The Sunday Pigeon Murders

by Craig Rice

  There were footsteps on the main path. Bingo stiffened into immobility, and so did his unknown assailant.

  “Cops,” Bingo breathed into the ear of the man he’d just been trying to tear limb from limb.

  The cop walked by, not hearing anything, and vanished into the shadows of the path leading into Central Park.

  But by that time, the fight was over. Bingo disentangled himself and rose to his feet; the other man caught hold of a near-by trunk and pulled himself up. For a moment they stood there, looking at and not seeing each other. Bingo tensed himself, ready for another attack. It didn’t come.

  The other man said something in Spanish, something that Bingo couldn’t translate but sensed was highly objectionable. Then he added, “You have killed my friend!”

  “Buddy,” Bingo said, still trying to get his breath back, “I never even met your friend.” He straightened his tie, and added, “What friend?”

  A sudden wind whipped the branches of the near-by tree away from the street lamp. Bingo saw a tallish, slender man, dark-haired and dark-skinned, with blazing eyes, and a handsome, fine-featured face that looked sore as hell. A man who still held a small but nastily shining knife in his hand.

  “My friend!” the man said. “Meester Peegeon.”

  The blood in Bingo’s veins suddenly turned into ice water and then turned back to blood again. “Listen, pal,” he said earnestly, “this is all a mistake. I haven’t killed any pigeons.”

  “Liar,” the man said. “Dog.” He added something that Bingo was glad he couldn’t translate. “I saw you. I was here. You came and spoke to him, you and another man. You took him away with you. He does not return. So, you have murdered him.” He seemed to relax suddenly, though he still kept a tight hold on the knife. “He was my friend,” he added simply.

  “For the love of Mike,” Bingo said, “your pal isn’t dead. He’s strictly a hundred per cent O.K.” He saw a sudden light come into the stranger’s face, and went on, fast, “Your pal is tucked in bed right now, sound asleep, and my partner’s standing guard over him, so that nothing’ll happen to him.” He drew himself up to his full five feet five, and said, “It just so happens that Mr. Pigeon is my pal, too.”

  The stranger moved a few steps nearer and described what he would do to Bingo if he weren’t telling the truth. All of it highly unpleasant, especially the word “eviscerate,” which sounded uncomfortable as hell, whatever it meant.

  “Now, brother,” Bingo said quickly, “let’s talk this whole thing over. If you don’t believe our pal is alive and well, I’ll take you to him and show you.”

  “You will take me to him!” the stranger said, a new excitement in his voice. He moved out into the range of the street lamp, stood up very straight, and said, “Me, I am Rinaldo Juan Pablo Simon Bolivar Tinaja, a poet and a patriot.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Bingo said hospitably, holding out his hand. “I’m Robert Emmett Riggs, my pals call me Bingo, I’m patriotic too, and I’m president of the International Foto, Motion Picture, and Television Corporation of America. And if you’ll tuck that toad stabber away in your pocket, I’ll take you to Mr. Pigeon. But no tricks, now.”

  They walked out to Central Park West, and Bingo led the way up to Eighty-sixth Street. He glanced curiously at his companion when they reached the glow of the street lamps and saw a good-looking and very young man, with dark, wavy hair, a slender, aquiline face, black, liquid eyes, and what would probably grow up in a few more years to be a fairly presentable mustache.

  They turned at Eighty-sixth Street and crossed Central Park West. Then suddenly the young man stopped and grabbed Bingo’s arm tightly.

  “You are the friend of my friend,” he said fervently. “Then you can tell me. Has he had his revenge?”

  “Revenge?” Bingo said. “What revenge?”

  “Why do you think he came here?” the poet-patriot said wildly. “Why do you think he came back?”

  Bingo wiggled his arm free again, and said, “You tell me.”

  “He came back,” the young man said, “because of the man who had destroyed his treasure.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Now we are friends, yes?” the young man said, lifting his glass of beer.

  Bingo lifted his own glass and said, “Now we are friends, you bet your life.” His new friend’s English vocabulary was peculiar, but they were getting along fine, especially since the suggestion that they stop for a glass of beer on their way.

