The Sunday Pigeon Murders Page 13

  “That would be very unethical,” Mr. Hardstone said sternly.

  Bingo apologized again and said, “Well, I guess that’s all. Now if you’ll just let us take a couple of pictures—”

  Mr. Hardstone smilingly agreed. He interrupted the proceeding long enough to brush his beautiful hair and adjust his eyeglasses. Handsome posed his subject and fiddled with his flash bulbs with all the exquisite care he’d have used if there had actually been film in the borrowed camera.

  Then Bingo thanked Mr. Hardstone effusively, and finally said, “That Mr. Pigeon business sure interests me. Imagine anybody being insured for that much dough.” Maybe Mr. Hardstone would inadvertently let slip the name Bingo wanted to know.

  “Not unusual,” Mr. Hardstone said. “Business partners frequently insure each other for large sums—to avoid a loss to the business if one or the other should die. In this case, both Mr. Pigeon and Mr. Penneyth took out policies of equal amounts and named each other as beneficiaries.”

  “Oh,” Bingo said. He thought a moment, and added, “Then if Mr. Pigeon should turn up, and Mr. Penneyth should die, Mr. Pigeon would get a half-million bucks.”

  “Quite right,” Mr. Hardstone said. He smiled coldly. “However, it’s my opinion that Mr. Pigeon has been dead for these seven years. He must have met with some kind of unfortunate accident, and his body never found.”

  Bingo refrained from telling him that Mr. Pigeon had been in the best of health when he’d last seen him that morning. He stuck his notes into his pocket and said good-by.

  As they left the office, Mr. Hardstone was picking up the phone on his desk and buzzing his secretary.

  In the reception room, the blonde secretary was saying into her phone, “Yes, Mr. Hardstone, I’ll call immediately,” and scribbling something on her desk pad. “Yes, sir, William’s here. I’ll tell him right away.”

  Bingo walked close enough to the desk to see what she’d scribbled. It was Times. He stiffened, gave Handsome a nudge, and hustled him out the door just as the secretary signaled something to the pasty-faced, red-haired office boy who’d been sitting on a bench, reading a Western story magazine.

  “We gotta get out of the building fast,” Bingo said, pushing the elevator button, “before that dame calls up the Times and finds out we don’t work there.”

  Handsome said, “What the hell?”

  The elevator stopped just as Bingo said, “Ssh.” It was crowded, and neither of them said a word until they got out in the downstairs lobby.

  “Something we said must have made him suspicious,” Bingo said, frowning, trying to think what it could have been. “I guess it was our asking all those questions.”

  “Maybe it was our asking who’d get the dough if Mr. Penneyth was dead,” Handsome said. “That would make him suspicious, if he already knew Mr. Penneyth was dead.”

  Bingo stopped so suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk that a large lady with her arms full of bundles nearly knocked him down. He stared at Handsome.

  “That could be it,” he said slowly. “Sure, that could be. And if he knows that Mr. Penneyth’s dead, then maybe he knows how he happens to be dead.”

  “Want to go back and ask him?” Handsome said.

  “I do not.” He started on up Fifth Avenue, Handsome beside him, his thin face twisted into a deep frown.

  “I gotta take this stuff back,” Handsome reminded him. “Joe’s waiting for it in a bar up on Forty-ninth Street.”

  “O.K.,” Bingo said, absent-mindedly. Before they reached Forty-ninth Street, they passed a window full of brilliantly colored neckties, and instinctively Bingo slowed down and glanced in. Then suddenly he grabbed Handsome by the elbow and started up the street again.

  To Handsome’s questions he said nothing but, “Come on” and “Shut up.” Without explanation, he led the way around three sides of a block and in and out of several buildings, alternately speeding up and slowing down, occasionally glancing in windows as they went by. Then, still without explanation, he dived into the fabulous underground maze below Radio City and dragged the still protesting Handsome on a hurried and apparently senseless course through its corridors, finally emerging from the subway stairs on the west side of Sixth Avenue and starting down Forty-ninth Street, fast.

  “Listen,” Handsome said, “I told you, I gotta take this stuff back to Joe.”

