by Craig Rice
Bingo shook his head. “We’d’ve smelled the cleaning fluid.”
The skeptical look on Perroni’s sad face expressed what he thought of that for proof. “Go on,” he said.
“Well,” Bingo said, “we got acquainted with our next-door neighbor. Mrs. Waldo Hibbing. Her first name’s Myrtie. She’s a widow.”
“We know everything about Mrs. Hibbing,” Perroni said.
Bingo looked at him in surprise. Mrs. Waldo Hibbing didn’t look as though she’d ever been involved with the police, even for a minor traffic violation.
“It’s been our business to know everything about everybody in this neighborhood,” Perroni explained, with that air of exhausted patience. “Since Julien Lattimer was murdered.”
Bingo opened his mouth to say that Mr. Lattimer couldn’t have been murdered, and then shut it again.
Perroni waited a minute, and then said, “Well?”
“Well,” Bingo said, “we spoke to our other neighbor, too. Mr. Rex Strober. But we didn’t exactly get acquainted with him.”
Detective Hendenfelder snorted. “Nobody gets acquainted with Rex Strober,” he said.
“Then you did what?” Perroni asked.
“We went out to dinner,” Bingo said.
Perroni sighed deeply. “Look, you don’t have to volunteer any information, but just to save us all a little time—”
“Okay,” Bingo said. “We went out to dinner. At—” He turned to Handsome.
“Goody-Goody’s,” Handsome supplied. “It’s down toward the ocean.”
“It’s a hamburger joint,” Hendenfelder said.
Bingo started to say that they were tired of fancy Hollywood restaurants and that they just happened to feel like going to a hamburger joint, especially since they were tired from a long, busy day.
Handsome said, “It’s a very swell hamburger joint, too,” and conveyed exactly what Bingo had had in mind.
“I’ll say it is,” Hendenfelder said. “I eat there all the time.”
And the cashier would remember their being there, Bingo thought.
“It was quarter to seven when we left here,” Handsome said. “Half past eight when we left there. Took about half an hour to drive home.”
“That’s what I mean,” Perroni said. “Helping out with a little information on things we’d have to ask about anyway.” It didn’t seem to make him look any happier, though.
“And when we got back,” Bingo said, although not feeling any particular desire to be helpful, “we smelled this stuff, and looked to find out what it was, and found her, and brought her out here where there was some air, and called for an ambulance. Just as fast as we could, too.”
“That could check,” Hendenfelder said. “Doc said she’d only been inhaling the stuff about an hour, maybe hour and a half. Long enough, though. But if they were at Goody-Goody’s from about seven or seven-thirty till eight-thirty, that would check.”
“Now look here,” Bingo said. “You said this dame—this lady—was murdered—”
“Knockout drops in the drink,” Perroni said. “Killer figured he was being smart. Knew the doc might find she’d been drinking, because of the way the stuff she breathed in worked so fast. So he must have rinsed out the glass, and then put a little whiskey in it. No knockout drops in the glass. Found effects of them in her, though.”
“All right,” Bingo said indignantly, “but why ask us so many questions and fuss about where we were when, and all that stuff. We didn’t murder the lady. Hell, we didn’t even know her.”
Perroni looked as though he was thinking that people did murder perfect strangers on occasion. But he said, “Last night the squad car boys got the idea you knew all about carbon tetrachloride and how it worked.”
Bingo sighed and said, “You don’t understand.”
“You can say that twice,” Perroni said.
“It was a Sunday newspaper during Home Safety Week,” Handsome said. “About bathtubs and ladders and not leaving matches around, and stuff like cleaning fluids and ant poison.” He paused. “There was an article about great screenplays of yesterday on the opposite page, with a picture of Greta Garbo and John Gilbert.”
Perroni looked at Bingo and said, “What’s with this guy?”
“My partner remembers everything he reads,” Bingo said. “Just the way it looked when he read it. That’s how he happened to remember the article.”
Hendenfelder looked impressed. Perroni looked doubtful, but let it pass. “All right,” he said. “We can check on all that stuff. Now,” he said, with a cold note of skepticism, “you claim to have bought this house.”
