Beagle Scented Murder

15

Sergeant Fedderson and Otis Beagle were having a little party in Joe Peel’s room when Peel pushed open the door. They had a bowl of ice cubes, pretty well melted and the remnants of a pint of bourbon.

Sergeant Fedderson’s eyes almost popped from his face when he saw Peel. “How come you’re back?” he gasped.

Peel inclined his head toward Beagle. “Let him tell you.”

Beagle was very pleased with himself. “My lawyer got him out on a writ, Sergeant…”

Fedderson got to his feet. “But… but how could you call your lawyer…?”

Beagle chuckled. “Lieutenant Becker’s going to ask you that. So you may as well have the answer ready… I was in the bathroom for a minute before we called room service, wasn’t I?”

Sergeant Fedderson’s face got just a bit green. “You wrote a note…”

“On tissue paper,” said Beagle. “And I gave it to the waiter when I gave him the money for the whiskey. Simple, wasn’t it…?”

“So simple that Fedderson’ll be walking a beat tomorrow,” said Peel. “You’re getting a little fat anyway, Sergeant. Around the ears…”

Fedderson reeled to the door and went out. Otis Beagle crossed the room and shot the bolt.

“Now,” he said to Peel, “let’s get to work.”

“Who, me?” asked Peel.

“Now, stop it, Joe…”

“You sabotaged me. You told Al Sparbuck that I was working on my own for Jolliffe; you said that I shook down the blackmailers and kept the money…”

“I had to tell them that, Joe. I was on the spot — my license was at stake…”

“But you fired me.”

“I had to, Joe. They insisted — Pinky and Sparbuck. But I never had any intention of making it stick. You ought to know that. Why, we… we’ve been pals, Joe.”

Peel looked thoughtfully at Otis. He didn’t believe a word the big man said. But they were in a tight spot, both of them. They had to fight it through together — or go to jail, together.

“All right, Otis,” he said. “I’m sticking because I have to stick. But I’m not forgetting. And when this is over…”

“I’ll do the right thing, Joe. You can count on that.”

“You’ll do the right thing, Otis, because if you don’t, so help me, I’m going to take a baseball bat and beat your ears down to little stumps.”

Beagle frowned. “That’s good enough. Now, let’s run over this mess and see just where we are. What does Becker really know?”

“More than I want him to know. They’ve got Wilma Huston and Wilbur Jolliffe tied together and for all I know, they’ve got Wilma Huston.” Peel thought for a moment. “I think it depends a lot on how much Helen Gray talked to Wilma.”

“About your visit there last night?”

Peel nodded. “And this morning.”

“You saw her this morning?”

“Yes.” Peel frowned. “Becker knows about last night; he doesn’t — so far — about this morning.” Peel shook his head. “There’s a lot of screwy angles to this.”

“For instance?”

“For instance Wilma Huston never even met Wilbur Jolliffe…”

“Eh?”

“That’s what she claims and I’m almost ready to believe her…”

“But Wilbur himself gave me her name…”

“Did he? Think again.”

“Come to think of it you gave me the name. I assumed…”

“So did I. Maybe I assumed too much. I gave him the razzle-dazzle yesterday and he asked if it was about Wilma. I assumed from it…” Peel stopped and squinted. Then he exhaled. “No, I tried the name on Jolliffe’s secretary. She said Wilma was the current recipient of Wilbur’s favors.” Peel stopped and scowled. “This Mary Lou — Wilbur’s secretary; she talks a lot. It was she who told Becker. Although Becker didn’t mention me and the false whiskers. I think he would’ve if he’d known. But Becker got Wilma’s name from Mary Lou…”

“What about Mrs. Jolliffe?” Beagle asked. “Maybe she knew about Wilma.”

Peel nodded thoughtfully. “She knew he was chasing somebody, but I hardly think she knew Wilma’s name.”

“Why not?”

“Because Wilbur was an old hand at that stuff. If a man does it for years he gets to know the angles. And the first one is, don’t ever let your wife know the name of your mistress — even if she knows there is a mistress…” Peel paused. “You know, Helen Gray was more the type than Wilma Huston. I keep thinking that. Too bad we can’t search Wilma’s apartment…”

“Why can’t we?”

Joe Peel winced. “Now, look, Otis…”

“If it’s that important…”

“Damme,” said Peel savagely, “why can’t I learn to keep my mouth shut!”