  “I am a patriot,” Rinaldo Juan Pablo Simon Bolivar Tinaja said, lifting the glass again. He launched into a fervid description of the beauties of his native land, lapsing from phrase to phrase into his native tongue. There was only one word Bingo was sure of, and that was libertador.

  “Say,” Bingo said suddenly, “you’re the guy who writes that very fine poetry on the sidewalk around the statue of Mr. Bolivar!”

  His new friend beamed and said, “I am also a poet.” He emptied the beer glass, put it down, and was off again, this time on the subject of poetry, music, beautiful women, Simon Bolivar, and freedom. Then he waved magnificently to the waiter and called, “More beer!” turned to Bingo and said proudly, “You see, I speak very good, English.”

  “You speak very wonderful, English,” Bingo said. “And this beer is on me.”

  “No, no, no,” Rinaldo Juan Pablo Simon Bolivar Tinaja said firmly. “No, no, no, no. Me, I am your friend.”

  “And I am your friend,” Bingo said. “And me, I am also the friend of Mr. Pigeon.” He had a notion that after another five minutes’ conversation, he would be talking with a very fine South American accent.

  “We are both the friend of Mr. Pigeon,” the poet said ardently. “You because you have rescued him from his enemies, and me because he has lent me money and told me of his great sorrows.”

  “They must have been terrible sorrows,” Bingo said hopefully. To hear him tell it, there had been terrible enemies, too. Uncle Herman had always warned him against exaggeration in speech, but somehow the South American poet had gotten the impression, on the way up Eighty-sixth Street, that Bingo and Handsome had snatched Mr. Pigeon from the jaws of sudden homicide and from under the machine-gun fire of several hundred New York gangsters.

  “He would mourn,” Rinaldo said, “but he would not weep. Sitting with him, day after day, in the little café in La Paz, my companions and I, we could see that he mourned.” For a moment it appeared that Rinaldo was about to mourn, too.

  “Day after day?” Bingo said.

  Rinaldo made a sweeping gesture that landed the ash tray and an empty glass on the floor. “Not one day only, but every day,” he said. “He listened to our sorrows, he paid always for the wine, he gave money to the unfortunate, he let us read to him the poems we had written. Is it so strange that when he was called away at last to revenge himself on his enemy that we should make up a purse and draw lots, that one of us should follow him and protect him from harm? And to me, Rinaldo Juan Pablo Simon Bolivar Tinaja, fell the honor.” He sat up very straight and brushed the hair back from his forehead. “We would have met, my very excellent friend and I, on the hill of Simon Bolivar, save that before I could speak with him, you had lured him away.”

  “Now, now, now,” Bingo said hastily. “We’re pals of his, too.”

  The patriot-poet ignored him. “For all those days,” he said reminiscently and almost tearfully. “For almost seven years!”

  This time it was Bingo who sat upright. “Did you say seven years?”

  Rinaldo looked at him wonderingly. “Where else do you think he had been, these seven years?” he demanded, “but in the café in La Paz, with his friends who loved him, and to whom he listened and gave money?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Bingo said quietly. “I just wondered.”

  Rinaldo Juan Pablo Simon Bolivar Tinaja shoved aside his glass with a magnificent gesture and launched into a story of the little Americano—his hair not gray then, but a fine brown, it had turned gray slowly ov
er the period of nearly seven years—who had appeared in the café of Tia Maria Rosa and become the friend of all ardent young poets of La Paz. He was rich, of course—were not all Americanos rich?—and he was kind. And he had a great sorrow, of which he never spoke, but which Rinaldo and his companions, being sympathetic, could see in his eyes.

  Then there had come a greater sorrow. So that the good friend had avoided the company of those who loved him—though, even in that great extremity, he had left money with Tia Maria Rosa to pay for their wine—and had, said Rinaldo, enveloped himself in his grief. And then he had returned to his own native land, but not until, Rinaldo said proudly, he had confided in him as to the nature of his sorrow.

  Rinaldo pounded on the table and called, “More beer.”

  Bingo said, “This one is on me,” and Rinaldo offered to fight him right then and there.

  “If you feel like that about it,” Bingo said, “O.K. And what did he tell you, pal?”

