by Craig Rice
“It’s my duty as a citizen,” Bingo said, a little stiffly.
“Nuts,” Perroni said. “Do it as a favor to me.”
The two plainclothesmen walked away. Bingo lit a cigarette and sat brooding.
This was Hollywood. This was where they’d come with their two thousand, seven hundred and seventy-three dollars and some odd cents, to get rich. Rich, and famous, and own a beautiful and beautifully furnished mansion like the ones Louella Parsons described in her Sunday interviews, preferably one that once had belonged to a movie star. All they’d accomplished so far—he corrected himself, all he’d accomplished so far—was to sink two thousand dollars of their working capital in a house that probably wasn’t going to belong to them, and two hundred more in a suite of offices they probably never would have any use for. There wasn’t any furniture for the house and, what was more, there wasn’t going to be any furniture, ever. The antiques, the oil paintings, the boxes of linens and silver didn’t exist.
And half of the lost investment was Handsome’s. And he still didn’t have the faintest idea of what they were going to do in Hollywood to get rich and famous. He thought longingly of Columbus Circle, and didn’t dare turn his head to look at his partner.
“You did swell, Bingo,” Handsome said suddenly and admiringly.
Bingo did turn his head, to stare. He knew Handsome had spoken truthfully. Handsome was incapable of not telling the truth.
“I mean,” Handsome said, “protecting our investment that way. Like making friends with Mr. Victor Budlong and putting a deposit on that office place so he’d be on our side when the trust company man got there. And making friends with that Hendenfelder, too. It was smart, Bingo.”
Bingo flicked an ash off his cigarette and said, “Well, in the business world, you learn things like that. Some people might call putting out that two hundred dollars throwing good money after bad, but I look on it as an investment.”
“And if we find Mr. Lattimer’s body for that lady,” Handsome said, “we’ll get everything back, and a lot extra.”
Bingo was silent. He hadn’t thought of that angle, not thoroughly at least. But if a cop like Perroni thought enough of their position as inhabitants of the April Robin mansion to ask them to keep their eyes open, and if a shrewd-looking babe like Adelle Lattimer thought enough of that same position to offer them a sizable cut for finding her late ex-husband’s body, they were sitting very nicely. All the more reason, he told himself, for hanging on to their possession of the mansion.
“Except,” Handsome said thoughtfully, “if we do find Mr. Lattimer’s body, it proves he was dead when he signed those papers. I mean, Bingo, when he didn’t sign those papers. And then it isn’t our house.”
Bingo thought that over, too. He weighed the advantages of the cut of what Adelle Lattimer would get if they did find the body, against the advantages of possibly, even probably, owning the mansion if they didn’t.
“We better take that cop’s advice,” Bingo said. “We better find us a lawyer.”
Handsome suggested looking in the classified section of the telephone book. Bingo pretended he hadn’t heard.
The almost Georgian building across the street caught his attention, and the inspiration came to him.
“That Leo Henkin,” he said thoughtfully. “He’s the top agent—I mean, artists’ representative—in Hollywood.” He decided not to add that it had been Courtney Budlong who had told them so. Anyone could see from a look at that building how important Leo Henkin was. “And we ought to get acquainted with him anyhow. Asking his advice about a lawyer is as good an excuse as any.”
Again he sat thinking. He considered a number of ways to introduce himself and Handsome to the great man. Most of them were romantic, and all of them were impractical.
“Okay, Bingo,” Handsome said agreeably. “Let’s go in and ask him.” He began getting out of the convertible.
Of course, Bingo thought. To Handsome, it would be as simple as that. Handsome had the direct and uncomplicated mind of a newspaper photographer, Handsome who had once found a missing heiress by looking in the telephone book. And, he realized, Handsome was right. He looked in the rear-view mirror, straightened his tie, ran a comb through his sandy hair, and said, “Let’s go.”
He was glad that he’d worn the herringbone worsted suit he’d debated buying as possibly too conservative for Hollywood, the land of the Hawaiian sports shirt and the gaudy slacks. Today it was just the right touch to make a good impression. Obviously it had made one on Victor Budlong.
