by Craig Rice
Bingo drew a long breath. “We took this picture of you, quite by accident. Then—”
It was Handsome who added the details. The unlocked doors in Harkness Penneyth’s apartment. The way the body had looked. The suit that had been lying on the bed, and Bingo holding it up to himself.
Everything June Logan had said, everything the gangsters had said, everything that Leonora Penneyth had said or done. They told it slowly and completely, not leaving out a thing.
Then there was a silence. Mr. Pigeon took his glasses off his nose, wiped them carefully with his handkerchief, and put them back on again.
“Of course,” he said, “if you just think it over, you can see who the murderer is.”
Bingo thought it over and he did see. He stared at Mr. Pigeon, his jaw dropping.
“It can’t be,” he said at last. “It’s impossible.”
“But it is,” Mr. Pigeon said.
Handsome and Rinaldo looked at each other blankly.
“But, Bingo,” Handsome began, his voice puzzled.
Bingo waved a hand at him. “I’ll explain it to you later.” Then he turned to Mr. Pigeon. “I was just dumb, that’s all.”
Baby rose and started making fresh coffee. “Dumb,” she said coldly, “is hardly the word for it.”
For once, Bingo couldn’t find an answer. He just sat, looking at Mr. Pigeon, his forehead wrinkled.
They’d stopped at the drugstore nearest Leonora Penneyth’s hideaway apartment and phoned the police to tell them where to find a body. Then they’d ducked into the subway, fast, in case the police could trace the call.
There was only one thing to do now, Bingo had decided. That was to tell little Mr. Pigeon everything, and at once. He’d been kept in ignorance of the murders, but now he had to know.
So they’d come straight home and told their story. Now Bingo sat looking at Mr. Pigeon, silently swearing at his own stupidity.
Baby put a cup of fresh hot coffee before him and said, “I hope this won’t keep you mental giants awake all night.”
Bingo smiled at her automatically. He drank the coffee without tasting it.
“It was because of the money,” he said at last. “And because you came back.”
Mr. Pigeon nodded and smiled. “Yes,” he said. “That was why.”
Then suddenly Bingo said, “But why did you come back? And,” he breathed hard, “why did you go away in the first place, the way you did?”
Mr. Pigeon started to speak, but Handsome was ahead of him. “I know why,” Handsome said. “It was because of a dame.” He looked at Mr. Pigeon affectionately. “Her name was Lucy, and she was born in China, and you rescued her from Chinese bandits. She was eighteen years old and her old man and old lady had got killed, and she’d got kidnaped. You brought her back to the United States with you and sent her to a ladies’ boarding school.” He paused and closed his eyes for a minute. “It was December 8th, 1931, the same day Legs Diamond got bumped off in Albany, when you brought her back. There was a picture of you in the News, getting off the boat in San Francisco, right next to the picture of Legs Diamond. The picture of him was one that was took during his trial.”
“What is this Legs Diamond?” Rinaldo demanded. “What has he to do with our friend, Mr. Pigeon?”
“Nothing,” Handsome said, surprised.
“It’s the way he remembers things,” Bingo said.
Mr. Pigeon smiled, and said, “Go on, Handsome.”
“You had on a white straw hat with a funny wide brim,” Handsome said, his eyes dreamy. “She looked kind of little and awful young. It wasn’t a very good picture. The story was a column and a half long and it told about how you’d rescued her and brought her back and were going to fix her up with the swell school and stuff. And how you’d also brought back one of the most rarest sets of”—his brow wrinkled—“some kind of Chinese dishes—that anybody had ever brought back.”
“All that is quite right,” Mr. Pigeon said.
“Then,” Handsome said, “a couple o’ years later you disappeared, and she married Mr. Penneyth, and after a while she—” He paused, and then said, “Died.”
Baby sat down on the arm of Mr. Pigeon’s chair and dropped a light, affectionate kiss on his head. “Of course,” she said. Her voice was very gentle. “Mr. Pigeon was going to get married to her, when she was old enough and got out of boarding school. You dopes should have guessed that right away. He was in love with her.”
“I’d hoped to marry her,” Mr. Pigeon said in a soft voice, “but I realized she preferred Harkness.” He drew a long breath. He had a way with women. And I wanted her to be happy.”