  Bingo said, “That’s where we’re going.” He took a bright-blue handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow. “Mr. Hardstone sure must have been suspicious of us.”

  Handsome looked puzzled. “Why?”

  “He sent his office boy out to follow us,” Bingo explained. “That red-haired kid who was in the reception room. I spotted him in the window back there on Fifth Avenue, and when he followed us around the block and waited for us outside of buildings, I knew what he was up to. But we lost him all right.” He mopped his brow again and said, “You could lose a pack of bloodhounds down there.”

  “Imagine,” Handsome said, “an important guy like Mr. Hardstone doing a thing like that.” He sounded a little shocked.

  “He must know that Mr. Penneyth’s dead,” Bingo said. He was silent for a moment and then said suddenly, “With Mr. Penneyth dead, and Mr. Pigeon still alive, now Mr. Pigeon will collect a half-million bucks from the insurance company.”

  Both he and Handsome stopped walking and stared at each other for a moment.

  “No,” Handsome said firmly. “Nothing like that. Not Mr. Pigeon.”

  “Of course, it wasn’t Mr. Pigeon,” Bingo said. “Even for a half-million bucks.” He frowned. “Nobody knows Mr. Pigeon is still alive, except us. So he won’t turn up till after Sunday, and somebody’ll collect on one of those policies. Then he does turn up, and he collects on the other policy. This is beginning to get very complicated.”

  “It always was,” Handsome said gloomily. “Maybe Mr. Hardstone murdered Mr. Penneyth.”

  Bingo shook his head and said, “Why should he? No, it must be whoever will get the dough now that Mr. Penneyth is dead. That’s the only reason for killing him.”

  “O.K.,” Handsome said, “if you say so.”

  “We’ve got to get a look at that will,” Bingo said. “But I haven’t figured out just how, yet.”

  Handsome blinked, and said, “That’s easy. We know right where it is.”

  “Sure,” Bingo said scornfully. “In the safe in Mr. Hardstone’s office.”

  “That’s right,” Handsome said, nodding. “And, Bingo, I was just thinking. I know a guy—a very good friend of mine—who’s a retired burglar—”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The retired burglar, Louie by name, who now ran a small cleaning-and-pressing establishment in Canarsie, said he’d be delighted to oblige a pal. He met Bingo and Handsome in the bar on Forty-ninth Street and insisted on paying for the beers.

  Back in ’35, he said, Handsome had done him an unforgettable favor. He’d torn up a picture taken of Louie entering a courtroom, with the result that there was none of the usual embarrassment of having his face recognized in print by his high-class friends. He, Louie, had never stopped being grateful. Especially since the favor had enabled him to marry the daughter of the man who originally owned the cleaning-and-pressing establishment and keep up the fiction that he had been a traveling salesman in the lingerie line.

  Besides, Louie added, with an anticipatory gleam in his eye, it did a man good to keep his hand in. You never knew what was going to turn up these days.

  He was a small man, but stocky, with broad shoulders and long, powerful arms. He had a round, red face with a cheerful grin and a snub nose; and mud-colored hair that was cut short and stood up all over his head. Bingo looked at his clothes rather critically; a purplish-blue suit with a light-blue pin stripe, a pinkish shirt with a Hollywood sport collar, and a green tie. No taste, Bingo decided, and no feeling for color. Not that that should be anything against the man, he reminded himself.

  “In case you don’t think I’m any
good,” Louie said to Bingo, possibly sensing the critical eye, “just let me tell you I never had even one conviction, and I always got whatever I went after.”

  Bingo said hastily, “Handsome’s recommendation is good enough for me, and believe me, pal, I’m grateful to you for helping us out.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Louie said magnificently. “Any time at all.”

  They met, shortly after ten, at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-seventh Street, a block from the small but ornate building that housed Rufus Hardstone’s office. Luckily it was Baby’s night off, and she was left with Mr. Pigeon. She’d brought up a small armful of personal laundry to do in the kitchen, and her cribbage board.

