The Sunday Pigeon Murders

by Craig Rice

  “Shut up a minute,” Bingo said. He scowled at the dial of the booth telephone in the corner drugstore. “I’m trying to think.”

  Handsome was silent a moment and then said anxiously, “Did I do wrong? Shouldn’t I have called her up?”

  “I don’t know,” Bingo said, almost crossly.

  “I just asked her,” Handsome said, “when I got her on the phone, if she was Leonora Penneyth, and if she would inherit all Mr. Harkness Penneyth’s dough if he happened to be dead. And she waited a minute and then she said yes, she would, and who was I. So I told her I was Mr. Boniface Kuzak, only most of my friends called me Handsome. And so then I’d found out all I needed to, so I said, ‘Thank you and good-by’ very politely, and I hung up.” He paused. “Maybe it was rude, my hanging up,” he said. “Maybe I shouldn’t’ve done that.”

  Bingo said, “Never mind.” He lifted the receiver, dropped in a nickel, waited for the dial tone, and then dialed the number Handsome had given him. It seemed like a long time before anyone answered.

  “Listen, Bingo,” Handsome said. “I don’t feel good about it we should go away and leave Mr. Pigeon all alone like this.”

  “He’s O.K.,” Bingo said. “Baby’s going to keep an eye on him while we’re out. She’s sweeping the halls and she can watch the door.”

  “Yes,” Handsome said anxiously, “but there’s no one to help him with the breakfast dishes.”

  “We’ll be back before he gets to wiping them,” Bingo reassured him. There was a sudden, loud, and objectionable noise in his ear, then an angry female voice said, slightly off-mike, “Shut up and don’t bother me. I’ve got to answer the phone.” Then the voice said, nearer, but just as angry, “Well, what do you want?”

  Bingo took a deep breath and said, “I want to talk to Leonora Penneyth.”

  “I’m Leonora Penneyth,” the voice said, and then, again off-mike, “Go a-way, you nasty little sneak. I’ll talk to you later. And stop trying to listen to my telephone calls.” Then, nearer, she said, “All right, what is it?”

  Hardly an auspicious beginning, Bingo reflected. He tightened his grip on the receiver and said, “Listen, ma’am. Would you like to buy a pigeon?”

  There was a long, dead silence at the other end of the line. Bingo thought of a number of things he might have added, but he decided to wait. When the voice came back again, it sounded much quieter, as though the person on the other end of the wire were trying to talk softly, without being overheard. It sounded a little subdued, too.

  “Is this some kind of gag?” the voice said.

  “Lady,” Bingo said earnestly, “it’s no gag. I just happened to catch me a pigeon, and I rather think you’d like to have me keep him. At least, till after Sunday. Could we make a date and talk this over?”

  This time, there was only a short pause. Then she said, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Mr. Hunter,” Bingo said. “A great pigeon hunter.” He thought that was rather good, on short notice.

  Evidently she didn’t appreciate it. She waited a minute, and then whispered into the phone, “What do you want?”

  “I just want to talk things over,” Bingo said. “I’d hate to have to give this pigeon to an insurance company, because I’m afraid they wouldn’t properly appreciate him. But I’m sure you would.” He went on fast, before she could interrupt, “When shall we come to see you?”

  “Who’s we?” she demanded.

  “Me and my partner,” Bingo said. “He’s a great pigeon hunter, too.” Again he felt that little tingle of excitement. Handsome had evidently been on the right track. This dame, whoever she was, knew what he was talking about.

  There was a strange little laugh at the other end of the wire. It unnerved Bingo a little, but her next words reassured him.

  “All right, Mr. Pigeon Hunter,” she said. “Come over tomorrow afternoon at two. Since you have my phone number, you probably have my address.”

  “I have,” Bingo said, “and I got it at the same place.” He didn’t add that it had been the Manhattan phone directory. “We’ll be there at two and talk business.” He hung up the receiver.

  For a moment he stood there, looking at the telephone and the assortment of numbers scribbled on the dirty, painted wall, not seeing them at all. Suddenly he felt weak, almost dizzy. This time, he’d done it. They were really going to put it over. After all this aimless running around, they’d finally located the party who was going to get the dough. Now, it was just a matter of making a polite little deal. As easy as that.