There was a little silence, and then Baby said, “But you knew she wouldn’t marry him if you were around. No matter how much she was in love with him. She knew you wanted to marry her, and she was all set to say ‘yes,’ because she was grateful to you.” She tossed back her hair and added, “As who wouldn’t be.”
“I wanted her to be happy,” Mr. Pigeon repeated. It was almost a whisper.
Bingo stood up, borrowed one of Baby’s cigarettes, lit up, and began pacing up and down the room. Mr. Pigeon’s rocking chair made a gentle, pleasant little rhythm in the room.
“You knew if you disappeared she’d be sorry as hell for a while,” he said, almost harshly. “But then she’d get over it, and she’d marry—that guy.” He drew in a quick, sharp breath.
“I thought perhaps she’d always remember me,” Mr. Pigeon murmured. He added, “And it was really very pleasant there in La Paz.”
For a few minutes no one spoke. Bingo’s footsteps made a counterpoint to the sound of Mr. Pigeon’s rocker.
“But the money,” Bingo said suddenly. “I don’t—yes, I do understand about the money. You knew this Penneyth guy was no good at handling dough. You figured that five hundred thousand bucks would come in handy by the time seven years were up. That’s the way you figured it, wasn’t it?”
“I was going to give it back to the insurance company,” little Mr. Pigeon said, almost apologetically. “I wasn’t trying to—defraud them, you know. But I knew she’d accept it, if it came from the insurance policy. I knew she’d need it. Then I meant to pay it back.” He looked out through the window, his tired gray eyes fixed on some point far out in space. “I didn’t want her ever to be poor, really poor. And it would all have been perfectly honest. A little irregular perhaps, but honest.”
Rinaldo jumped up and declared what he would do to anyone who doubted the honesty of his friend. Then he sat down again, and Baby smiled at him.
Bingo did another turn around the room. He could see how it had happened now. Mr. Pigeon hadn’t wanted to go away, but he’d gone so that his treasure, his Lucy James, would marry the man she wanted. He’d gone up to the park that one day and said good-by to the birds he loved and fed every Sunday. Then he’d vanished. He’d spent that seven years sitting in the sun in front of the little café in La Paz, befriending young poets and patriots, mourning for the loss of Lucy James, yet consoling himself with the false belief that she was happy.
“But why did you come back?” he asked suddenly. He turned to face Mr. Pigeon, his hands in his pockets, clenched into fists. “Or, why didn’t you come back when she”—he paused—“did what she did?”
Handsome looked up. “Sure,” he said awkwardly. “Didn’t you read about it in the newspapers?”
“I didn’t see any newspapers,” Mr. Pigeon said softly, “for seven years.” A half smile brightened his face. “You must understand. There was one man who knew where I was, a man I should not have trusted. He could have found the—missing Mr. Pigeon—any time in those seven years. I let him know where I was, so that he could keep me informed of—Lucy’s happiness.” He drew a long, sighing breath. “I wanted to cut myself off from all the world, you see. No letters, no newspapers, nothing. I only wanted to know that one thing. That she was well, that she was happy, that, perhaps, she had children. So, he knew where I was. And he wrote me now and t
hen that she was—happy.”
“That man was Rufus Hardstone, wasn’t it?” Bingo said. His voice was hard.
Mr. Pigeon nodded and smiled. “He wasn’t really dishonest, only—tempted. He didn’t want me to return, you see, because if I didn’t return, Harkness would get all that money, and he owed a great deal of it to Rufus Hardstone.”
“Did he write you when she—died?” Bingo demanded.
“No,” Mr. Pigeon said. “I didn’t know when she died.”
Rinaldo wished, loudly, that Rufus Hardstone was still alive, so that he could murder him, slowly and with trimmings.
Mr. Pigeon held up a quieting hand, and said gently, “He was not really bad, and I think he needed the money. But then, you see he foolishly confided in Leonora Penneyth that he knew where I was. And she immediately saw a way of making—even more money. She was a very brilliant woman, you know. So she told him to write me all the truth of what had happened to Lucy—she knew it would lure me back here.”
