Beagle Scented Murder

10

Peel looked across the street at the drugstore; they served lunches there and it was convenient for a switchboard operator who worked across the street. Yet Peel did not believe that Wilma Huston was the sort of girl who ate her lunches in drugstores.

A half block up the street was a sign: Little Finland. Peel strolled to it and peered through the windows. He could see into all of the booths with the exception of two or three in the rear. Accordingly he entered the restaurant and walked to the rear. Wilma Huston was not among the diners. He left the place and walking another block, tried the Bull Dog and Pussy Cat, a very snazzy eating joint.

Peel went in and found Wilma in the first booth. Opposite her was a dark, sullen-faced young man of about thirty. Wilma gave a slight start when she saw Peel.

Peel smiled coldly. “Why, hello, Wilma!”

“Hello.” She shot a quick glance at her companion and a little frown appeared on her forehead. “Aleck, this is Mr. Peel. Mr. Peel, Mr. Chambers.”

“How’re you,” Peel said.

Aleck Chambers put his hands under the table. “Hello,” he said shortly.

“Mind if I join you?” Peel asked.

“Yes,” Chambers snapped. “I mind it very much.”

“Good,” said Peel, sliding into the booth on Wilma’s side. “You can throw me out.”

Chambers half arose, ready to try, but Wilma exclaimed, “Aleck — please! Mr. Peel is a… a detective…”

“Him?” There was disdain in Chamber’s tone.

Peel gestured at Chambers. “The boy friend?”

“Mr. Chambers is a client of the office,” Wilma replied.

“Oh yeah?” Peel looked at Chambers with intereste. “What is he — a movie director?”

“I’m an actor,” Chambers growled.

“Stage?”

“Pictures,” said Wilma hurriedly. “Aleck played the second lead in Hidden Witness.”

Peel frowned thoughtfully. “I saw the picture, but you don’t look much like the fellow who played the prosecuting attorney…”

“I was Cheyney, the detective,” Aleck Chambers snarled.

“The detective’s name was Peters,” Peel said. Then he snapped his fingers. “Oh, you mean Peter’s stooge, who only appeared in one or two scenes…”

“I had fourteen lines,” Chambers said through this teeth.

“Please,” Wilma said. “Aleck, I was supposed to have lunch with Mr. Peel…”

“Then why wasn’t he on time?”

“I’m sorry about that,” Peel said to Wilma. “I got tied up on an important matter.” He looked suggestively at Aleck Chambers. “I would like to talk to you, though.”

“Well, let him talk,” Chambers snapped. “What’s he got that’s such a secret? If it’s about this Jolliffe gink…”

“It is,” said Peel.

“Wilma didn’t even know the man. He kept bothering her and she never even met him. If she’d told me about him sooner, I’d have taken care of him…”

“Aleck!” exclaimed Wilma, in alarm.

“Well, I would have. I’d’ve beaten the goddam daylights out of him.”

“Maybe you did.”

“Huh?” Chambers blinked at Peel. “He was shot… uh, wasn’t he?”

“Was he?”

“Mr. Peel,” Wilma said. “Please… Mr. Chambers didn’t even know about Jolliffe until last night…”

“You mean you’ve, ah, that is, you and Jolliffe were, ah, all this time and he didn’t…”

Wilma flared. “Jolliffe and… I…? What’re you talking about?”

“Well?”

“Look here, you,” snarled Chambers. “Detective or not, you can’t…”

“Aleck!” exclaimed Wilma. Then she turned wide eyes on Peel. “Your insinuation is ridiculous. I told you I had never met this man Jolliffe.”

Peel looked at Wilma, then at Chambers, then back at Wilma. “You never even met Jolliffe?”

“Of course not. That’s why I came to you this morning… he had been sending me flowers — and candy — and was calling me on the phone continuously and I’d never even met him.”

Peel just continued to stare at her. And Aleck’s rage kept mounting. “Don’t you believe her?”

“Yes,” said Peel. “But it’s a little hard.”

“Why?” Aleck’s meaning was plain enough; why should Wilma consider Wilbur Jolliffe when she had a man like Aleck Chambers.

“I only came to you to keep Aleck from going there,” Wilma said. “They’d have gotten into a fight and it would have got into the papers. At this stage of his career…”

“Yah,” said Joe, thoughtfully. “I see what you mean.” He got to his feet. “Been nice meeting you, Mr. Chambers…”

“I wish I could say the same,” Chambers retorted.

Peel winked at Wilma, made a clucking sound with his tongue and walked off, leaving young Aleck Chambers fit to choke.