  “Of a great treasure,” Rinaldo said, “that he had entrusted to a false friend, who had destroyed it. That was the cause of his great sorrow, that was why he had been an exile, and it was why he had returned at last. He returned that he might have his revenge, and I advised him, I told him how he should treat this false friend.” He added a few details that made Bingo’s flesh crawl. “That is what I would have done,” Rinaldo finished. He rose, drained his beer glass, put it down with a flourish, and said, “But there would be danger, and so I have come to protect him. You have protected him also, and so I am your—pal.” He gestured and added a few details about eternity and friendship. “And now,” he said, “you will take me to him.”

  “You’re damned right I will,” Bingo said. Another minute, and he’d have burst into tears.

  It was only a little way to the rooming house, and they walked it in silence. Treasure, Bingo thought, a great treasure. Well, a half-million bucks would fill that description nicely. Only, he didn’t think that was what it was.

  What had little Mr. Pigeon said once? “And on another trip I brought back a still rarer treasure—but, unfortunately, a more perishable one.” Was that the treasure he’d meant? And what the blazes had happened to it? Who the heck was the enemy deserving all this revenge?

  Oh, well, he didn’t have any time to worry about it now. This poet guy insisted on seeing Mr. Pigeon in the flesh, to make sure he was alive and well. Smuggling him in and out of the rooming house without waking anybody was going to take a little doing. Ma didn’t like her tenants to have visitors, as Baby had remarked before.

  He paused in front of the building, looking up at it. No lights showed anywhere, save the faint glow from the hall. Evidently everybody was asleep. If Lady Luck was still hanging around, they’d stay that way.

  Get this guy in and out fast, without anybody noticing. That was the trick. Fast and quiet.

  “We can’t make no noise,” he whispered to Rinaldo, going up the steps.

  Rinaldo nodded wisely and began tiptoeing.

  “Especially,” Bingo continued in the same whisper, opening the big front door, “when we pass that.” He gestured toward the big double doors that led into his landlady’s apartment.

  Rinaldo lifted an eyebrow and whispered, “His enemies?”

  “No,” Bingo whispered back. “Mine.” He led the way up the two flights of stairs, unlocked the door, and held it open for his guest. Let the guy get a look at a peacefully sleeping and perfectly healthy Mr. Pigeon, usher him out, and promise to meet him again tomorrow. That was all.

  But Mr. Pigeon wasn’t peacefully sleeping. He was standing beside the gas plate, fully dressed, slicing onion into a frying pan that smelled wonderfully of hamburger. Handsome, at his elbow, was opening a can of tomatoes.

  “Hello,” Mr. Pigeon said, over his shoulder. “We thought you might be hungry when you came in.” He finished with the onion, turned around, saw Rinaldo, dropped the paring knife, and said, “I’ll be damned!”

  Rinaldo said, “Amigo!”

  It was a wonderful reunion. Only a continued series of “shushes” from Bingo kept it from waking up the entire house. A reunion that called for a feast, with the hamburger-onion-tomato concoction, and two bottles of sour red wine Mr. Pigeon had sent out for a little earlier and kept for Bingo’s return.

  All very happy and very swell, Bingo thought, mopping up his plate. Mr. Pigeon had found an old friend, and that was wonderful, and he was glad. Now, if he could only get the old friend out of the rooming house without waking up anybody, everything would be O.K. Then he could get to bed and get some sleep.

  The South American poet-patriot finished his supper, emptied his wineglass, and rose. Bingo rose with him, prepared to usher him down the stairs. But first, apparently, Rinaldo had something to say.

  “My friend,” he said to Mr. Pigeon. Then, to Bingo and Handsome, “And you too, you are my friends. There is danger, and you are protecting him. I, Rinaldo Juan Pablo Simon Bolivar Tinaja, will protect him also. I will protect him night and day, and with my life.”

  Bingo said, “A very fine sentiment,” and Handsome applauded very softly.

  “And so,” Rinaldo said, beaming on them, folding his arms and sitting down again, “until there is no more danger and no more of troubles, I, Rinaldo Juan Pablo Simon Bolivar Tinaja, shall stay right here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “A dollar ten,” Bingo counted, “a dollar twenty-five, a dollar twenty-nine.” He reached for the pile of quarters that had come in the morning mail and began counting them. “Twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five, one buck. Twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five.”

