The Sunday Pigeon Murders Read online

Rinaldo said, “Bingo, I kept him until you returned again, but may I kill him now?”

  “No, no, no,” Bingo said. “That would be even worse manners.” He nudged the man on the floor and said, “Get up, you. I suppose Steve Stone sent you.”

  The man got up, slowly and a little painfully. There was a set of scratches on his cheek; Bingo suspected that they came from Baby’s fingernails. He nodded, and finally mumbled, “Yeah.”

  “O.K.,” Bingo said. “We’ll send you right back to Steve Stone. Now get this straight. He’s got something we want, and we’ve got something he wants, and maybe we can talk business.” He paused. He hadn’t really thought of doing it before, but now he knew that he had to. There was something about June Logan’s description of the soundproof office that unnerved him a little.

  “Tell him,” Bingo said, “we’ll be there tonight at nine o’clock and offer him a deal. And tell him not to bother us in the meantime, or he’ll be sorry. What’s more, you can tell him what Rinaldo here will do to the next guy he sends up.”

  Rinaldo joyously added a few details. But before he was half through them, the man had fled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “But how did they find out where we were?” Handsome demanded.

  “Easy,” Bingo said patiently. There was a touch of bitterness in his voice. “They made June Logan tell. Then they sent her to get us away for a while, with that phony warning stuff of hers, so they could carry away Mr. Pigeon.”

  Handsome said, “I thought she really meant it.”

  “The funny thing is,” Bingo said, “that she did. Maybe that’s how they made the deal with her. Maybe they planned first to get us out of the way like they did Marty Bucholtz. And she didn’t like that. So they told her, O.K., if you feel like that about it, you keep those boys out from under foot long enough for us to grab off Mr. Pigeon, and we’ll leave ’em be. Maybe that’s the way it was.”

  “But why should she care?” Handsome said. “About our getting bumped off, I mean.”

  “Just our pleasing personality,” Bingo said. “Or perhaps she wants to cut down the homicide rate. Why should we worry what her reason is?”

  “Well,” Handsome said, wrinkling his brow, “maybe we ought to know whether she was telling us the truth or not, before we go see this Mr. Steve Stone.”

  Bingo stared at him a minute and then said, “Of course she was telling us the truth. She must have been.”

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

  “Don’t worry,” Bingo told him. “Everything is going to be all right.”

  Then Rinaldo called to them that dinner was on the table.

  It still worried Bingo that Mr. Pigeon did the cooking. It seemed to him that if you kidnaped a person, you had a certain responsibility toward him, and the least you could do was cook his meals for him. On the other hand, neither he nor Handsome knew how to cook, and Mr. Pigeon did.

  This afternoon, for instance, Mr. Pigeon had sent Handsome out for thirty cents’ worth of thinly sliced salt pork, a can of hominy, a quart of milk, one egg, and a bunch of turnip greens. The result left Bingo speechless and moved Rinaldo to compose a poem.

  Tomorrow, Mr. Pigeon said happily, he was going to teach Baby how to make beaten biscuits.

  Baby herself dropped in just as they were sitting down. She was working tonight from seven till ten, then she’d be home to share with Rinaldo the task of guarding Mr. Pigeon. There was a new white lace collar on the cute little black dress, and she had a new hair-do, sleek and smooth and demure and just a bit wicked. She looked very tempting and, Bingo noted indignantly, she knew Rinaldo appreciated it.

  Before she left, she drew Bingo out in the hall for a whispered conference.

  “I heard what you said this afternoon,” she said. “Bingo, keep away from the Swan Club. Forget about going there tonight.” There was a worried note in her voice.

  “Why?” Bingo said. There was a pleasantly warm feeling at the realization that she was worrying about him. Only, he reminded himself, it was Handsome she was worrying about, really.

  “I don’t think it’s safe,” she said. There was a funny little frown in the middle of her forehead. “Not if Mr. Stone has gangsters working for him. And there’s all sorts of things go on there, Bingo.”

  “Like what?” Bingo asked indulgently.

