when his good looks and his pleasant disposition were backed up by a big bank account and some new clothes. Baby would jump at the chance.

  Bingo put his pillow on the end of the davenport, turned out the lights, lay down, and tried to pretend that the g
low coming in through the window was moonlight.

  He could understand why there had been tears in little Mr. Pigeon’s eyes when Baby had kissed him good night, awkwardly, and over the left eye. He felt just a bit tearful himself.

  There are plenty of other girls in the world, Bingo told himself, as convincingly as he could.

  Meanwhile, tomorrow was another day.

  Tomorrow came in with a dream of a whole herd of small red horses that pursued him, surrounded him, and threatened to trample him underfoot. One of them took his arm between his teeth and shook it back and forth. Bingo slapped at him, swearing. Then he woke and opened his eyes.

  Sunlight was pouring in through the window. Handsome was shaking his arm, looking excited, bright-eyed, and very pleased.

  “Bingo,” Handsome said, “wake up. I fixed it. Finding Mr. Penneyth’s heir, I mean. I got it right here.”

  Bingo sat up, rubbing his face. Handsome gave him a piece of scratch paper on which was written, in Handsome’s laborious handwriting, “Leonora Penneyth,” a phone number, and an address on East Fifty-seventh Street.

  “That’s it,” Handsome said, breathing fast. “Now all you gotta do is call her up and go talk to her.”

  Bingo looked at the paper. It seemed incredible that it should contain the information they’d gone to such great lengths—unsuccessfully—to get. And yet, there it was.

  “How did you get this?” he asked at last.

  Handsome beamed proudly. “Easiest thing in the world,” he said happily. He drew a long breath. “I just looked for it in the phone book.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “It was perfectly simple,” Handsome said. “I just figured out there couldn’t be many people with a name like Penneyth unless they were all one family. So then, all the people who could inherit Mr. Penneyth’s dough would probably be named Penneyth, too. And so,” he paused to catch his breath, “I just looked in the phone book, and there was only one other Penneyth, so I knew that had to be it.”