Baby sniffed. “I get it. Then she’d have kidnaped you and hidden you out somewhere, and made Harkness Penneyth split the dough with her.” She sniffed again. “I don’t care if she is dead. That’s a blonde for you, every time.”
“Now!” Mr. Pigeon said mildly. He was silent for a minute. “This has all been my fault, you know. If I hadn’t had a foolish notion of revenge—” He took a long breath, and went on, “I saw through their scheme, of course. And I planned to wait until the very last minute and then reappear. To let Harkness hope, and worry, and be anxious, right up to the very last minute. Then you young men came along with your—ingenious scheme, and it offered me a place to hide during the week.” He smiled. “I felt sure I could get away when the time came.”
“I bet you could have, too,” Bingo said admiringly.
There was a long silence. Then Baby said, “But what are you going to do?”
“Set a trap for him,” Mr. Pigeon said. Again he smiled, wryly this time. “And bait it with a pigeon. You see, now he has to kill me, too.”
“We aren’t going to let you run any risks,” Bingo said firmly.
Rinaldo stated just what he would do to anyone who harmed a hair of Mr. Pigeon’s head.
“There’s no danger,” Mr. Pigeon said. “With all my friends to protect me.” He turned to Bingo. “We will have to do it through June Logan. You will have to let her know that Mr. Pigeon is loose in New York, and that he intends to turn up on Sunday at his regular place in the park, to feed his friends, the birds.”
Bingo nodded. “Only we don’t want you to run any risks.”
“There will be no risk,” Mr. Pigeon said confidently. “And I myself will make the arrangements with the police.”
“This is all very fine,” Baby said. “But suppose this party doesn’t show up?”
Mr. Pigeon smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He’ll show up.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The sun was warm, and the park was full of people. As on the Sunday a week ago, the little triangle of sidewalks at the foot of Bolivar Hill was crowded with strollers and sight-seers, and littered with peanut shells, cigarette butts, and odds and ends of paper.
At the apex of the triangle, a small, inconspicuous man in a gray suit stood surrounded by fluttering pigeons, scattering grain to them from a paper bag.
Hardly anyone noticed him.
“This is a swell crowd,” Handsome said wistfully. “Wish we had the cameras out of hock.”
“I wish we did too,” Bingo said. “Then we could hock them again.”
Yesterday had been the longest day he’d ever spent in his life. Nothing to do but keep a careful eye on Mr. Pigeon and wait for Sunday.
There had been a dollar and twenty cents on hand in the morning, and no prospects. Uncle Max had loaned him two dollars on the light-blue suit with the narrow pin stripe and a dollar and a half on the tan gabardine. It was true that neither of them had been completely paid for yet, but as long as he kept on coming through with the seventy-five cents every Tuesday and the other seventy-five cents every Friday, everything would be O.K.
Now, of the total, exactly ninety cents was left, and he had to wear the bright-checked sport jacket and the green slacks. Not a bad combination, and appropriate for Sunday in the park, but he felt that the circumstances called for the tan gabardine.
Bingo sighed, mopped his brow, and wished for a cigarette.
“Don’t worry,” Handsome said. “Everything’s going to be O.K.” His good-looking face was sweat-streaked and almost pale.
Fifteen minutes later he said, “I wish we could’ve borrowed a camera.”
“By next Sunday,” Bingo said firmly, “we’ll have both cameras out of hock. Don’t you have any faith in the business?”
“Oh, sure,” Handsome said. For the first time his voice sounded a little hollow.
It was twelve o’clock. Then it was half-past twelve. It didn’t seem possible that the sun could get any hotter, but it did.
“It’s not just that we could be taking pictures,” Handsome said, “but hanging around here like this, doing nothing, we might get picked up for loitering.”
“The cops know why we’re here,” Bingo said crossly. “Besides, people don’t get pinched just for standing around in the park.”
He glanced up to where Rinaldo was standing, on the hill behind Mr. Pigeon, apparently totally absorbed by the beauties of nature. Then he glanced around at the places where he knew police were standing, waiting, ready for anything that might happen.
And, there at the junction of two sidewalks, little Mr. Pigeon, paying attention to nothing but the birds, looking entirely oblivious to anything going on around him.
