“Not childish at all,” Courtney Budlong said sympathetically. “I once bought a Packard just because it had belonged to Theda Bara. Almost twenty years old when I bought it, and it was the best car I ever owned.”
Not only a cordial friend, Bingo thought, but a kindred spirit.
“Now around this next bend—” Courtney Budlong said. “Say, turn right here on Baroda. I want you to see Gary Cooper’s new house. Magnificent, isn’t it? And look ahead at that view! Talk about available building lots!”
“Very pretty,” Bingo said noncommittally. He wanted to see movie stars’ homes.
“Take a left here,” their volunteer guide said.
A few minutes later he said, “Straight ahead now, across Sunset.”
Sculptured lawns, clipped hedges and definitely palatial houses began to flow together in Bingo’s mind.
“Pelargoniums,” Courtney Budlong said, pointing to an expanse of pale but probably expensive flowers.
“Nice,” Bingo said. He hadn’t come all the way from New York to admire flowers.
“And there, across Sunset, right where we’re heading, is Lana Turner’s house. Right beyond—”
Now names began to flow through Bingo’s mind, replacing the verdure and the architecture. Lana Turner. Lauren Bacall. Judy Garland.
“But just look at the space around these houses,” Courtney Budlong said. “You won’t see anything like that in New York. Why, back East, to have even a little hint of a garden runs into a fortune of money! Here,” he said, almost reverently, “here, people have estates!”
“That’s the sort of place we’re going to want,” Bingo said, half without thinking.
Before he could add “someday,” their new friend had patted him on the shoulder and said, “There’s a house you ought to see. Not only outside, but inside.”
Bingo drew a long breath. “That, I’d like,” he said. He’d seen mansions, he’d seen landscaped gardens, he knew now where Lana Turner, and Judy Garland, and a dozen others lived. But to see the inside of such a house—
“Could it be arranged?” he asked, almost timidly.
“Arranged!” Courtney Budlong said. “Easiest thing in the world. The house is empty, and I have the keys to it right in my pocket.” He leaned toward Handsome. “Turn left at the second street up.”
Bingo half closed his eyes. If it was anything like Lana Turner’s house, or Gary Cooper’s, or any of the others he’d seen, this alone was going to be worth the trip from New York.
“There’s quite a story to this house,” Courtney Budlong said confidentially. “It has no business being empty. You’ll be able to guess, looking at it, what it cost to build. Why, what the ground it stands on is worth! If I told you what a mere building lot is worth, in this neighborhood, you wouldn’t believe me!”
“I suppose it’s for sale,” Bingo said.
“It is,” Courtney Budlong said, “and that’s why I happen to have the keys to it. I don’t even dare tell you how little the price is, because you wouldn’t believe that either. If I had time to handle it properly on the market, I could get ten times what’s being asked. If I only had ten days or so, I could get five times what’s being asked.” He sighed deeply. “But that’s the way things go in this world. It’s a forced sale. Somebody is going to get the bargain of a lifetime!”
Bingo opened his mouth to say that they weren’t in the position, right now, to consider buying a chicken coop. But the chance of seeing the inside of one of the houses he’d been looking at was a little too good to miss. He said modestly, “It wouldn’t do any harm to look—”
“Turn in right here,” Courtney Budlong said.
Handsome turned obediently through the gateway and into a U-shaped driveway, slightly littered with leaves, twigs and wastepaper, which curved around a rather unkempt lawn. At the far end of it stood what, at first glance, seemed to be more a castle than a mere mansion. Built of gray stone, it rose three stories high, with a pointed tower to the left, and a battlemented terrace to the right. From the driveway, it looked enormous; it hadn’t grown any smaller when they pulled up in front of an ornate doorway that would easily have admitted an eight-foot man without difficulty.
“This,” Courtney Budlong proclaimed, “is a house!”
It was all of that and more, Bingo decided. Their guide fished a key ring from his pocket, found the right one, swung the big carved wood door open, and ushered them inside.
It was dark in the entrance hall, but Bingo could dimly make out that its size was in keeping with the rest of the building, and that there were doors on either side of him and one ahead of him.
“Coat closet,” Courtney Budlong explained, opening the door to the left. He opened the one to the right and said, “Informal bar. Both for incoming guests.”
The informal bar for incoming guests had once been something very special, Bingo thought. Now it was almost empty of furnishings, dusty, and even a little cobwebby. The hospitable little curved bar, of some exotic wood, was badly in need of polishing; behind it, a South Seas mural needed a little touching up. There was one bamboo and wicker stool leaning against the wall.
“Island motif,” Courtney Budlong said. “Was charming. Could be, again.” He coughed and added, “Of course, everything’s a little run down.” He spoke as apologetically as though he personally had forgotten to push the lawn mower, sweep out the driveway, and dust the informal bar for incoming guests.
“But here,” he said, with a tone almost of triumph, “is the main room.” He threw open the door with an air of pride.
Bingo blinked. The main room was vastly larger than any room he had ever seen, or even imagined, in a private home. His first impression was that it closely resembled Grand Central Terminal. Across from him was a fireplace, done in black marble. It, too, seemed enormous.
The room was vast, and nearly empty. On either side of the fireplace were davenports, chastely done up in dust covers. Between them was what was evidently a coffee table, now neatly covered with yellowed newspapers. There were two dejected-looking floor lamps. Dust marks on the wall showed where pictures had once been, and that was all.
“The furniture is all in storage,” Courtney Budlong said, “except for a few items not worth storing.” He cleared his throat. “The furniture, of course, goes with the house. I’ll simply call the storage company and tell them to send it over. All antiques, too, beautiful stuff. The paintings, too, of course, and boxes of linens and silver.”
It was going to take a lot of furniture to fill up this room, Bingo thought. He walked halfway into the room. The davenports and table were standard size, he could see, but in here they seemed like doll furniture.
“This room,” Courtney Budlong said, as proudly as though he’d built it himself, “is one hundred feet square. Why, that’s twice the size of the average building lot. And three stories high. It goes all the way up to the roof.” Bingo looked up at the ceiling. It seemed very far away. On either side of the black marble fireplace, French doors led to somewhere. A wide hall turned off to one side of the room, another smaller one to the left. To the left also, a staircase with an ornate balustrade ran up to a balcony that apparently connected the right and left sides of the mansion. Its railing had the same ornate carving, and there were three doors on the other side of it.
“The rest of the downstairs—” Courtney Budlong began.