Beagle Scented Murder

11

At ten minutes to twelve the phone rang in Otis Beagle’s office. He scooped it up.

“Hello!”

“Otis,” said a voice on the wire. “This is Pinky Devol. I want you to come over to the club at once.”

“Lunch, Pinky?”

“Maybe; but come over right away. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Beagle hung up and looked thoughtfully at the telephone. Had he just imagined that Devol’s voice had not been cordial as usual?

He shook his head and rising from his desk, got his Homburg hat and cane. He started for the door, then reached into his pocket and brought out the thousand dollar bill. He looked around the office, searching for a safe hiding place, but finally decided against leaving the bill in the office.

He folded the bill lengthwise, took off his hat and slipped it under the sweatband. Then he remembered that he would have to check the hat at the club, so took the bill out of the hat.

He finally took off his right shoe and sock and put the bill in the sock. Replacing it and the shoe he left the office, locking the door behind him and putting the key on the ledge by the transom.

Ten minutes later, he strolled up to the Sunset Athletic Club. “Fine day,” he said to the doorman.

“Yes, it is,” admitted the doorman. He cleared his throat. “Sorry to hear about your trouble.”

“My trouble? You must be mistaken; I have no trouble.”

“But I read in the paper…”

“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, my good man.” Beagle breezed into the club, nodded pleasantly to the clerk behind the desk and slapped a vice-president of the Bank of America on the back.

“Looking well, old man!” he said, jovially.

“Thanks, Otis.”

Beagle strode to the check room and handed the attendant his hat and fat cane. “Has Pinky Devol gone into the grill room?”

“I believe so, sir.”

Beagle entered the grill room and spied Douglas Devol seated in a booth in the far comer. With him was a man with iron gray hair.

“Hi, Pink, old boy!” Beagle shouted from across the room.

Devol was a stout man in his early thirties, with the reddest face a human could have; it accounted for his nickname. Just what Devol’s vocation was it would be hard to say. He held no public office, but he was intimate with many public officials. He was a member of the State Bar Association, but did not practice law.

“Hello, Otis,” he said as Beagle came up. “Like you to meet Al Sparbuck.”

“D.A.’s office, eh?” Beagle took Sparbuck’s hand in a mighty grip and pumped it. “Glad to know you, Al.”

“How are you, Mr. Beagle,” said Sparbuck with considerable reserve.

“I’m fine, Al. And Pink, you’re looking great. What’re you drinking?”

“Just a whiskey sour; what’ll you have, Otis?”

“A double Scotch, straight!” he signaled to a waiter. “Jules, set ’em up all around.”

Then he seated himself in the booth, opposite Devol and placed his elbows on the table. “Anything I can do for you, Pink, old man? Just say the word…”

Devol looked unhappy. “It’s about this Jolliffe suicide, Otis…”

“Oh, that!” Beagle’s tone indicated that it wasn’t even worth thinking about, much less discussing.

“I’d like to hear your version, Mr. Beagle, if you don’t mind,” said Sparbuck.

Devol nodded. “Al thought we ought to talk about it.”

“Well, why not?” Beagle said, heartily. The waiter brought the drinks on a tray. Otis picked up his double Scotch. “Here’s to you, gentlemen.” he tossed the liquor down his throat in a single gulp and smacked his lips. “That hit the spot.” He looked at Sparbuck, then at Devol. “Is this serious?”

“Al thinks it is,” said Devol.

“Lieutenant Becker laid some rather disturbing facts before the office,” said Sparbuck.

“This is just between the three of us?” Beagle asked.

Sparbuck hesitated. “I’m afraid not…”

“I told Al that I was sure you could explain things to his satisfaction,” Devol said.

“Of course I can.” Beagle drew a deep breath. “All right, I hate to do this, but I see that I must. In a way it’s my own fault, because I trusted the man.”

“Who?” asked Sparbuck. “Wilbur Jolliffe?”

“No, an employee of mine. A man named Joe Peel. I felt sorry for him and kept him on even though I knew I shouldn’t. He’s a sort of a helpless chap — at least he seemed so to me.” He sighed. “About six months ago, Wilbur Jolliffe came to me with a small matter. I was busy at the time and turned the case over to this man Peel. He handled the whole thing. How, I don’t know. I had no reason to doubt his report, I was too involved in my own case — one involving some very important people — to go over the report. So I accepted Peel’s story.”

“What was the case about?” asked Sparbuck.

“Blackmail. Jolliffe had become indiscreet, shall we say, with a young lady, who threatened to inform Mrs. Jolliffe unless she received a large sum of money. Well, sir, blackmail is something I do not like and I told — I mean, Peel went to the young lady and pointed out to her the error of her ways. Mind you, all this I learned later. Peel’s report was merely to the effect that he had eased the lady’s palpitating heart by a settlement of one thousand dollars. Actually, he had given her a hundred dollars and had pocketed the difference.” Beagle leaned back in his chair. “There you have it — the whole story, as I learned it only recently.”

Pinky Devol looked at the assistant district attorney. The latter’s forehead was creased in thought. Finally he shook his head.

“Jolliffe took his life only yesterday and the affair you related took place six months ago.”

“But don’t you see!” Beagle exclaimed. “The blackmailer came back — Jolliffe learned how he had been hoodwinked. He saw there was no end to the blackmail; there never is, you know. He took his life.”

“That sounds like it, eh, Al?” exclaimed Pinky Devol.

Sparbuck shrugged. “Well, yes, but if you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Beagle, you acted very unwisely in the matter of this Peel person. You should never have given him authority to act for you.”

“Oh, come, Al, I can’t do everything, can I? Giannini doesn’t work as a teller at his banks, does he? And if one of his tellers should happen to turn out to be a crook, you wouldn’t hold Giannini responsible, would you?”

“Financially, yes.”

“But, not criminally.” Beagle smiled broadly. “Jolliffe wasn’t robbed last night, was he? Then, you have nothing against me — personally.”

“Of course not!” cried Pinky Devol. He signaled to a waiter. “Waiter, another one all around.”

Sparbuck was still frowning. “Of course you know we shall have to take this man Peel into custody.”

“Why? He didn’t hold the gun to Jolliffe’s head, did he?”

“There’s still the matter of the, ah, deal, he made six months ago.”

“That might be difficult to prove against him, now that Jolliffe’s dead. He’s the only one who could testify against him.”

“You could.”

“How? It’d be my word against his.”

Pinky Devol leaned forward. “The least you can do, though, is to fire the man.”

Beagle looked at Sparbuck. The latter nodded. “Lieutenant Becker said something about trying to get your license revoked, Mr. Beagle. But if this operator is no longer in your employ…”

“I see,” said Beagle. “I’ll discharge him at once.” He brightened. “Now, how about some lunch?”