“We have bought this house,” Bingo said, just as coldly. He took out the precious papers and handed them to Perroni, who looked at them and handed them on to Hendenfelder.
Hendenfelder scrutinized them and finally said, “Looks as though they have bought this house. But I thought there was more to buying a house than just this.” He handed the papers back to Perroni.
“We still have to get a deed,” Bingo said, “but that takes a day or so. Mr. Courtney Budlong said this would be all right in the meantime.”
Perroni looked at Hendenfelder. “Hell,” the round-faced man said, “I wouldn’t know about buying a house. I’m just a cop, and I live with my in-laws besides.”
“I live in a hotel, myself,” Perroni said. “We can check all that with Budlong. But look at that signature.”
Hendenfelder looked. “Looks like his,” he said after a minute.
“We can check that with a handwriting expert,” Perroni said. “But if it is his signature—”
“He’s alive,” Hendenfelder said. “I don’t know anything about ink, either, but that don’t look like he wrote it any four years ago.”
“No, it don’t,” Perroni said. “And if that is his signature, and he is alive, then damn it, I’ve wasted four years of time on this case.” He looked just a shade more sad.
“Budlong and Dollinger’s a good firm,” Hendenfelder said.
That cheered up Bingo, but not Perroni.
“I told you, we’re going to check with Budlong,” Perroni said. He sounded sad. He looked at his watch. “Office will be open by now.”
Bingo finished a second cup of coffee. He was beginning to feel himself again. This was just a silly mistake, a mix-up of some kind. And the murder—if it was murder, he was still inclined to doubt it—had nothing to do with their purchase of the April Robin mansion.
Perroni went to the telephone, the papers still in his hand, and dialed. He asked for Courtney Budlong. Then he said, “How’s that?” and then, “Well, what Mr. Budlong is there?” Finally, “Okay, when will he be in?”
He hung up, folded the papers, put them in his pocket, and looked accusingly at Bingo. “I don’t know what you guys are trying to pull off, but—”
“We’re not trying to pull off anything,” Bingo said coldly.
“Maybe not,” Perroni said. “Only there isn’t any Courtney Budlong.” They stared at him.
“Nobody there ever heard of a Courtney Budlong,” Perroni said. “The only Budlong is Victor Budlong.”
Hendenfelder nodded and said, “He’s a big shot in the Chamber of Commerce,” as though he felt that was very important to the situation.
“There’s some mistake,” Bingo said bewilderedly. “Mr. Budlong—Mr. Courtney Budlong—was going to a big civic dinner last night—”
The two detectives looked at each other. “Far’s I know, there wasn’t any big civic dinner last night,” Perroni said. He scowled at them. “And also, far’s I know, there isn’t any Courtney Budlong, either.”
“But there has to be,” Bingo said. He added, “He had his initials on his cuff links.”
For the first time, there was a smile on Perroni’s face, a faint one, though.
“That does look like Lattimer’s signature,” Hendenfelder said.
“We’re going to straighten this out right now,” Perroni announced. “You guys get dres
sed. We’re going straight down to Budlong and Dollinger and talk to Mr. Budlong in person. The only Mr. Budlong. And his name isn’t Courtney.”
seven
“But look,” Bingo said. “He wasn’t going to be in his office today. Mr. Budlong wasn’t, I mean.”
“What Budlong?” Detective Hendenfelder said.
“Our Mr. Budlong,” Bingo said. “Mr. Courtney Budlong.”
Hendenfelder said nothing, and said it tactfully. He watched the street and concentrated on his driving.
Bingo was riding into Beverly Hills with Hendenfelder in a dark sedan which, to his great relief, didn’t look in the least like a police car, though he hadn’t seen any signs of either Mrs. Waldo (Myrtie) Hibbing or the great Rex Strober watching from their windows. Handsome was driving the convertible, with Perroni as a passenger. The idea had been Perroni’s.
“He said the office wouldn’t be open because of the holiday,” Bingo said, grasping at a straw.
“What holiday?” Hendenfelder asked, not skeptically, just curiously.
“Consolidation Day,” Bingo said. “Today is Consolidation Day.”