  “What’s the matter?” Handsome asked anxiously. “Don’t you feel well?”

  “If I felt any better,” Bingo said fervently, “it’d kill me.”

  They walked up the street in silence. Tomorrow at two, Bingo thought. State your case, make your price, set a deal. Then lay low for the rest of the week, and keep Mr. Pigeon under cover. That was all there was to it. No more trouble.

  “Wonder why she made it tomorrow instead of today?” Handsome said.

  “Maybe she had a date,” Bingo said. “Or maybe she wanted to think it over. Tomorrow’s soon enough, and stop bothering me!”

  They walked another half block, and a telegraph boy passed them, going in the same direction. Handsome grabbed Bingo’s arm, and said, “Hey, wait a minute. Watch and see where he goes.”

  “Who’d be sending us telegrams?” Bingo said crossly.

  “Not us,” Handsome said. “But watch, Bingo.”

  Bingo watched. The telegraph boy headed into Morrie Gelberg’s Shamrock Tavern. A moment later he came out. He came back down the street, waving cheerily at Handsome as he passed, and calling, “Hi, pal.”

  Bingo said, “Handsome, what the hell?”

  “Wait just a few minutes,” Handsome said.

  They waited about ten minutes. Then a plump, excited man came bursting out of the door leading to the apartments above Morrie’s, his collar unbuttoned and a suitcase under his arm, and rushed away in the direction of the subway.

  “See,” Handsome said, “I thought it would be O.K. Let’s go home now and help Mr. Pigeon finish up with the dishes.”

  “Handsome,” Bingo said desperately, “explain.”

  “Oh,” Handsome said, “that was the tenor. The one who was keeping Mr. Pigeon awake. He’s gone to Chicago now, and he won’t bother Mr. Pigeon any more.”

  Bingo said, “Why?”

  “He got the telegram,” Handsome explained patiently. “I didn’t have no dough to send him a real telegram, but I used to go out with the girl in the telegraph office over on Amsterdam Avenue, and the boy there is a nephew of one of my aunt’s cousins’ husbands. So I fixed it up he should get a telegram offering him a swell job singing opera in Chicago, and he’s gone, and now he won’t bother Mr. Pigeon.”

  “I see,” Bingo said. He felt a little faint.

  “It’s all O.K.,” Handsome said. “When he gets out there, he’ll be able to get a job in some other beer joint. So you don’t need to worry about him.”

  “I’m not worrying about him,” Bingo said severely. “I’m worrying about you. You’re liable to grow up to be a liar. And now let’s get home and do our day’s chores.”

  There had to be money. That meant there had to be pictures taken. Eleven quarters came in the morning mail. Handsome made the prints, addressed the envelopes, and mailed them. Baby mended all Bingo’s and Handsome’s socks, and sewed a button on Mr. Pigeon’s shirt. Mr. Pigeon started a beef and kidney stew for dinner. And Bingo strolled up and down Central Park West with the camera, looking for likely prospects.

  There was no use trying to accomplish anything, or find out anything, until after tomorrow at two. Meantime, he’d add what he could to the store of quarters. Unfortunately, Central Park West was almost deserted. He managed to hand out twenty-three cards, and then he gave up and went home.

  Another day, he told himself. Then, no more pavement pushing, taking pictures, making a spiel, and handing out cards. No more worrying about the
rent, and tossing up to decide between a package of cigarettes or a bottle of beer. One more day, and he’d make a deal with Leonora Penneyth, and then they’d be in the bucks.

  He traded the newsboy on the corner a three-cent stamp for a slightly soiled morning paper and took it home with him.

  The beef and kidney stew was making a lovely smell as he came in. Baby was ironing Mr. Pigeon’s shirt. Handsome was finishing up the last of the photographs.

  Home, Bingo thought. No one could ask for anything more. Except, of course, a half of a half-million bucks.

  He took off his shoes, stretched out on the rickety lounge chair by the window, took a deep whiff of the fumes from the beef and kidney stew, unfolded his newspaper, and began to read.

  The story of the brutal murder of Rufus Hardstone, prominent Manhattan attorney, began on page one and was carried over to page five, with pictures of Mr. Hardstone, the office building, Mr. Hardstone’s wife and family, and a well-known stockbroker whom Rufus Hardstone had once defended in an income-tax case.