  Bingo felt a mounting excitement that he tried (successfully, he hoped) to conceal. There seemed to be so many things that could go wrong in what he hoped would be a simple little burglary. Not even what he considered an illegal burglary, either. They weren’t going to steal anything. They were just going to borrow Mr. Penneyth’s will long enough to get a good look at it and then return it, undamaged. Still, it involved a certain amount of risk.

  If he himself, or even Handsome, had been taking the risk, it would be different. But it seemed slightly unfair to expect it of Louie, who was, after all, a pal—anyway, Handsome’s pal. Bingo’s conscience began to bother him just a trifle, as they waited on the corner. Uncle Herman would have advised him to do the job himself.

  But when Louie arrived, only two minutes late, he seemed satisfied with the situation, and even a trifle pleased, as though he were looking forward to proving his skill.

  “I told my old lady I was going to a lodge meeting,” he announced happily.

  Bingo explained carefully what he was to bring back. He offered, in fact, to go along and help pick it out, but Louie shook his head. An amateur going along with him would be a handicap, not a help. If anything happened, he, Louie, would know just what to do, but Bingo wouldn’t.

  He listened carefully, nodding as he listened. “I opened lawyers’ safes more’n once in my life,” he said confidently. “He’ll have all the wills in one compartment. All I gotta do is go through them and pick out this one and then bring it to you. And when you’re through looking at it I’ll take it back, so’s nobody’ll be able to tell anybody was even sniffing around the place.”

  “That’s all,” Bingo said. “It doesn’t sound easy to me.”

  Louie looked indignant and said, “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  They arranged to meet at the Plaza of Rockefeller Center. Bingo and Handsome could examine the will right there, find the name of Mr. Penneyth’s heir, and give the will to Louie to put back.

  The three of them walked up Fifth Avenue to the office building. There they paused, across the street.

  “Getting into the office is no trick at all,” Louie said, “not with the keys I got. But sometimes getting into the building is the hard part.”

  He peered across the street. In the lobby the night elevator man was sitting on a high stool beside the elevators, reading a magazine. There was a big ledger on a table by his side.

  “The best way to get in,” Louie said, “is to walk right in and let the elevator man take me up.” He paused and looked speculatively at the building, counting the floors. Lights were on across the front of the building, on the seventh floor. “I don’t suppose you noticed how the numbers run.”

  “Sure,” Handsome said. “Mr. Hardstone’s office is at the front of the building. It’s numbers 904, 906, and 908.”

  “Swell,” Louie said. “All I gotta do is tell the elevator man I’m Mr. So-and-so, and I’m going to office number 708. There’s a light on there, which means there’s somebody in the office, since it’s too late for the cleaning women, so he’ll figure I know what I’m talking about. Then I just walk up two flights, and that’s all there is to it. When I come down again, I tell the elevator man good night and walk right out.” He grinned all over his face. “See how easy it is?”

  “Nothing to it,” Bingo said admiringly.

  “Penneyth,” Louie repeated, murmuring it, “Penneyth. Have I got it right? O.K. See you guys later.”

  Bingo stood watching as he crossed the street and walked into the building with serene self-confidence. He watched while there was a moment’s conversation with the night elevator man and while Louie signed something in the big ledger; then both men got into the elevator and disappeared.

  “Come on,” Handsome said.

  Bingo shook his head. “Wait a minute. Nobody’ll notice us standing here.”

  A few minutes passed. The elevator man reappeared, got back on his high stool, picked up his magazine, and went on reading. Then more minutes passed—to Bingo, long, slow minutes. And then a light appeared on the ninth floor, a very faint, dim light that moved about for a moment and then vanished.

  “O.K.,” Bingo said. “Let’s go.”

  They walked—strolled, rather—up Fifth Avenue to the Plaza. There were a few people wandering about there, but not many. Miraculously, there seemed to be what was almost a cool breeze, coming from goodness knows where.

  Bingo led the way to the sunken Plaza and leaned his elbows on the surrounding wall, gazing down at the fountain. It reminded him, somehow, of the way the water used to spurt out from the fire hydrants the kids knocked open around Uncle Herman’s grocery, back in Brooklyn, in hot weather like this.

  By this time, Louie probably had the safe open and was going through its contents. In a few minutes, Louie would be on his way to him. In a few more minutes, he, Bingo, would take Harkness Penneyth’s will into some secluded place, open it up, and read it. The rest was going to be easy.