The nearly Georgian illusion vanished the instant they opened the ivory enameled door and walked into a waiting room that seemed to be furnished almost entirely with odd-shaped articles of wrought iron and pale gray leather. Bingo glanced around curiously for the small-paned windows he’d seen from the street and realized that they were either ornaments attached to the outside walls, or had been covered over by the grayish white of the interior. Light obviously came from some source, but it was impossible to tell where.
The result, Bingo decided, was effective and he admired it, but he was glad when a plate-glass panel on the far side of the room slid open, and an unglamorous office girl said, in a nasal voice, “Well?”
He handed her a card and said, “Mr. Henkin, please,” in a voice that indicated he wasn’t going to put up with any waiting or any other nonsense. She looked down her nose at the card, went away with it, came back and said, a shade more amiably, “Mr. Henkin wonders if you’d mind waiting just a minute. He’s on a long distance call.”
There were trade papers on the wrought-iron objects which appeared to serve for tables, and Bingo glanced at them with the idle air of one who has read them already with his morning coffee, and resolved to subscribe to them before the day was over.
A buzzer sounded, and the girl ushered them into a hallway papered in a red and gold oriental design. She was a trifle dumpy, and wore black oxfords, Bingo noticed. Several doors were open along the hall and he glanced into the offices curiously. One of them appeared to have its walls entirely covered with oversized photographs of very young and very beautiful men and women, the next had its walls covered from floor to ceiling with shelves filled with multicolored books. Beyond, a door opened into the office of Leo Henkin himself.
Bingo was beginning to consider himself an authority on offices, but he wasn’t entirely prepared for this one. Like Victor Budlong’s, it was neither small nor simple. Unlike Victor Budlong’s, it hadn’t been copied from anything Bingo had ever seen before.
There seemed to be horses, or reminders of horses, everywhere he looked. The walls were covered—instead of with pictures of young and beautiful people, or with brightly colored books—with framed color prints of famous thoroughbreds; an uncomfortable-looking occasional chair had apparently been fashioned from a western saddle, two standing ashtrays had been cunningly made from stirrups, and the crystal ashtray on the desk was framed with a horseshoe.
Leo Henkin rose to his full five foot three and a half, from behind his leather-topped desk, and said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, sit down and make yourselves comfortable,” all in one breath. He looked at the card, which, Bingo reflected, he’d had more than time to memorize by now, and said, “Moving here from New York, h’m, well, you’ve come to the right place.” He said that in one breath, too, like a set speech. Then he relaxed, smiled and said, “And what can old Leo Henkin do for you, h’m?”
For a long time Bingo had wondered what a Hollywood agent looked like, especially a top Hollywood agent like Leo Henkin. Earlier in his life he’d had dealings with an agent who handled carnival attractions exclusively, and in spite of his better judgment, he’d unconsciously expected all Hollywood agents to look just like him. Now, to his surprise, Leo Henkin did, except that his beautifully cut suit was pearl-gray instead of off-purple. Leo Henkin had a perfectly round head on his short, stocky body, his eyes were bright blue and threatening to twinkle, his thin hair was pure white. He looked fatherly,
benevolent and helpful.
“If you’re looking for talent,” he said, “if you’re looking for stories, if you’re looking for new faces or old faces, Leo Henkin can help you.” He paused, waiting.
“All of that,” Bingo said, plunging right in for the second time that morning. “But not at the moment. In fact, we really just came in to get acquainted. We’re going to be neighbors, in a manner of speaking.”
Leo Henkin nodded and said, “Vic Budlong just rented you the old DeFosse building. Not so old either. You got a good deal on it.”
Bingo opened his mouth and shut it again.
“Leo Henkin knows everybody and everything that goes on,” the great man said, with what was close to a chuckle. He looked at the card again.
“We’ve just come out here,” Bingo said quickly. “Decided to shift our headquarters to Hollywood. So right now we’re just beginning to get organized. Just picked our building this morning. And as a matter of fact, we wanted to ask you for a little information.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” the agent said. “Leo Henkin’s been here a long time.”