  Mr. Hardstone had been done to death by persons unknown, and his office safe had been rifled. It might have been burglary but, strangely enough, his murder had been committed in the same manner as that of one Art Frank, gangster, twenty-four hours before. More, the medical examiner’s assistant had hazarded the opinion that the same weapon had been used in both crimes. A subhead on the story had to do with the twin murders—prominent lawyer, prominent gangster. There was a picture of Art Frank on page eight.

  The story mentioned the fact that a client of Rufus Hardstone had come to visit him during the evening. The lawyer had remained in his office long after hours, long after his secretary and boy had left. No one of Mr. Hardstone’s clients or friends, as far as the newspaper story knew or cared to guess, had come into the building save that one.

  He’d admitted his name to the elevator operator, the newspaper story said. Mr. Penneyth. He’d gotten out of the elevator two floors below Mr. Hardstone’s office, but there were stairs. The elevator operator, being extremely nearsighted, was unable to give a clear description of the visitor.

  On page eight there was a story about Mr. Penneyth, headed “Socialite Sought in Slaying.” It didn’t tell anything Bingo didn’t know already, save that Mr. Penneyth was presumed to be out of town. The police had searched for him in his apartment and found no one.

  Bingo tossed the paper on the floor, stretched, yawned, and lit a cigarette. He was thanking his lucky stars that when the police had searched Harkness Penneyth’s apartment, they hadn’t looked in the icebox.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  An unexpected movement of cool air came up from the direction of Central Park. It was a breeze faintly scented with wet grass, trees, gasoline fumes, and dust.

  Bingo stood in front of the rooming house, breathing deeply. Then he began walking slowly in the direction of the breeze.

  Now and then a guy had to think. That was what he’d explained to Handsome. “I gotta think. I’m gonna walk up to the park and back. You stay here and look after Mr. Pigeon.”

  Handsome had said, “Oh, sure. Everything’s gonna be all right, isn’t it, Bingo?”

  “Gonna be,” Bingo had told him. “It is.”

  Tomorrow he and Handsome would meet Leonora Penneyth and make a deal with her.

  And Mr. Pigeon had been very happy to learn that the tenor had gone to Chicago.

  Bingo walked slowly up to Central Park West, turned, and strolled along the edge of the park. He hadn’t been deceived about the breeze. Here it was—well, not cool, or even almost cool, but less sweltering. At least the air didn’t seem to stick to his skin, the way it had all day.

  At Eighty-first Street, he turned into the park itself. There wasn’t much light trickling down through the trees from the street lamps, just enough to find the way along the deserted paths.

  This was the place where he’d taken pictures last Sunday, the place from which little Mr. Pigeon had disappeared just a few days less than seven years ago. It was quiet now, and shadowy.

  He turned and followed the narrow path that led up Bolivar Hill. There wasn’t any light up here now, save the faint glow that came from the street lamps over on Central Park West. Simon Bolivar, on his bronze horse, looked very lonely and almost bored.

  Bingo sat down on one of the benches directly in front of the statue and thought about Mr. Pigeon, the Sunday Pigeon. This was where he and Handsome had found him, this, indeed, was the very bench where he’d been sitting. Seven years was a long time. Where could the little guy have been all that time? Why had he gone there? And why had he returned?

  Don’t think about that now, Bingo told himself. That’s Mr. Pigeon’s business. An individual should never concern himself with some other individual’s affairs. Uncle Herman always used to say that whenever the hardware dealer up the street beat up his wife. Of course, the time he beat her up bad. Uncle Herman went up and kicked the hardware dealer in the stomach and sat on him until the cops came. But that wasn’t messing in other persons’ affairs, that was Aiding the Helpless, Uncle Herman said. Aid the Helpless, Uncle Herman always said, keep an eye on the widows and orphans, weep with the sorrowful, and never lend anybody any money, no matter how sorrowful he was.

  Mr. Pigeon wasn’t helpless, and he probably wasn’t an orphan, and he wouldn’t want to borrow any money, Bingo thought. But he sure as hell was sorrowful.

  Sorrowful. Suddenly Bingo sat upright on the concrete bench. Little Mr. Pigeon. Sorrowful. Of course he was. And he, Bingo, hadn’t realized it before.