  There would be a name in the will. It might be John Smith, or Mary Brown, or Tom Jones. But all that he, Bingo, would have to do would be to contact the bearer of that name and say, “Look, pal. If Mr. Sunday Pigeon turns up before next Sunday, you’re out a half-million bucks. Well, me, I’ve got Mr. Sunday Pigeon under lock and key, and if I want to produce him, I can produce him, and then where are you? But if you’ll just invest half that dough in the International Foto, Motion Picture, and Television Corporation of America—and I guarantee you’ll get it back, doubled, inside of—”

  It was going to be as easy as that.

  Then he’d wait until Sunday was over, and until this unknown party had collected his dough from the insurance company. And then—

  It was really going to be something, walking into a bank and laying down a check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and saying to the wooden-faced bird behind the grillwork, “I want to make a deposit, buddy.” Or maybe he’d get the dough in cash. But, anyway, he’d take it to the bank, and open an account for the International Foto, Motion Picture, and Television Corporation of America. More, he’d cut Louie in as one of the partners. Where would they be, he and Handsome, if it weren’t for Louie?

  And then what?

  Harkness Penneyth’s body was tucked neatly into his own refrigerator, his knees bent up under the ice-cube trays. Something had to be done about that. Well, after this party he’d contact tomorrow kicked in with half of the swag, then he’d phone the police and let them know about the body.

  But then the police would arrest the party who’d gotten the dough from the insurance company, and that seemed like a very repulsive trick to play on somebody who’d just invested two hundred and fifty thousand bucks in the International Foto, Motion Picture, and Television Corporation of America.

  Or maybe it would be better to take the body out and hide it somewhere, so it would never be found.

  But in that case, how would this unknown party be able to collect and split with him and Handsome? This brand-new complication almost made Bingo’s head ache.

  Obviously, the body had to be found first, so that the insurance company would be able to make the payment to the party who was going to make the split.

  And if that happened, suppose the police put this party in jail, before he or she could col
lect the dough and turn over half of it?

  Then, there was Mr. Pigeon. What was going to be done about him afterwards? He too would collect a half-million bucks from the insurance company, as soon as it was known that Mr. Penneyth was dead. And Bingo was the last man in the world who wanted to see him done out of it. But what was going to happen, after the insurance company paid off on Mr. Pigeon, and then Mr. Pigeon turned up alive and well and demanded that the insurance company should pay off on Mr. Penneyth?

  And who had thrown a knife into Art Frank’s back, and how was Marty Bucholtz mixed up with it, and June Logan, and who had the letter he, Bingo, had sent to Mr. Penneyth, and how could that letter be found and gotten back, and what had been the idea of planting Art Frank’s body at Marty Bucholtz’s door, and who was the blonde babe, anyway?

  Handsome said uneasily, “I’d sure feel better if I knew where Mr. Pigeon has been all this time.”

  “You worry too much,” Bingo said sharply and a little unfairly.

  He stood gazing gloomily at the fountain, trying not to think, for what seemed to be a very long time. Then there were hurried footsteps on the pavement behind him, he turned around fast, and there was Louie.

  “Where is it?” Bingo said, almost hoarsely.

  Louie shook his head and stood silent for a moment, catching his breath. Finally he said, “Is somebody else, besides you, interested in this here will?”

  “There could be,” Bingo said. “What happened?”

  “The somebody else got there first,” Louie said, still panting. He took off his straw hat and fanned himself. “The place was all messed up. No real professional would leave a place looking like that. Papers and stuff all over the place. I had to go through all of ’em, that’s what took me so long. A whole bunch of wills, spread out on the desk, but none of ’em made by your Mr. Penneyth. So evidently that’s what the guy who got there ahead of me was there after.”

  “Oh,” Bingo said.

  “Besides which,” Louie went on, “there was a dead guy. Not in the office where the safe was; in the fancy, private office. Sprawled over the desk, with his back to the door, like he’d been standing there and somebody had opened the door quick and stabbed him, or maybe threw a knife.” He rubbed the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.