Beagle Scented Murder

12

Joe Peel was down on his hands and knees on the floor when Otis Beagle returned to the office. The edge of the threadbare rug was turned back.

“What the hell, Joe!” Beagle exclaimed. Peel got to his feet and brushed his knees.

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The thousand dollar bill. You’ve hidden it somewhere.”

Beagle hung up his hat and cane. “Suppose I have, Joe.”

“I want half of it.”

“Why?”

Peel pointed to his eye. “Did I have that this morning, Otis? I said yesterday before all this started that you’d get the money and the credit and I’d get a punch in the eye. Well, I’ve got it and a few other bruises.”

Beagle seated himself in his swivel chair. He folded his hands across his ample stomach. “I should think a man in your position would learn to duck.”

“Last night,” Peel said ominously, “I was knocked out and dumped up on Mulholland Drive. Today a man came into the steam room at the Swedish baths and knocked the living daylights out of me. He left me unconscious. And you, you big, fat…”

“Just a minute, Joe,” cut in Beagle. “I said you’d go too far some day…”

“I’ll go a lot farther. The masseur at Ole’s Swedish Baths gave me an earful about you. You’ve been blowing off how you solve all the cases. You alone worked out the Onthank business…”

“Go ahead,” said Beagle. “Get it all off your chest. And when you get finished…”

Something in Beagle’s tone caused Peel to look at him sharply. “What’re you up to?”

“Are you through exercising your tongue?”

“Let’s have it!”

“All right,” Beagle drew a deep breath, “you’re fired…”

“Say it again…”

“You’re through with the Beagle Agency.”

“Cut out the clowning, Otis, I’m in no mood…”

“I’m not clowning, Joe. This is final. You can forget the Jolliffe case. You can forget… me. I’m letting you go. Finally. Definitely.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. Mmmm, there’s a small sum due you, I believe…”

“Forget it, chum,” said Peel, and turning, walked out of the office.

At the corner liquor store he bought a pint of bourbon and continued on to his hotel on Ivar.

Mr. Hathaway, the manager, was seated behind the desk. “Why, Mr. Peel,” he said, “you’re home early.”

“My rent’s paid, isn’t it?” Peel retorted. “Any law says I can’t come home early?”

He climbed the stairs to the second floor, entered his room and taking off his coat, opened the bottle of bourbon. He took a big swallow, then followed with another.

Then, still clutching the whiskey bottle he threw himself on the bed.