  “Well,” she said, still frowning, “there’s gambling upstairs. And there’s another floor above that I think belongs to the Swan Club. I don’t know much about it because none of the regular help is ever allowed to go up there. And when people come there more than twice, we manage to get their names, and then somebody looks them up and finds out all about how much money they have, and about their wives and girl friends and everything.”

  “And if they don’t have much money,” Bingo said, “but know the right people, they’re welcome anyway. Because if they lose a lot and can’t pay up, then they have to go to work and shill for the joint.”

  “Oh,” Baby said. “You’ve been there, then.”

  “Never in my life,” Bingo told her. “But I’ve been a few other places, and the system is the same everywhere, big or little.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You oughtn’t to be working in a place like that,” he told her gently.

  “You don’t think I work there because I like the atmosphere, do you?” Baby demanded. “I couldn’t get that much dough working anywhere else for the same hours. And Ma isn’t young or well enough to run this place by herself, and besides,” she grinned, “she’s being courted again. I’m probably going to have another step-pa, and he’ll probably toss me out, and then I’ll be on my own.”

  Bingo said, “And then what?”

  “Maybe I’ll get a raise at the Swan Club,” Baby said pertly, “or maybe I’ll just wait until you come across with those furs and emeralds. I gotta go now,” she said. “G’by.”

  Bingo stood watching her as she bounced down the stairs. It would be wonderful to pick Baby up, he thought, just scoop her right up off the floor, and hug her tightly. Not like you’d hug a girl, really, but like you’d hug some cute, plump little kid, or pet a small, furry kitten.

  Just thinking about her and watching her go down the stairs made him feel warm and comfortable and important, somehow.

  Handsome sure had himself a wonderful girl, all right. Bingo sighed and went back to his dinner.

  At quarter of eight he changed into the tan gabardine suit and put on the almond-green shirt and the bright print necktie. It was, he told himself, good enough for the Swan Club. If there had been more than a dollar seventy-eight in his pocket (counting the three quarters that had come in the afternoon mail), he’d have rented a tux.

  Hell, next time he went to the Swan Club, he’d own a tux. One of those fancy dark-maroon ones, with the trick lapels.

  With a little difficulty, he talked Handsome into changing his clothes. It was just another night club, Handsome complained, he’d taken pictures inside a hundred of ’em. He changed, though; just the same.

  At eight-thirty they took the subway to within two blocks of the Swan Club. A block away Bingo hailed a taxi, pushed Handsome in ahead of him, and told the driver, “Swan Club.”

  “It’s right down the street,” the driver said, surprised.

  “We want to ride right down the street,” Bingo said. “G’wan, don’t ask questions.”

  The meter read 25c. Bingo paid it and waited for the doorman to open the taxicab door for him.

  “We couldn’t come up here on foot, like a couple of newsboys,” he told Handsome on the way across the sidewalk.

  The foyer of the Swan Club was very refined, Bingo thought. Almost too refined. Personally, he’d have preferred some snappy pictures on the walls, instead of that pale-gray stuff, and some elegant-looking colored lamps, instead of the concealed lighting. But, he reminded himself, the boss of the Swan Club probably knew what he was doing.

  And there was Baby in the checkroom. She looked very cute and smart
and beautiful and altogether swell. Bingo understood now about that black dress with the little white lace collar. It gave her just the right touch of angel. She winked at him as he went by, the rest of her face perfectly straight, and said, “Check your hat, sir?”

  Bingo tossed her his snap-brim imitation Panama with the roman-striped headband and said, “Don’t lose it.”

  Handsome nudged him and whispered, “Hey, Bingo. That was Baby.”

  “Who did you expect it to be?” Bingo whispered back. “Mother Hubbard?”

  The headwaiter met them and said, “Two?”

  “No,” Bingo said, “we have an appointment with Mr. Stone.” Someday, he resolved, he’d come in here and snub the headwaiter, and say, “Yes, two. Ringside.” He looked very important and said, “Mr. Riggs,” as though the headwaiter should have recognized him at sight.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Riggs,” the headwaiter said. “Mr. Stone is expecting you.” He dodged away to a wall telephone and talked into it for a minute or so. Then he came back and said, “Mr. Stone is engaged for a few minutes, Mr. Riggs. He wonders if you wouldn’t like to watch the floor show while you wait.”