Beagle put on his hat and got his cane. “The best time is now. Becker won’t expect us to work so fast…”

Peel regarded Beagle bitterly for a moment, then sighed wearily and followed the big man out of the hotel room.

Otis Beagle bought an afternoon paper on the way to the Lehigh Apartments and from it he and Peel learned that the murder of Helen Gray had been discovered shortly before two o’clock. An elderly man named Koch had found the body. His apartment was directly across the hall. According to his story he had rung the bell of Apartment #504, with the intention of borrowing a cup of sugar. There was no answer and he had tried the doorknob. It turned under his hand and — well, there was Helen Gray, lying on the living room floor… a bullet in her forehead.

Koch had been in his apartment all day; he hadn’t heard the shot although he admitted that he had heard a door slam around one o’clock. It could have been the shot, although in a place like the Lehigh Apartments people were always slamming doors. And radios… they blared all day long and far into the night. There ought to be a law against it…

“Right across the hall,” said Beagle, refolding the paper. “I’ll talk to him while you’re in the girl’s apartment.”

“Naturally,” said Peel. “I do the dirty work.”

“Don’t be like that, Joe. You’ve been in the apartment before, you know what to look for. Besides, I’ll keep Koch’s door open and if a policeman should happen to come along…”

“You’ll whistle!”

As it turned out, the whistle wasn’t necessary, for as they entered the Lehigh Apartments they came upon Wilma Huston, waiting for the automatic elevator to come down to the first floor. It was a drawn, weary Wilma Huston.

“You,” she said, when she saw Joe Peel.

Peel nodded. “Miss Huston, this is Otis Beagle…”

“Ah,” exclaimed Beagle, “Miss Huston!” He took off his hat and bowed. “We were just calling on you.”

“I’ve just come from the police station,” Wilma said, “they had me there for almost two hours. I don’t think I’ve got any more to say…”

“But you’re my client, Miss Huston,” said Beagle. “It is of utmost importance…”

At that moment the elevator reached the floor and the door opened automatically. Beagle stepped aside, permitting Wilma to enter, then crowded in after her, Joe Peel followed and pushed the button for the fifth floor.

“I can’t understand your feelings, Miss Huston,” said Beagle, “your dearest friend cut down in brutal fashion…”

“Helen Gray wasn’t my dearest friend,” said Wilma. “I hardly knew her.”

Beagle looked sharply at her. “But she was your room-mate — you shared your apartment with her.”

“A lot of people share apartments who aren’t dear friends.”

The elevator reached the fifth floor and Joe Peel held open the door. Wilma Huston and Otis Beagle stepped out and walked off. Joe Peel followed and caught up as Wilma was unlocking the door.

She turned the key in the lock, then hesitated. It was Beagle who pushed open the door. As they entered, Wilma’s eyes went instantly to a dark spot on the rug that was still wet. Beagle was completely oblivious.

“But you must have known Miss Gray,” he persisted.

“The rent here,” said Wilma, “is sixty dollars a month. A little stiff for me, so I put an ad in the paper. Helen Gray was one of about a hundred girls who answered. I liked her looks, so she moved in…”

“When?” asked Peel.

“Five weeks ago.”

“In five weeks you could get pretty well acquainted,” said Otis Beagle.

“She was still sleeping in the morning when I went to work,” Wilma said. “When I got home she’d usually be out. She got in late at night… or sometimes I would… I saw Helen on Sundays and once or twice during the week for a few minutes.”

Wilma Huston threw herself on the couch and stared at the wet spot on the rug. Otis Beagle seated himself in an easy chair and planted his cane on the floor in front of him. He placed his fat hands on the head of it and leaned forward.

“Miss Huston,” he said pompously, “I’ll lay my cards on the table. You came to my office this morning and engaged us to perform a task for you…”

“It was worth twenty-five dollars for me not to be bothered.”

Beagle looked at Joe Peel, who was peeking into the kitchen. “Just what do you mean — bothered?”

“Well, what would you say of a man who sent you flowers and five pound boxes of candy—”

“No jewelry?” Peel asked from the kitchen door.

Wilma shot him an annoyed glance. “A man,” she went on, “whom you had never seen.”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” Beagle said, “How you could be, ah, Jolliffe’s friend and not see him…”

Joe Peel went into the kitchen at that point, but he heard Wilma’s blundering protests. Then the byplay in the living room became merely an annoying hum as he dropped to his knees before a metal wastebasket under the sink and scooped out charred bits of paper.

