Bingo brought himself back to this earth and this day with a jolting effort. “Look, pal,” he said. “If we’re going to be friends, let’s you answer me just one or two quick questions. Do you know anyone named Courtney Budlong?”
William Willis brought himself back to earth, too. He looked a little bewildered and said, “No.”
“Do you know a Mr. Chester Baxter? A Mr. Charlie Browne?”
William Willis had never heard of them, either.
“Clifford Bradbury?” Bingo asked.
William Willis shook his head and didn’t even bother to say no. Bingo realized he was running out of questions. Not only that, but he wasn’t getting any answers.
“Mr. Willis,” Bingo said deprecatingly, “I’m what you might call sort of a fan of wire acts, and I don’t remember any Lois Willis.”
William Willis looked at him wearily and said, “Her name wasn’t Willis. I thought I told you, she was my stepsister. Her name was Lois DeLee.”
There was a little silence, and then Handsome said, “Oh.” Then there was a longer silence.
Bingo had a gross of questions to ask now. The question was, which one to ask first. He was turning them over in his mind when the doorbell rang with a grimly authoritative sound.
It was Perroni and Hendenfelder. They looked as though they’d been awake all night, too.
Perroni flashed his hard and professional smile and said, “Well. You’re up and dressed early this morning.”
Bingo cast desperately around for an answer and finally said, “We got up at dawn to watch the sunrise.”
“You couldn’t have picked a better time for it,” Perroni said. He looked at William Willis and said, “What are you doing here?”
William Willis looked helpless. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it.
“We’re businessmen,” Bingo said indignantly. “Mr. Willis trains birds and rents out reptiles. We’re just talking over some future deals.” Why he should cover up for William Willis, he didn’t know, but it seemed to be the thing to do at the time.
Perroni looked as though he believed William Willis had been there on a business deal, and also that flying saucers landed on a regular schedule at Giant Rock, but he didn’t make an issue of it.
“We brought you a little news,” Hendenfelder said. “That’s why we’re here so early. About Chester Baxter.”
“He’s dead,” Perroni said, making it obvious that he didn’t like to waste time.
“Found in an alley in Ocean Park, with his throat cut,” Hendenfelder said.
“And,” Perroni added grimly, “where were you boys all last night, and can you prove it?”
Eighteen
Bingo didn’t answer. He sank down on the davenport and whispered, “The poor little guy!”
“Well!” Perroni said. “So he was a friend of yours?”
Bingo didn’t answer that, either. He was thinking of Chester Baxter, a con man and not a very successful one, but with great plans for his future. Maybe if he’d succeeded in his mission it would have brought him the stake he had obviously needed so badly. Enough to take him back to San Diego and the rich widow. Maybe everything would have turned out fine. Little Chester Baxter had left the house, not so long ago, with a gleam in his eye and high hopes in his heart. And then, in an alley in Ocean Park — Bingo felt his stomach tilt a little.
Little Chester Baxter had been a man of honor, in his profession and according to his lights, and someone had cut his throat.
Bingo didn’t want to talk to Perroni, he didn’t want to talk to anybody. He just wanted to get away by himself and think things over. To his relief, Perroni turned his morose gaze on William Willis.
“All right, Willie, what are you doing here? Looking for your sister? We’ll find her first.”
William Willis moistened his lips. “It’s like these gentlemen said. I came over here to talk picture business.”
“Birds,” Handsome said helpfully. “Birds and reptiles.”
Perroni ignored him and went on coldly, “You sure pick a funny time of day for a business visit.”
“I get up very early every day,” William Willis said, his voice a little shaky. “That’s the way I am.”
“Sure,” Hendenfelder said amiably. “That’s the way you are because that’s the way you are.”
William Willis smiled at him wanly. “It’s what you might call a — well, like a—”
“Just a personal foible,” Hendenfelder said. “We know. This is Hollywood. Everybody’s got their little foibles.”
Perroni looked as though he wished Hendenfelder had smothered in his cradle, and said, “We’ll skip that. We can check why you’re here. Tell me, Willie—”
“Just because my sister was involved in a murder,” William Willis said, with sudden and incredible dignity, “just because she is suspected of a murder of which she is entirely innocent, there is no reason to call me Willie.” He lifted his chin another half inch and said, “My name is William Willis.” Even Perroni was put back on his heels for a moment or so.
“All right, Mister Willis,” the sad-eyed detective said icily, “did you know Chester Baxter?”
“I never heard of a Chester Baxter.” The look on his face dared Perroni, the whole police department, or anyone in the wide world to prove otherwise.
“And if I may be so rude as to ask,” Perroni said, “where were you last night and what were you doing?”
William Willis’ stare returned icicle for icicle. “I was in Bakersfield until one o’clock,” he said. “With my birds. Doing a benefit performance for a homeless dog shelter.”
Perroni nodded to Hendenfelder. “Check,” he said. Hendenfelder went into the kitchen to telephone.
Bingo reached for a cigarette. His hands were trembling, but only a little. He wanted to tell somebody about everything. About the deal with Chester Baxter. About Lois Lattimer’s name being DeLee. About Courtney Budlong having murdered Pearl Durzy. But he didn’t want to tell Perroni. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to tell Hendenfelder. He wished he were back in New York, twenty blocks from home, without carfare, and in the middle of a blizzard.
Perroni turned his unhappy gaze on Bingo and said, “And Mister Willis came here, at this early hour, to talk about the picture business?”
Bingo looked him straight in the eye and said, “You don’t think I’d lie to the police, do you?”
“Yes,” Perroni said, and settled that question once and for all.
“Handsome,” Bingo said, in a voice he hoped sounded bored, “call up our lawyer, Mr. Arthur Schlee. Tell him there’s a couple of cops bothering us, for nothing. Tell him if it’s out of his line, to get” — he searched his memory fast — “Jerry Giesler!”
Perroni held up a hand and said, “Any time you are going to need a lawyer, I’ll let you know. Right now, this is only a routine investigation. Me, I don’t care about this Chester Baxter character being murdered.”
“I do,” Bingo said, before he could catch himself.
Hendenfelder had come back from telephoning, and stood in the doorway, listening.
“And just what was this Chester Baxter character to you?” Perroni demanded.
“Nothing,” Bingo said miserably. Chester Baxter had been a crook, a con man, one who picked on wealthy and gullible widows. He thought of the ugly smile he’d seen on Chester Baxter’s mouth at the thought of catching up with the man who called himself Courtney Budlong. But he said, “It’s just that, well, nobody wants to be murdered.” There wasn’t anything else to say.