The April Robin Murders

by Craig Rice

What had been the Victorian parlor was almost inky dark. There was one smallish oval window halfway up to the ceiling, but it had been almost completely overgrown by the untended vines. Courtney Budlong reached for the light switch and disclosed another empty room, its walls tinted a dusty and faded green. “Can be charming,” he said. “Completely charming.”

  Handsome spoke for the first time since they’d turned in the drive. “Gosh,” he said, and there was real enthusiasm in his voice. “What a place to fix up a darkroom!”

  “My partner’s hobby is photography,” Bingo said hastily.

  There was another flight of stairs leading up from behind the library, an enclosed, shadowy and dust-laden one. At the top of it, Courtney Budlong flung open another door and announced, “The master suite.”

  The master suite was an affair of two bedrooms, two dressing rooms and a bath. One bedroom opened into a smaller room, which Courtney Budlong described as. “The boudoir, of course,” and the other into a similar room which he described as “And naturally, the den.”

  From that point on, Bingo began to get lost and to lose count. There seemed to be bedroom after bedroom, bath after bath, connecting hall after connecting hall. The battlemented terrace and the tower, he was told, were purely outside decoration, but of course with a little remodeling—at not too much cost—

  At last they came down the main staircase, Bingo’s head spinning a little. This house, with the furniture out of storage, a little paint thrown around, no swimming pool, of course, but there was a perfect space for one in that back lawn—

  He pinched himself and reminded himself firmly that this was a mansion for millionaires. Perhaps someday—well, at least it had been fun seeing it.

  He caught one last glimpse of the all-gray caretaker, still scuttling, across the living room.

  “Let’s go out and have a smoke,” Courtney Budlong said. He led the way through the hall, through the big ornate door, and out to where the convertible was parked, looking a little small in its surroundings.

  “And would you believe it,” Courtney Budlong said, “because the owner is anxious to get this off his hands, he’ll sell this as is, complete with the furniture, for twenty thousand dollars!”

  He paused to let that sink in. “The furniture—just a matter of phoning the storage company to send it over. Gas—lights—telephone—all in, and paid up for three months ahead.”

  Bingo felt a little stunned. He pulled himself together, lighted a cigarette and said, “Wish we could swing it. But moving our offices to the Coast—finding new ones—all that sort of thing—” His voice trailed off on what was unmistakably a wistful note.

  “But what’s more,” Courtney Budlong said, “it can be swung for only two thousand cash down. Four quarterly payments—the first one three months from now—of two hundred and fifty dollars each. If it weren’t a forced sale—why, given a little time, I could sell this place for fifty thousand dollars, in today’s market.”

  Bingo was thinking fast. With the furniture back in, the grounds cleaned up—yes, it would be a suitable showplace for the heads of the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America. He opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again.

  “Wonderful neighborhood, too,” Courtney Budlong went on. He indicated a big, salmon-tinted, almost Spanish house on one side of them. “Know who lives there? Rex Strober. The motion picture producer.”

  He didn’t need to add, “The great—” Bingo and Handsome added that in themselves.

  “And to show you it’s not all movie colony,” he continued, “here is where Mrs. Hibbing lives. Mrs. Waldo Hibbing. Wealthy society woman. Widow of the copper mine Hibbing.”

  Bingo had never heard of Mrs. Waldo Hibbing or her late husband, but he tried to look suitably knowing and impressed. The sprawling, super-ranch-style house, which seemed to be made mostly of plate glass and stainless steel, would have impressed anyone, he felt.

  “And say,” Courtney Budlong said suddenly. “I almost forgot to tell you. Remember we were talking a while back about movie stars’ mansions? Do you know whose home this was originally? Who it was built for?” He smiled benignly at them. “April Robin!” He paused dramatically. “You remember April Robin, don’t you?”

  Bingo looked back at the gray stone mansion, which seemed suddenly to be glowing. “Of course!” he breathed. “Of course I do. Everybody remembers April Robin!”