There was a perplexed frown on his face as he studied the bits of paper. They were all very small, but here and there he found a piece large enough to see that it had contained print.

A few of the pieces of paper were stuck together and in separating them, Peel noted that they were damp on the inside, as if the whole mess had been immersed in water. He got to his feet and looked into the sink. Yes — there were bits of ash and a tiny piece of paper adhering to the metal screen which fed into the drainpipe. Someone had burned paper in the sink, and failing to burn the stuff small enough to go through the little holes, had scooped it out and dumped it into the wastebasket.

Nodding thoughtfully, Peel returned to the wastebasket. Sorting out the burned paper he came across one piece that was larger than — and foreign to — the others; the printed address from an envelope: Peel could distinguish a fragment of the address:

Peel put the piece in his pocket and surveyed the kitchen. It was cleaned up tidily, all the dishes washed and put away in the cupboards. He opened the little refrigerator. It contained two bottles of beer, a half quart of milk and two tomatoes.

He closed the refrigerator and walked back into the living room. Both Beagle and Wilma Huston were on their feet.

“Keep the twenty-five dollars!” Wilma was saying, hotly. “Keep it, but let me alone. I’m sorry I ever heard your name…”

“Where did you hear it?” Peel asked.

Stiffly, Otis Beagle headed for the door. With his hand on the knob he turned. “Coming, Joe?”

Joe nodded and followed Beagle. But at the door he paused. “I’ll give you a ring, Wilma…”

“Don’t bother!” she exclaimed.

Peel followed.

The elevator was still at the fifth floor and he and Beagle stepped into it. Then Beagle exploded.

“I never listened to so much bosh from a woman in all my life. She insists she never so much as laid eyes on Wilbur Jolliffe.”

“I don’t think she did. It was Helen Gray — not Wilma.”

“Eh?”

“Helen used Wilma’s name.”

Beagle stared at Peel for a moment. “But how could she do that? Jolliffe called on her at the apartment…”

“Sure, but didn’t you notice? It’s Wilma’s name on the door, Wilma’s alone. Helen never put hers on. Jolliffe didn’t even know Helen had a roommate. When he called here he saw Wilma’s name on the door, that’s all. And Helen was Wilma. That’s what was driving him nuts. He telephoned Wilma — Helen, I mean — and once in a while he got the real Wilma on the phone. She hung up on him, told him a thing or two probably… so he was ripe for us yesterday, Otis…”

The elevator reached the main floor but Otis made no move to open the door. “I’ll be goddamned!”

“Simple, isn’t it? When you get the answer. Wilbur went up for a showdown with Helen last night and guess what? He ran into Bill Gray, Helen’s brother. Only I don’t think he was a brother. Catch on?”

“Then it’s Gray we want — Bill Gray. He knocked off Wilbur Jolliffe and — his sister!”

“Maybe,” said Peel. He opened the elevator door and stepped into the lobby. Beagle followed.

“I’ll get the police to throw out a dragnet for him,” he said, eagerly. “I’ll give his name to Pinky. It’ll make up for… for… well, for other things.”

Beagle reached for the front door, but before his hand touched it the door was pulled away and Lieutenant Becker’s face appeared.

Becker yelped. “For the love of Pete — don’t you guys ever give up?”

“Not as long as crime is rampant in the city,” Peel retorted. “Whaddya want the citizens to do — depend on the police?” He laughed raucously to show what he thought of the police.

Lieutenant Becker half raised his fist, but let it fall to his side.

“Keep out of my hair,” he said, thickly.

“You tell him, Otis…?”

“I was going to save it for Pinky, but…” Otis Beagle frowned, then suddenly surrendered. “All right, Lieutenant, you shall have it… the name of the murderer. It is Gray — Bill Gray…”

“How do you know?” Becker snapped.

“Intuition, old boy, intuition.”

Lieutenant Becker told Otis what he thought of his intuition then went into the building.

“A very uncouth man,” said Beagle. He looked at his wrist watch. “A quarter to seven, Joe; how about a bite of dinner?”

“You want to take me to dinner?”

“Why not?” Beagle clapped Peel on the shoulder. “We’re partners, aren’t we?”

Peel moved his shoulder out from under Beagle’s hand. When Beagle clapped a man on the shoulder it was eight to five that he was looking for a place to sink the knife.