“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Bingo whispered, as though Mr. Pigeon could hear him across all that distance.
One o’clock. One-thirty. The crowd began to thin a little.
Then it happened.
There was a faint motion in the bushes behind Mr. Pigeon. There was a whistle from Rinaldo. Mr. Pigeon threw himself flat on his face, and something bright and silvery, flashing in the sun, passed over him and buried itself harmlessly in the grass.
A woman in the crowd screamed.
Police were running toward the bushes behind Mr. Pigeon. From in back of them came the sound of a struggle. A shot was fired, and another woman screamed.
Bingo and Handsome ran too, and so did Rinaldo, but they ran toward Mr. Pigeon, who was picking himself up and dusting the sand from his knees.
“You’re O.K.?” Bingo panted.
“Perfectly,” Mr. Pigeon said. His face was a little pale.
A cop glanced up toward the bushes and said, “He could have got away with it, if we hadn’t been here. Just ducked up over the hill and been out of sight, clean as a whistle, before anyone knew what happened.”
Bingo didn’t even hear him. He was looking up toward the bushes, where the sounds of struggle had stopped now.
“Did they shoot him?” Mr. Pigeon whispered.
“No,” Bingo said. “Must have missed him. Because here he comes now.”
He watched, fascinated, as two policemen led down the hill the tall, slender, handsome man that he now knew was Harkness Penneyth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“We made our mistake,” Bingo said gloomily, “in thinking that because that dead guy was in Mr. Penneyth’s apartment, he had to be Mr. Penneyth.”
“And instead,” Handsome said, just as gloomily, “it was Wilkins. Only what’d he want to murder Wilkins for, Bingo?”
“Wilkins was in on the scheme,” Bingo said. “Leonora Penneyth told us that. Remember? When she called up that time, she said, ‘Then Wilkins, God help him, gave the show away.’”
Handsome said, “Oh,” and scowled.
Bingo leaned back in the rocking chair, picked up the newspaper, and began looking at the story again. Harkness Penneyth had confessed, and filled in a few details that Bingo had failed to guess. There weren’t many, though.
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“Only why did he kill Wilkins with his clothes off, and then put his clothes on him again?” Handsome said. “I never got that straight.”
Bingo said, “Because he didn’t want a lot of blood to get where it would be hard to clean up. The bathroom was the best place. So he waited until Wilkins was taking a bath, and then killed him.” He read Harkness Penneyth’s confession through again. “He meant to take the body out of the apartment and dispose of it. But before he could do anything, June Logan got there. So he ducked out on the fire escape. She let herself in, looked around, and then she beat it. He came back in, dressed the body, and sat it up on the sofa so it’d look like it was reading, while he cleaned up the bathroom.
“Then,” Bingo said, glancing from time to time at the newspaper in his lap, “he got to thinking. He had to have help getting rid of the body. So he waited till she’d had time to get home, called her up, and said, ‘Come right over, babe.’ And she did.” He laid down the paper. “Only by the time she got there, he was gone, and we were there, and we’d got very enterprising and hid the body. So she put on a big act of having dropped in to call Mr. Harkness Penneyth some bad names.”
Handsome was thinking the whole thing over, and making pretty slow progress with it. “But, Bingo. Why had he beat it?”
Bingo sighed. “Look. It was because of the gangsters. It was like this, Handsome. Mr. Penneyth owed that Stone guy a hell of a lot of money. His only chance of paying off was with that dough from the insurance company. See?”
“Sure,” Handsome said. “I knew that.”
“Well,” Bingo said, “Stone didn’t want to take any chances of Mr. Penneyth taking it on the lam when he got the dough. So he was having him trailed. Then he finds out Mr. Pigeon is still alive. So he tells Mr. Penneyth he’ll personally see to it Mr. Pigeon doesn’t turn up at the wrong time, only he wants more of the dough than Mr. Penneyth already owes him. Meantime Mr. Penneyth’s loving little sister is telling him she’s lured Mr. Pigeon back to this country, and for half of the dough, she’ll hide him out until the insurance company has paid off. Then we turn up, a couple of outsiders, and announce that we’ve got Mr. Pigeon and want to make a deal.”