  After one more lingering, almost loving look, he smiled at Courtney Budlong. “Just how fast could this deal be put through? Today?”

  three

  “Nothing to it,” Courtney Budlong said blithely. “We’ll just drive down to the office, sign a couple of papers, you make your little down payment, and you own a house.” He patted Bingo on the shoulder. “At least you own one tenth of a house.”

  “That only leaves eighteen thousand to go,” Handsome said. His voice sounded a little hollow.

  Courtney Budlong laughed encouragingly. “Bright boys like you, you’ll make it in no time. I’ll probably be able to throw a few things your way. And anyway, it’s three whole months before you need to make that next small payment.” This time he patted Handsome on the shoulder.

  As they backed down the drive Bingo gazed at the mansion, at its turret on the one side and its crenellated terrace on the other. At last he said, with a kind of awe, “That sure is a lot of house!”

  “Boys,” Courtney Budlong said, “our chance meeting was a lucky one!”

  He directed the way into Beverly Hills, pointing out a few spots of interest on the way. There, on their right, was Gene Kelly’s home. And there, ahead and to the left, the Civic Center—impressive, wasn’t it! Now, looking down the street and to your right, Romanoff’s. “Wish I could take you boys to dinner tonight.” But there was that stupid civic affair at the Biltmore. Some night this week, though. “And there’s my office, the gray building with the window boxes. Pull right up there, Mr. Kusak.”

  Handsome objected that it was a no-parking zone. “Don’t worry about that,” Courtney Budlong said. “This won’t take a minute. You boys wait here in the car, because I’ll be right out.” The last words took him out of the car, across the sidewalk and into the handsome building with the shining chromium letters: BUDLONG AND DOLLINGER.

  “He’s in a hurry,” Bingo said, “got that big important dinner party down at the Biltmore.” He wasn’t making explanations for Mr. Budlong, he was desperately making conversation to postpone the impending and inevitable discussion of their investment.

  He looked with admiration at the BUDLONG AND DOLLINGER building. “Back in New York,” he said, “even a big important company like this one would just have some offices in a big building some place. Well, maybe a whole floor. But out here, they got the whole place. All the big firms do.” He looked across the street, a red-brick, nearly Georgian structure wore only one name: HENKIN.

  He was still looking at it when Courtney Budlong came bustling out, papers in his hand. “Nice little edifice over there,” the real estate man said. “I remember when we sold it to Leo Henkin. He got it at a steal.” He cleared his throat. “You know, Henkin, the artists’ representative. Handles a lot of big names.”

  Bingo nodded knowingly. He’d already learned that artists’ representative was another term for agent. He wondered who the big names were, and whether, if they waited here long enough, he’d see any of them coming or going.

  “Well, here we are,” Courtney Budlong said heartily. “Told the girl we were in a hurry. Take another day to get the deed, but this’ll do you in the meantime.”

  Bingo examined the first paper, Handsome peering over his shoulder. Neatly typed on Budlong and Dollinger stationery, it declared simply that, to whom it might concern, as of this date, Bingo Riggs and Handsome Kusak, of the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America, having made a down payment of $2,000.00 on the property located at 113 Damascus Drive, Los Angeles, California, were empowered to occupy said
property pending delivery and signing of the deed. The date, the amount and the names were written in by hand, the firm name having been crowded in with a little difficulty. Below was the owner’s signature, Julien Lattimer, and below that, Courtney Budlong, Agent.

  “See,” Courtney Budlong said, “you can move in any time.”

  Bingo looked at the paper with a kind of reverence.

  “And this,” the real estate man said, “is as good as a deed.” He handed it over. “That’s your deposit receipt. Shows you own a house.”

  Bingo looked at it, too, with reverence. It, on a Budlong and Dollinger receipt form, looked like any other receipt in the world, except that it was beautifully printed, and that it represented the ownership of what had been a movie star’s mansion. There were spaces for three signatures at the bottom, one of them already filled in by Julien Lattimer. Courtney Budlong filled in another, handed his pen to Bingo and said, “And you sign here.”

  For just a moment Bingo hesitated, the pen cold in his hand. He turned his head and looked at Handsome, met a look that said, more plainly than words, that Bingo was the boss, knew what he was doing, and everything was going to be fine.