On Sunset Boulevard, Peel walked to the comer and waited for a bus. None came for five minutes and he crossed the street to the drugstore.

Entering, he went to the telephone booths in the rear. He thumbed through a ragged telephone directory, then finding the number he sought, went into the booth and dialed it.

A voice said gruffly into his ear, “Eisenschiml!”

“Mr. Eisenschiml,” said Peel, “This is the man who talked to you a while ago about Malaeska, the dime novel…”

“You haven’t got it,” Eisenschiml’s voiced snapped.

“Oh yes I have, but a funny thing’s happened in regard to it… a man’s offered me a hundred and fifty dollars for it and—”

“Reisinger, eh?”

“Why, yes,” said Peel.

“Then it’s no use for me to make you an offer. Reisinger’d only go higher…”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you, Mr. Eisenschiml. Just how much is this book worth…?”

“As much as you can get. If it’s Reisinger — ask him three hundred. He can afford it.”

Peel thanked the book dealer and hung up. Thoughtfully, he consulted the directory once more. There were four Reisingers listed; one had a Bel-Air address. Peel re-entered the phone booth and called the number of the Bel-Air Reisinger.

A drawling voice from Dixie answered. “Mr. Reisinger’s res’dence!”

“Like to talk to John,” Peel said.

“Who is this calling?”

“Joe Peel.”

“Hol’ the wire a second.” There was silence for a moment or two then the Southland voice came on again. “Mr. Reisinger say he don’ know no Joe Peel.”

Joe Peel groaned. “Tell Mr. Reisinger that’s his loss. I wanted to talk to him about dime novels…”

“Dime novels? Just a momen’ — I ask him again.”

Ten seconds later another voice came on the phone. “This is John Reisinger; what’s this about dime novels?”

“I wanted to talk to you about them…”

“…Then why not run out to my place…?”

Joe Peel blinked at the telephone. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Actually it was twenty, for it took him ten minutes to get a taxicab. John Reisinger appeared to be very well fixed; his home on top of a knoll just a few blocks off Sunset Boulevard was worth more than a hundred thousand dollars. There were two acres of grounds, a tennis court and a swimming pool.

Mr. Reisinger turned out to be a smooth-looking man crowding fifty. A little on the heavy side. A colored butler led Peel into a huge library, that was literally plastered with dime novels, hundreds and hundreds of them tacked to the walls and additional thousands crammed into book shelves.

Reisinger gave a plump hand to Joe Peel. “Always glad to meet a fellow collector.”

“Thanks,” Peel replied. He looked at the walls. “You’ve got more dime novels than I have.”

“How many have you got?”

Joe Peel took the book from his pocket. “This one — and one other.”

Reisinger looked curiously at the book in Peel’s hand. “I thought you said you were a collector…”

Peel shook his head. “I said I wanted to talk to you about dime novels.”

Reisinger frowned.

Peel said quietly, “My other dime novel is called… Malaeska…”

Reisinger looked at him curiously. “Are you the man who telephoned about a month ago… offering to sell me Malaeska?”

“Why, no.”

“You’re here to sell?”

Peel shook his head. “I don’t want to sell anything. I called because I’m interested in dime novels.”

Reisinger brightened. He crossed to his desk and pulling open a drawer took out a black binder. “I’ve got as good a copy of Malaeska here as you’ll ever see. It’s the prize of my entire collection.”

He opened the binder and exposed a dime novel — between celluloid sheets — that was a twin of the one Peel had at his hotel. Peel scrutinized it closely.

“Mine is in as good condition.”

Reisinger frowned a little. “I find that hard to believe. I’ve never seen another copy of Malaeska in as good condition. This is virtually mint…”

“So’s mine.”

“Then you’ve got a treasure.” Reisinger scowled. “I wish you’d brought your copy along.”

“I was afraid of damaging it.”

“I should think you would be.” Reisinger took back the binder containing Malaeska and put it away. He turned back to Peel, his attitude indicating that as far as he was concerned the interview was over.

Peel smiled, putting a little schmalz into it. “This is a real treat to me, Mr. Reisinger, I’m so interested in dime novels, yet know so little about them. I’d heard that you had the greatest collection in existence…”

Reisinger’s enthusiasm returned. “I’ve got a complete set of Beadles, the Frank Starrs from Number One on, the Munros and even the rare ‘Ten Cent Novelettes’ put out by Elliott, Thornes and Thompson of Boston. Besides a complete set of eight hundred and fifty Tip Top Weeklies. Name me a man whos’ got more than that.”

“Charles Bragin of Brooklyn.”