Hendenfelder slowed down, stared at Bingo, pulled over to the curb and stopped. From the glove compartment he took out a little paper-bound book marked Information, and turned to a page headed “California Legal Holidays.”
“I don’t see anything here about Consolidation Day.”
Bingo looked at the page. He looked at it for a long time. Then he said weakly, “There must be some mistake.”
“Sure,” Hendenfelder said soothingly. “People are always making mistakes.” He put the book away and started the car again. “It’ll all get straightened out.” He added, “One way or another.”
A few blocks farther Bingo pointed and said, “That’s where he lives,” grasping at another straw.
Hendenfelder glanced up the curving driveway toward the big and beautiful house. “Sure,” he said. “Andy.”
“No,” Bingo said. “Mr. Budlong. Mr. Courtney Budlong.”
“That’s where Andy lives,” Hendenfelder said. “I mean Andy of Amos and Andy.” He added, “A very nice house, too.”
“But Mr. Courtney Budlong’s car was parked in the driveway,” Bingo said desperately. “A blue Continental. He left it there and we rode in our car so Handsome could learn his way around this part of town. And then when we left him at his office he said he had a few things to tend to there, and that—I think his name was Yoshiaki—would pick him up later—” His voice trailed away into a miserable nothing.
“This’ll get straightened out,” Hendenfelder said again. “Things do.”
Bingo settled back and tried to admire the houses, the lawns, gardens and clipped hedges which had seemed so beautiful yesterday, and thought with longing of upper Broadway and 92nd Street in the dead of a rainy winter.
Suddenly he said, “His cuff links. And his tie pin. Mr. Courtney Budlong’s. They had initials on them. C.B.”
“Could’ve stood for almost anything,” Hendenfelder said. He glanced at Bingo. “But don’t get me wrong. I don’t disbelieve you. I don’t disbelieve anybody. It don’t pay. Especially here in Hollywood.” He braked the car to a stop in front of Budlong and Dollinger, and said, “Perroni got here first, like always.”
The handsome little building with the chromium letters hadn’t changed since yesterday, but to Bingo it seemed to have a slightly sinister look. The interior was handsome too, and under any other circumstances he would have appreciated and admired it, right down to the last ceramic ashtray. But today he only wanted to get everything over with and get out, and fast.
The other Mr. Budlong—Bingo still refused to consider him the only Mr. Budlong—was as impressive as his building, tall and almost military, with heavy horn-rimmed glasses and iron-gray hair. He greeted Bingo as cordially as though there were no “little difficulty,” as he expressed it, in a beautiful, sonorous voice that was accompanied by a firm, warm handshake. A little difficulty, he added, that could be straightened out.
Bingo recognized and admired, with a professional eye, the air of a fellow super-salesman. Somehow he began to feel unaccountably better.
Perroni, it seemed, was on the telephone to headquarters with a description of “Mr. Courtney Budlong.” Meantime, Victor Budlong said, the trustee of the Lattimer estate—or, the representative—Mr. Herbert Reddy, was on his way over.
“Trustee?” Bingo said. He hoped there wasn’t a quaver in his voice.
“Naturally,” Victor Budlong said. “When Mr. Lattimer disappeared, and was believed to be dead—” Mr. Victor Budlong cleared his throat delicately and added, “Murdered, in fact, although neither legally dead nor legally murdered, and later when his wife disappeared, the court appointed a trustee for the estate. A trust company, of course. Their representative in charge of the Lattimer estate, Mr. Reddy, will be along shortly.”
He beamed at Bingo and Handsome as though suggesting that he would like to be on their side. Bingo suddenly found himself hoping, with a kind of desperation, that Victor Budlong would be on their side and in full force. It began to look as though they would need him.
“It’s just a little mix-up,” Bingo said, with what he hoped was an air of serene confidence, “and as you say, Mr. Budlong, it can be cleared up very quickly.” He thought it wise to add, “We like the house very much.”
Victor Budlong went right on beaming. He said, “I’m not familiar with the property myself, but—”
“Charming,” Bingo said, instinctively quoting Mr. Courtney Budlong. “Wonderful neighborhood, too. And it used to be the April Robin mansion.” He paused for effect. “You remember the star, April Robin—” He let his voice trail off.