  The thing was done. The twenty hundred-dollar bills went from Bingo’s wallet to Courtney Budlong’s. The letter and the deposit receipt went into a Budlong and Dollinger envelope and into Bingo’s pocket.

  “And the keys, of course,” Courtney Budlong said. He dropped them into Bingo’s hand. “Front door, back door, cellar and garage. Two of each.”

  They seemed to feel warm, almost to glow in Bingo’s hand as he looked at them. He’d had keys before, but never to a house he owned. He divided them with Handsome and attached his set to his key chain as though they were talismans.

  “Drop in tomorrow and pick up the deed,” their new friend said jovially. “Make it around noon and we’ll run over to the Derby for lunch. No, wait a minute. Make it day after tomorrow. Tomorrow’s a state holiday. Consolidation Day.” He beamed at them. “Boys, I feel you’re going to do big things in Hollywood!”

  “We’re certainly off to a good start,” Bingo said, glowing. “Now can we drive you—”

  Courtney Budlong shook his head. “Thanks, no. Few things to tend to in the office. I’ll have Yoshiaki drive down and pick me up.”

  Handsome headed the convertible toward Fairfax Avenue and the motel. Bingo felt in his pocket, touched the papers as though for luck. He still felt a little stunned.

  There had been no criticism, no objection from Handsome. Finally Bingo said, “We can always sell it again, like he said. Plenty of buyers would jump at it. Make a nice little profit, too. In fact, I’d do just that, and put us a little ahead, except that I like the house.” He glanced sidelong at Handsome.

  “Me, I like it too,” Handsome said.

  Bingo breathed deeply with relief. “Mr. Budlong must be a pretty important man. And remember, he said he’d throw some business our way.”

  “Bingo,” Handsome said, “what kind of business?”

  “Well—” Bingo said.

  “What I mean is,” Handsome said, “he doesn’t know what business we’re in. Only what it says on the card, and that don’t explain very much.”

  For that matter, Bingo reflected, he didn’t quite know himself what business they were in. Not yet. He said, encouragingly, “Well, anyway, as I was saying before, Handsome, we’ve come a long way. There we were in New York not owning a thing but the cameras, and them in hock. Bang, we leave New York with this swell car, a lot of luggage and elegant clothes, and twelve hundred bucks and a little over. Not only that, along the way we do better than double it, for very little work. So now—”

  “Only,” Handsome said, with just a trace of unhappiness, “we didn’t do that taking pictures.”

  Bingo didn’t need to be reminded of that, and what’s more, didn’t want to be. “Handsome,” he said sternly, “we’re not going to run into any murders in Hollywood.”

  He leaned back, let the breeze ruffle his hair, and contemplated a happy future. “You know,” he said dreamily, after a few blocks, “that’s the first time I ever met a guy who had a Japanese chauffeur. Mr. Budlong must be doing fine.” They’d be doing fine themselves before long. He looked again at Handsome and caught an expression of worry and a touch of bewilderment.

  “Something?” he asked anxiously.

  Handsome scowled. “I’m trying to remember. About seeing Mr. Budlong before.” He paused. “I mean, about seeing his picture before.” He paused again. “It’s like this, Bingo. I mean, I’ve seen it and I haven’t seen it.”

  “Make up your mind,” Bingo said.

  “I’m trying to,” Handsome said earnestly. “One minute I have seen it, and one minute I haven’t seen it. It’s that way.”

  Bingo looked at his partner with deep concern. “Try to think where you saw it, Handsome.”

  Handsome’s brow almost tied itself into knots. “If I saw it,” he said very slowly. “If I did—and I guess I didn’t. But it would’ve been on page three, section one. Next to it was a story about the big flood in Holland. There was a picture of two people and a dog in a rowboat.”

  Bingo felt it safe to assume that Courtney Budlong had not been one of the people in the rowboat. He said nothing, and waited.

  “And another thing, Bingo,” Handsome said. He sounded really unhappy now. “About April Robin. I know I ought to remember where I saw pictures of her, only I don’t. Not one single solitary picture.” This time, the pause was a long one. “Bingo, I think maybe I’m losing my memory.”