“Bragin’s a dealer — THE dealer in dime novels. He helped me get my collection together.” The frown came back to Mr. Reisinger’s face. “About this Malaeska you have…”

“Yeah… great story, isn’t it?”

“Are you kidding? Malaeska is the worst bilge that ever found its way into print.”

“Then why’s it worth so much money?”

“Because it’s the first dime novel ever published and there are only a few in existence…”

“How many would you say?”

Reisinger shrugged. “Not more than half a dozen. And most of those only in fair condition. I would have sworn that mine was the only one in mint…” He came to a sudden decision. “How much do you want for your copy?”

“Why, I’d rather not sell…”

“I’ll give you three hundred dollars for it… provided it’s in as good shape as the one I already have.”

“Well, perhaps it isn’t in quite as good condition…”

Reisinger exhaled heavily. “Ah now we’re getting down to cases. Well, suppose we say two hundred…”

“How much did the man who phoned you a while ago ask?”

“Five hundred. But that’s why I didn’t buy it. Mind you, I would have paid five hundred for it if I hadn’t already had a copy — a mint copy. But since I did have one…”

Peel nodded. “The trick then is to find a collector who hasn’t already got a copy of Malaeska…”

“That’s right. You’re sure your copy isn’t as good as mine?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, the edges are kinda frayed. But, uh, if you didn’t have a copy of Malaeska already, how much would you offer me for mine?”

“Oh, six-seven hundred. Maybe even a thousand.” Reisinger chuckled. “Naturally, I’d pay more for a book I didn’t have then for one I already owned.”

“I can see that. Take you quite a while to catch up on your reading as it is.”

“Oh, I don’t read these books. Drive a man crazy. But once in awhile I look at one…” he walked to a shelf and searching for a moment brought out a large pamphlet. “Frank Reade — printed 1892. He had airships, armored tanks, submarines — years before they were actually invented. He tossed atomic bombs at the Indians.”

“Is that so? I never read him. I was a Frank Merriwell fan when I was a kid…”

Nostalgia came into Reisinger’s eyes. “So was I. I followed Frank all through college, and then his brother, Dick and finally Frank, Jr…” He shook his head. “But try reading one of the stories today!”

“Ever read Old Cap Collier? Or Nick Carter?”

“Did I!” Reisinger chuckled. “And both Young and Old King Brady. Wonderful stories — but utterly ridiculous. You know I’ve often wondered what a real modern detective would say about those old-timers.”

“Be interesting to know. I read Nick Carter when I was a kid and that’s what I wanted to be… a detective…”

Reisinger smiled fondly. “And what did you become?”

“A detective.”

“Eh?” The mellowness faded from John Reisinger’s face. “You’re a detective… naw?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Come again.”

“A man was killed yesterday. He collected dime novels.”

Reisinger was no longer the genial bibliophile. His eyes had narrowed to slits and his facial muscles drooped sullenly.

“Who was it?”

“Man named Wilbur Jolliffe.”

“Never heard of him. He couldn’t have been much of a collector.”

“He owned a copy of Malaeska.”

“The one you were talking about — that you claimed you owned?”

Peel nodded. “And it’s in just as good shape as yours.”

“I don’t get it!” Reisinger scowled and picked up the binder containing his own treasured dime novel. “I thought I knew every prominent collector in the country.”

“You’re sure you never heard of Wilbur Jolliffe?”

“Quite sure.”

“His picture was in the papers this morning.”

“I never read the newspapers.”

“…Ever hear of a man named Oscar Eisenschiml?”

“Of course. He’s a rare book dealer, down on Hollywood Boulevard.”

“Ever hear of Marcy Holt?” Reisinger shook his head. “William Gray?” Peel tried.

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know. They’re mixed up in Jolliffe’s murder. But I don’t know how.”

Reisinger exhaled. “Sorry I can’t help you.”

“Oh, it’s all right. I was just taking a shot in the dark.”

“Well, you shot wrong. I don’t know any of the people you mentioned. With the exception of Eisenschiml. And I think you’ll find that he’ll vouch for me.”

Peel nodded thoughtfully. “What business are you in, Mr. Reisinger — aside from collecting dime novels?”

“I’m not in any business. I sold out ten years ago. Reisinger Products Company. Dairy products. That was back in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. I moved out here after I retired.”

He walked to the door with Peel. “If, ah, you should happen to want to sell that Malaeska…”

“Can’t — not until this case is cleaned up.”

“That’s what I mean. I’d appreciate if you’d give me first chance at it…”

Peel promised to do that little thing and took his departure.