“Remember her?” Victor Budlong said, almost with reverence. “I used to have an autographed picture of her! And to think this was her house!” He offered cigarettes. “Are you in the Industry?” He said that with an air of reverence, too.
Bingo hesitated between “In a way,” “More or less,” and just plain “Yes,” and finally silently handed over a card of the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America.
“Well!” Victor Budlong breathed.
“We’re not really settled yet,” Bingo said. “We only recently decided to transfer our headquarters to Hollywood. The logical place, of course. Naturally, we’re not particularly settled yet. But once we get this little tangle fixed up, then it’s just a matter of finding suitable office space, somewhere here in Beverly Hills or on the Strip, and getting everything under way.”
In the background he heard Handsome cough faintly. But this was no time to boggle at trifles.
“Well!” Victor Budlong said again, and this time he said it in a cordial and extremely helpful manner. “Exactly what kind of space do you have in mind?”
Bingo crossed his fingers, plunged in, and said, “Well, eventually of course, we want to build our own little building. Nothing elaborate, but tasteful.” There, that sounded just right.
“If you’re not looking for too large a place,” Victor Budlong said, as though the idea had just come to him, “I know of something that might do very nicely until you decide to build. Charming little suite of offices. Furnished, too. Very pleasant. Provincial style waiting room.”
This time Bingo said, “Well!” with just the right note of interest.
“As a matter of fact,” Victor Budlong said enthusiastically, “it’s only a step or so from here. Almost across the street. Would you like to take a look at it, just for fun, while we’re waiting?”
Bingo said that would be very pleasant indeed. Handsome went along, his face impassive. Officer Hendenfelder said, tactfully sounding very unofficial, he’d like to come too, if nobody minded, he always liked to see the inside of these classy buildings.
Across the street, and one door down from the nearly Georgian brick building wearing the name HENKIN, was a two-story nearly Colonial, done in well-nigh dazzling white.
“Upstairs is a model agency,” Victor Budlong said. “Fine outfit. One of the best. Don’t know if you use models or not, but in case you ever should—”
Handsome had decided reluctantly to enter into the spirit of things and said, “Oh, we do!”
This time Victor Budlong made it “Well, well!” with enthusiasm. He added, “I must show you my daughter’s picture.” He looked through his keys, nodded toward one of the white columns, and said, “Pure Ionic. Must admire their simplicity. You should see some of the buildings that go up in this town! Talk about ornate! But this—” He waved a beautifully manicured hand. “Simple!” He quoted Bingo right back at him. “Tasteful!”
He threw open the beautiful, simple door as though he were unveiling a war memorial. An instant later he said, “Excuse me a minute,” slipped into the waiting room, and closed the door.
Bingo stood perfectly still, saying nothing and almost not thinking. In the moment when the door had been open he’d caught a glimpse of the room beyond it, a quick, shadowy glimpse, but enough to reveal the outlines of a sofa. There had been a girl on the sofa, a girl with extremely white skin, and wearing a pair of deep orchid pants and brassiere, a small string of pearls, and a lot of long, red hair. He noticed too, in that brief glimpse, that she was a trifle plump.
Suddenly, with a startling whir, the blinds shot up behind the windows, and the door was reopened. Victor Budlong looked perspired and very pale, but not rattled. Angry, perhaps, but not rattled.
“Wanted you to see this at its best,” he said, not sounding angry, either, but magnificently calm. “With the glorious California sun shining in. You being from New York, you’ll really appreciate this.”
“This” was a medium-sized room. Even to Bingo’s unpracticed eyes it was beautifully and probably expensively decorated, with its small receptionist’s desk, pale pink telephone, carved chairs, end tables, oil paintings and sofa. There was a heady and heavy odor of perfume in the air.
Victor Budlong said, “Beautiful room. Simple.” He opened a window and said, “Now right down this way—”
“Down this way” was a narrow hall with three more oil paintings. From the hall opened three offices, a conference room, a bathroom complete with tub, a ladies’ powder room, and a tiny kitchenette.