  The grand total, including the seven quarters, was three dollars and four cents. And, there was no more film for the camera.

  “Rinaldo hasn’t any money either,” Handsome said. “I know, because I asked him.” He looked worried. “He said he spent all the money he had left, buying beer for a friend last night.”

  Bingo looked shocked and said, “Imagine anybody’ doing a thing like that!”

  “There’s enough paper and stamps and stuff to do these seven pictures,” Handsome said anxiously, “but no more. And if we don’t get some more film, we can’t take any more pictures and then there won’t be any more dough coming in.”

  Bingo glanced speculatively at the camera and said nothing.

  “And we can’t hock that camera too,” Handsome said hastily, “or then we would be practically out of business.”

  Bingo sighed and handed over a dollar. “Get some more film,” he said. “Paper and stamps and envelopes we can get out of what else comes in.” He looked regretfully at the seven quarters. “Maybe there’ll be some more this afternoon.”

  “I hope so,” Handsome said. “That Rinaldo, he eats a lot.”

  “We gotta keep him,” Bingo said. “He’s a pal of Mr. Pigeon. And he’ll help us keep Mr. Pigeon from getting away. If only Ma don’t find out he’s staying here.”

  “Oh, sure,” Handsome said. “He’s a swell guy, too.” He stretched, and said, “Only I wish we had one more bed.”

  Bingo said, “You should complain, even if the davenport is too short for you. That bunch of chairs pushed together we fixed up for me wasn’t so good. I kept sliding down between ’em. It’s only for a few more days, though.”

  At two o’clock that afternoon, they’d meet Leonora Penneyth and put their proposition to her. Then all they’d have to do would be keep Mr. Pigeon under cover till after Sunday. That was all. And here they were, worrying over a few measly bucks.

  Handsome said, “Mr. Pigeon’s making pancakes for breakfast,” as though he were offering it by way of solace. “And Rinaldo’s making the beds.”

  “That ought to show you how lucky we are,” Bingo told him. “With all the people in the world, when we kidnap a guy, he turns out to be a good cook. On top of which we get a visitor who doesn’t mind playing chambermaid.” The prospect of pancakes did make him feel a little better, though. He said, “Right after breakfast, you go
get some films. We’ll work our way through the park on our way to call on this Penneyth dame.”

  There were a few, slightly bent cigarettes left in the pack. He offered Handsome one. Handsome put it into his pocket and said, “After breakfast.”

  “I think we could charge some cigarettes at the drugstore,” Bingo said thoughtfully. “You know, maybe this Penneyth dame will feel like making a down payment in advance—just to bind the bargain.”

  Handsome’s eyes brightened. “If she did, maybe as much as ten or fifteen bucks, we could get the other camera back,” he said hopefully.

  “I was thinking of a couple of thousand,” Bingo said. He slid the remaining two dollars and four cents into his pocket.

  “Ten or fifteen would help, right now,” Handsome said.

  He looked at Bingo. Bingo was looking at Mr. Pigeon’s coat, which had been left hanging over the back of a chair. It hung open, and the top of a wallet showed in the inside pocket.

  “I’m just going to look,” Bingo said. “After all, when you kidnap an individual, you’re entitled to search him.”

  It was a well-worn, brown leather wallet, pleasantly plump. Bingo opened it, Handsome looking over his shoulder. There were a lot of bills in it, all of them crisp and new, and most of them tens.

  “But it wouldn’t be right,” Handsome said.

  “No,” Bingo agreed. “When you kidnap a person, you can’t borrow dough out of his wallet.” He paused and looked very thoughtfully at the wallet. “Of course, maybe we could charge him for his room and board.”

  Bingo and Handsome stood looking at each other for a long time.

  Handsome said, “That wouldn’t be right either.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Bingo said. He sighed. “When you’ve kidnaped a party, you’re supposed to provide for him while he’s kidnaped. No, Handsome, I guess we’ll just have to take some more pictures.”

  He was starting to put the wallet back when Handsome said, “Look, you dropped something.”