“Well,” Bingo said, “it’s this way.” He paused. No, he was damned if he was going to tell Leo Henkin the story of Courtney Budlong and the questioned purchase of the April Robin mansion. He had a secret hunch that if Leo Henkin knew everything, it would usually be only a matter of time before he’d passed it on to the everybody he also knew. A lawyer, now, was supposed to keep secrets. “My partner and I need a little legal advice.”
“Lawyers!” Leo Henkin said. “The town’s full of lawyers. What kind do you want? What specialty? Divorce? Criminal? Lawsuit? Girl trouble? Income tax? Leo Henkin knows them all.”
“Well,” Bingo said, wondering how to explain what he wanted without telling too much of why he wanted it, “it’s like this. We’re in possession of some valuable property. In fact, I can’t tell you how valuable this property is.”
“Ah,” Leo Henkin said rhapsodically. “That’s the thing? A good property! A valuable property! With that, you can do anything! With that, you can get anything. You want stars? Leo Henkin can get you stars. You want big writers? Leo Henkin can get you big writers. Directors?” He waved a hand, hinting that he had them by the gross. “You need money? Studio space? Leo Henkin has a friend who can handle that. What do you need lawyers for?”
For one mad moment Bingo had the feeling that Leo Henkin could probably produce the body of Julien Lattimer from a desk drawer, on demand, or bring Mr. Courtney Budlong out of a closet. He said, coming back to earth slowly, “There’s a little complication.”
Leo Henkin waved the other hand. “Complications! What are complications? Ignore them. Think big.”
“If we didn’t think big,” Bingo said, trying to match him gesture for gesture, “we’d still be back in New York.” Taking sidewalk pictures at two-bits a throw and living in a furnished room. “But there’s a little question about the ownership of the property—”
“Well, in that case,” Leo Henkin said, also coming down to earth, “you need the best of lawyers. Always make sure your property is clear. No point in running into lawsuits after the picture’s made. And Leo Henkin has just the man for you.” He reached for the telephone and said into it, “Get me Arthur Schlee.”
Bingo opened his mouth to ask a question, and shut it again. This was no time to quibble about legal fees, when the future of the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America was at stake. This was a time to think big.
“Best man in town for this sort of thing,” Leo Henkin said, holding the phone and waiting. He added, “His cousin’s a judge.” Then he said into the phone, “Art, I got a couple of friends of mine here. Mr. Riggs and Mr. Kusak. They own the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America. Yeah, that’s the one. They have a little problem about that certain important property they own, and I recommended you.” He paused. He looked at Bingo. “If you’re free, he can see you right now.”
Bingo swallowed hard and said, “The sooner the better.”
“Right away,” Leo Henkin said into the telephone, and hung up. He looked at them closely and said, “How about telling your friend Leo Henkin a little more about this property?”
“Gladly,” Bingo said, “as soon as we know it’s all clear and completely ours.” He would, too.
“Good, good,” Leo Henkin said. “That’s the way to talk. Never give away any facts about a property to anybody until you’re ready, not even an old friend like Leo Henkin.” He pushed a cigarette box at them. “We’ll lunch soon and talk it over, h’m? But don’t tell me about it now. Let’s change the subject. I hear you’ve bought a house.”
Changing the subject was something Bingo could welcome with enthusiasm at that moment. “And what a house,” he said. “I haven’t counted the rooms yet!”
“Nineteen,” Handsome said, “and four porches.”
“Oh, Leo Henkin knows the house,” the agent said.
“It used to belong to April Robin,” Bingo said. “It was built for her. You remember April Robin,” he added, and then hated himself.
Naturally Leo Henkin remembered April Robin, and that the house had been built for her. “What a girl!” he said. “What a star! Another Norma Talmadge, believe me. And what depth! Great depth!” He shook his head sadly. “Too bad, too bad. What a tragedy!”
Bingo waited hopefully for details. None came.