  “Might as well,” Bingo said, sounding bored. He nodded to Handsome to come along and followed the headwaiter to a small table next to the dance floor.

  The Swan Club, though small, was a very elegant layout, Bingo thought, but the ventilation was terrible. The smoke in the air looked like something you could cut with a knife. The tables were tiny and jammed close together, and the chairs were uncomfortable.

  A comedian was doing his stuff on the floor, but only about half the customers were watching him. The rest were talking to each other. Bingo glanced at the comedian, decided he’d seen better, and began looking around the room.

  So these were the people who could afford to come to the Swan Club, Bingo thought. He was a little disappointed in them. None of the dames were good-looking, and none of the guys were what he’d call well dressed.

  A waiter came up to the table and murmured, “Mr. Stone sent me to ask what you’ll have to drink, Mr. Riggs.”

  Bingo ordered a Scotch and soda, frowned at Handsome for ordering gin with a small beer chaser, and then wished he had Handsome’s courage.

  The place was crowded, the air was bad, the comedian was dull, and the Scotch and soda tasted watery, but Bingo felt happy. Here he was in the Swan Club, beloved of columnists, famous from coast to coast. He was sitting at one of the best tables in the Swan Club, looking as though he came here every night of his life. And he was a guest of the management, with the waiter fussing over him.

  Handsome yawned, and said, “I hope this Stone guy doesn’t keep us waiting around here very long.”

  Bingo looked at him, started to speak, and then changed his mind. After all, it wasn’t Handsome’s fault that he couldn’t appreciate the finer things in life.

  The comedian had finished, and his place been taken by a thin, yellow-haired dame with a better than average voice, when the headwaiter tiptoed up to their table and said, “Mr. Stone will see you now.”

  There was an elevator to the second floor, and they had to pass the gambling rooms on the way to Steve Stone’s office. Bingo caught a glimpse of a big, smoke-filled room, heard a faint murmur of voices and a few shrill feminine laughs. Then another guy, a big bruiser, took over from the headwaiter, opened a door into a small vestibule, took out a key and unlocked and opened another door, and ushered them into Steve Stone’s office.

  After all that, Bingo had expected something really magnificent. Instead, he saw a plain, rather small room, with very ordinary office furniture. Not even a picture on the walls. Just an office. But, he reminded himself, an office that had soundproof walls, a peephole from the next room where an armed guard sat watching every move, and a rear exit to an areaway where a car always waited.

  Steve Stone was a smallish, ordinary tired-looking man with thin brown hair, narrow lips, and gold-rimmed glasses. He looked like an auditor, or a C.P.A. or a teller in a branch bank. He had on a slightly worn brown business suit, a white shirt, and a dark-red wash tie.

  “How do you do,” he said. “Good of you to come in.”

  “Good of you to invite us,” Bingo said, sitting down.

  Handsome sat down and said, “Thanks for the drink.”

  For a moment they sat inspecting each other. Then Steve Stone said, “How did you manage to find Mr. Pigeon?”

  “He flew in the window,” Bingo said. “Listen. I didn’t come up here to tell secrets. How did you manage to get our letter, and is it here?” He hoped he didn’t show that he was scared.

  Steve Stone’s lips curved a little. “I didn’t ask you here to tell you secrets, either. But I have got your letter.”

  “That’s fine,” Bingo said, “and we’ve got Mr. Pigeon.”

  “How much do you want?” Steve Stone asked.

  “The letter,” Bingo said, “and a cut of the dough.” It would be enough to get the letter, he thought. He’d deal with Leonora Penneyth as far as money was concerned. But he couldn’t let Steve Stone think he’d be satisfied with the letter, or he’d get suspicious. “All you want,” he said, “is for Mr. Pigeon to be kept under cover until the insurance company comes through. We’ll be able to do that for,” he looked very businesslike, “a reasonable consideration.”

  “I’ll give you the letter and a thousand dollars,” Steve Stone said.

  “I was thinking of half the total,” Bingo said. He smiled pleasantly at Steve Stone and went on, “Remember, if it weren’t for us, there wouldn’t be any total to divide. If we hadn’t found Mr. Pigeon and—made arrangements for him, the insurance company would have known he was alive and kicking long before this.”