  A good guy like Mr. Pigeon didn’t go around wringing his hands and hollering. He didn’t drift into strange barrooms and bawl into other guys’ beer, and tell all; Shucks, he didn’t even break down and confide in his two best pals, Bingo Riggs and Handsome Kuzak. No, he tried to act like he felt swell and didn’t have any troubles of any kind whatsoever, in, Bingo thought, a very gentlemanly way.

  But he had troubles. The kind that went clear down inside and hurt like blazes, like a guy sticking his mitt in your stomach.

  Sitting there on Bolivar Hill, alone with the shadows and the faint breath of wind and the bored-looking statue, Bingo suddenly realized just how bad things were with poor little Mr. Pigeon. Somebody’d done him wrong, sometime, in a mean, dirty way so that Mr. Pigeon couldn’t sock back, but just had to let it go eating away at his gizzard and act gentlemanly, as if everything were O.K.

  And it had been for a long time, too. It took a few years for lines like that to dig their way in around a guy’s mouth and eyes. Yes, and to turn his hair as gray as Mr. Pigeon’s was.

  Why damn it, Bingo thought suddenly, getting up, Mr. Pigeon wasn’t really an old guy at all, the way he’d first thought of him. He was little, and gentle, and nice-behaved, and soft-voiced, and something had grayed his hair and marked up his face with little wrinkles, but he sure as hell wasn’t old Mr. Pigeon.

  Bingo stood there for a moment, thinking it over. Unconsciously he glanced down at his feet. There was a new poem there, inscribed carefully on the concrete sidewalk, in white chalk. In Spanish, again. At least, Bingo thought, it looked like Spanish to him. Something about libertador and Bolivar. It hadn’t been there very long, either, not a single letter had been smudged by passing feet.

  “Very good,” Bingo said approvingly. If a person admired Simon Bolivar, whoever he’d been and whatever he’d done, and if that person wanted to express his admiration in a nice way, coming up and writing Spanish poetry about libertador on the sidewalk was a polite way to do it.

  It was the sort of thing a fine individual like Mr. Pigeon would do, if he ever felt like doing a thing like that.

  Bingo sighed heavily, and strolled across the tiny plaza to the path leading down. Evidently Mr. Pigeon also had some personal communion with the statue of Simon Bolivar. For this had been where he’d been sitting, alone in the dusk, when Bingo and Handsome had found him.

  Maybe he’d been there, all by himself, because he felt
bad. Thinking about whatever it was, whatever had happened, to make him feel as sorrowful as he did.

  Bingo paused for a moment at the top of the dark, narrow path, clenching his fists. “If I ever lay hands on the guy or the dame who did it to you,” he promised an absent Mr. Pigeon, “I’ll”—he thought a moment—“I’ll destroy him.”

  Filled with a righteous indignation, he plunged on down the path. It grew even narrower just beyond the first curve, and the bushes bent over it from either side. Bingo slowed down a trifle, and just as he did so, a soft, eerie sound behind him startled him into pausing.

  “Please do not move, señor,” a whispering voice said just back of his ear.

  In the same instant a hand, like steel, caught his right arm just above the elbow, tightening on it, and something hard was shoved into his back.

  “Brother,” Bingo whispered back, “believe me, I ain’t gonna move.”

  For a moment he stood there, too terrified to move one single petrified muscle. He had an unpleasant notion that it was a knife that was being held against his back.

  “Turn around,” the voice told him.

  Bingo spun around as though there had been a top under his feet. The first terror was wearing off, and he could move again, but not much.

  “So it is you,” the voice hissed. “Assassin!” There was a slender, shadowy, and mysterious figure facing him.

  Bingo said, “Who you calling names?” and grabbed for the guy’s neck.

  It was a catch-as-catch-can and no-holds-barred fight, rolling down the steep, narrow path, tumbling into bushes and sprawling over patches of grass, having your face rubbed into the gravel pavement one minute, and trying to knock the other guy’s brains out against a stone the next. Teeth, feet, and fingernails, everything went. Nothing like the Golden Gloves prelims, back in Brooklyn. It ended up on a patch of grass at the foot of the path, in a tie.