  Bingo drew a long, slow breath. “Handsome,” he said, “what were the people in the rowboat like?”

  “Them? There was”—Handsome’s eyes narrowed a little with thought—“a lady and a gentleman. She was all wrapped up in a blanket and he had a hat on. The dog was a little, spotted one. It wasn’t a very good picture either.”

  “Go on,” Bingo said gently.

  “It was February 7, 1953,” Handsome said. “There was a whole page of pictures on page one, section two. One of Queen Juliana and some refugees, but the rest were mostly water. It was an awful lot of water. I remember it was February 7th because Gus Bembough, he was the day bartender at Morrie Gelhart’s Shamrock Tavern, made a hunch bet on Water Baby in the fifth, and it paid sixty-three, forty. I guess you don’t remember Gus.”

  “I don’t,” Bingo said, “but I wish I had his hunch system. And you don’t need to worry about your memory, Handsome, you’re doing fine.”

  “If you say so, Bingo,” Handsome said. He sounded a little happier.

  “And as far as April Robin is concerned,” Bingo said, “why, she was long before your time. Sure, you’ve heard of her. I’ve heard of her. Everybody remembers her. But you couldn’t possibly have seen her picture, because it was too long ago.”

  Handsome sighed with relief. “Sure, Bingo,” he said. “Only it bothered me for a little while.”

  “She was one of the greats,” Bingo said reverently. And we’re going to be living in her house, he said to himself.

  Once more he leaned back, relaxed, and thought what a good world it was and how glad he was to be in it. Oh yes, there were occasional little difficulties, but nothing that couldn’t be overcome without too much hardship.

  It continued to amaze him how rapidly the sale of the April Robin house had been put through. He’d never bought a house before, or even dreamed of buying one, but he’d had a feeling that it was a highly complex and long-drawn-out affair, involving banks, lawyers, practically the Supreme Court. This had gone through as quickly and easily as buying a coffee at a drive-in. But, he reminded himself again, this was Hollywood.

  He roused himself as Handsome pulled to a stop in front of the Skylight Motel. “It won’t take us long to pack,” he said. “You can start, and I’ll go tell the old lady—I’ll go tell Mrs. DeLee that we’re leaving—”

  Handsome glanced at the dashboard clock and said, “It’s after one o’clock. Sh
e’ll charge us for tonight anyway.”

  Bingo hesitated for just a moment. Then he said firmly, “No, we own a house, and we’re going to sleep in it.” He thought briefly of the beds in the Skylight Motel, and of the two davenports in the mansion. There weren’t any blankets, either. Oh well, he’d slept on davenports before, and they could pick up a couple of blankets somewhere. A day or so, and all that wonderful furniture would be brought out of storage. Paintings, and linens and silver. Then they’d get the yard fixed up, and get acquainted with the neighbors, the society woman on one side, and the big motion picture producer on the other. No doubt about it, they were really in!

  He located Mariposa DeLee in the office and stood for a moment wondering how to break the news to her that the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America was moving out. She’d changed to black velveteen toreador pants, and a filmy white blouse shot through here and there with sparkling silver threads. The decorative rhinestone-centered flowers in the back of her hairdo matched her earrings, and she was wearing a fresh job of make-up, but she didn’t look noticeably younger.

  “We hate to leave you,” he said, with his best nonprofessional smile, “but we’ve bought a house.” Bought a house. He loved the sound of the words.

  Her carefully outlined eyebrows lifted and she said, “Oh?”

  “Immediate occupancy, too,” he told her. “So we’re moving in tonight.”

  The eyebrows came down, and her eyes went to the wall clock.

  “I know,” Bingo said. “Rooms to be vacated by one in the afternoon. But we don’t mind losing the one night’s rental.” Not so long past, he remembered suddenly, that one night’s rental would have paid for a week in New York with enough left over for a few meals. “We just want to get settled, that’s all.”

  She smiled then, eyebrows and all, and said, “Well, naturally!”

  “We were very lucky,” he said expansively. “Got a terrific buy.” He paused for dramatic effect. “It’s the old April Robin mansion. You remember April Robin, of course.”