Leo Henkin shook the sorrow from his benevolent face, beamed at them again and said, “This property of yours. Is it musical?”
“Not exactly,” Bingo said. “No.” He drew a long breath. “In fact, it’s quite the reverse.”
They finally got away only by promising to keep in the closest of touch.
Out in the convertible, Bingo loosened his tie a little and said, “One thing, out here these big, important guys are certainly easy to see and talk to.”
“Sure,” Handsome said. He started the motor. “Account of, Bingo,” he added with serene confidence, “we’re big important guys ourselves, now.”
“Naturally,” Bingo said. He hadn’t exactly thought of that before, but of course it was true. “What he was saying—whatever did happen to April Robin, anyway?”
Handsome was silent and looked miserable.
“I forgot,” Bingo said quickly. “It was long before your time.”
“Maybe it’ll come to me.” Handsome paused. “Maybe she was the first person who got murdered in our house.”
nine
Arthur Schlee’s office turned out to be a mere block and a half away, in a modest but businesslike tan stucco building, with Schlee and Schlee on a chaste bronze name plate beside the door.
Handsome parked the convertible, sighed and said, “When I was eleven years old I spent almost all summer with my Aunt Sophie’s mother-in-law. She lived in a little town in New Jersey, just like this.”
Bingo stared at him. He, too, had been in New Jersey, and he could think of nothing remotely like Beverly Hills. Certainly he’d seen no tan stucco buildings.
“I mean,” Handsome said, “everything is right close to everything else, and everybody knows everybody else. It’s real nice, Bingo, like New Jersey.”
“In New Jersey,” Bingo said severely, “you don’t see Hollywood stars.”
“No,” Handsome said. He didn’t add that so far they hadn’t seen any here, either.
Arthur Schlee looked just a little like a character actor made up for the role of a successful lawyer. A fatherly, dignified and thoroughly respectable lawyer, one whose cousin was a judge. He greeted Bingo and Handsome cordially, but gravely.
“So you’re the young men who bought the April Robin house,” he said. “Glad to know friends of Leo Henkin’s.”
Bingo stopped himself on the verge of asking, “How did you know about it?” This was like that small town in New Jersey in more ways than one, he decided. Not only did everybody know everybody else, but knew every
thing about everybody else.
“And I understand you’re having a little trouble about some property,” he said. “Sit down and tell me about it.”
“Well,” Bingo said, “this is an extremely confidential matter. It mustn’t be mentioned to anybody. Not even to Mr. Henkin.” He’d almost said, “Especially Mr. Henkin.”
“My dear young man!” Arthur Schlee said. Just that, no more, but it was enough.
Bingo hoped he wasn’t blushing at even hinting that a respected member of the legal profession wouldn’t keep secrets.
“Just give me the details about this property,” the lawyer said. He pulled a pad of paper closer and picked up a pencil. “And how you acquired it. First, story, book, play—”
“No,” Bingo said. “I mean, neither. In fact, this hasn’t anything to do with our business at all. It’s a very personal matter. That’s why it’s confidential.”
Arthur Schlee laid down his pencil and said, “Woman trouble? In that case I’d better call in my brother. He specializes in—”
“No,” Bingo said. “No, no, no. It’s—”
Well, he reflected, if you have a lawyer, you’re supposed to trust him and tell him everything. He drew a long breath and told Arthur Schlee everything about the purchase of the April Robin mansion. Everything, that is, except the size of the dent the purchase had made in their capital.
“It isn’t the money involved,” he said at last. “It’s a minor loss.” He didn’t dare look at Handsome. “But we want to keep the house.”
“Of course you do,” the lawyer said. “Of course you do. Who wouldn’t want to keep that house? With its memories of April Robin.”
“You knew her?” Bingo said excitedly.
“I remember her,” Arthur Schlee said. He said it reverently.
There was a little silence.
“I,” Arthur Schlee said, “am a very busy man.” He leaned back in his mahogany chair, placed his fingertips together, and went into details about how busy he was, and with what important things, until Bingo began to feel apologetic for taking up even five minutes of that precious time.