  “I doubt it,” Steve Stone said. His thin lips moved away from his teeth in what might have been a smile, but wasn’t. “You must realize that I was prepared for the eventuality that he might return before the seven years were up.” He drew a square and then a circle on one of the desk pads, and said, “The letter and two thousand dollars.”

  Bingo pretended he hadn’t heard. “You knew Mr. Pigeon was alive before you read our letter?”

  “Naturally,” Steve Stone said. “It would have been most unwise for Harkness Penneyth to try and make me believe otherwise.”

  “Did Mr. Penneyth know all this time that Mr. Pigeon was alive?” Bingo said casually. “Not that it’s at all important.”

  “Of course he knew,” Steve Stone said. “Why would he have made a deal with me, if he hadn’t been afraid Mr. Pigeon would return at the last minute? He knew I could—take care of things, if Mr. Pigeon did return.”

  “Maybe he made his deal with the wrong guy,” Bingo said. He wondered if Mr. Penneyth had also known where Mr. Pigeon had gone, and why. He drew a long breath and said, “I’m still thinking of half the total, pal.”

  Stone said, “You must realize that Mr. Penneyth’s debt to us represents a considerable investment on our part. And there have been”—again his lips curved, very slightly—“other expenses. As it is, there can hardly be more than a small profit.”

  “And you have other splits to make,” Bingo said bluntly.

  “Frankly, yes,” Steve Stone said.

  Bingo shrugged his shoulders. After all, the letter was all he really wanted. “O.K.,” he said. “Suppose we say, half of whatever you’re left with.”

  “A quarter,” Steve Stone said. “Remember, if that letter of yours got into the wrong hands, you’d be in rather serious difficulties.”

  “Remember too,” Bingo said, “if the insurance company found out about Mr. Pigeon, there wouldn’t be any five hundred grand for anybody.”

  This time Mr. Stone’s smile was definitely unpleasant. “A lot of things could happen to you before you get home tonight.”

  “That’s right,” Bingo said. “But there’s a number of individuals who know about Mr. Pigeon, and the same things couldn’t happen to all of them. And any one of those persons could tip off t
he insurance company if anything happened to us.”

  “You do seem to be very nicely set, don’t you?” Steve Stone said. He stared at Bingo for a minute and then said, “Very well, I’ll give you half of whatever I get.”

  He didn’t mean it. Bingo knew he didn’t mean it, but that was O.K., too. “Now you’re talking,” he said. “We’ll keep Mr. Pigeon out of sight. And now, if you’ll give me our letter, we’ll go on home.”

  “After the insurance payment is made,” Steve Stone said coldly.

  Bingo shook his head and said, “Right now. Or no deal.”

  “How do I know you’ll keep Mr. Pigeon under cover?” Stone said.

  “How do I know you’ll split your share of the dough with us?” Bingo said. He rose and said, “Come on, pal, let’s have the letter.”

  “Oh, all right,” Steve Stone said. All of a sudden he seemed surprisingly amiable. He yanked open a desk drawer, took out the letter, and handed it to Bingo. “Here you are.”

  “Thanks,” Bingo said. He glanced at the letter to make sure it was the one, stuffed it with an air of carelessness into his pocket, and said, “You don’t need to worry about Mr. Pigeon, pal.”

  “You might as well know,” Stone said, “I intended to give it to you all the time. All that letter meant to me was finding out where Mr. Pigeon was and making sure he’d be kept out of sight.” He looked from Bingo to Handsome and back again. “You’re a couple of bright boys. Why should you bother to work on your own? You might do much better working for me.”

  “Thanks again,” Bingo said, “but we don’t need to work for anybody. We own a big company, the International Foto, Motion Picture, and Television Corporation of America, and any time you’re hunting for a job, look us up.”

  Bingo started to light a cigarette, and Steve Stone said, “Would you mind not smoking in here please? Thanks. I have asthma.” He lifted his head, and went on, “Other people are interested in Mr. Pigeon, too. Do you want me to lend you a couple of people to help guard him?”

  Bingo tried not to grin, but he couldn’t help it. “I guess we can guard him pretty well ourselves.”