Beagle Scented Murder

18

Joe Peel slept an hour later than usual the next morning and stopping at the Mayflower on Hollywood Boulevard for breakfast, did not get to the office until after ten-thirty. He was surprised to find it locked. But the key was on the transom sill and he let himself into the office.

He got out a road map of California and studied it for ten minutes. Then he telephoned Beagle at his Wilshire Boulevard Apartment. There was no answer.

He tried the Sunset Athletic Club. They hadn’t seen Beagle since lunch the day before. By that time it was eleven five. Peel paced the office floor for ten minutes, then tried Beagle’s apartment once more. There was still no response. Calling information he got the telephone number of Beagle’s apartment manager. The manager identified herself as Mrs. Kehoe and said that she hadn’t seen Mr. Beagle all morning.

“Look, Mrs. Kehoe,” Peel said, then, “would you run up to Mr. Beagle’s apartment and if he doesn’t answer your ring, take a look inside? I’ll hold the wire.”

It was a full five minutes before Mrs. Kehoe returned to the phone. There was a note of alarm in her voice as she said, “His bed hasn’t been slept in and his milk and morning paper are still outside the door.”

“What about his car?” Peel exclaimed. “Is it in the garage?”

“Hold on a moment; I’ll phone down on the house phone.”

A couple of minutes later, Mrs. Kehoe informed Peel that Beagle’s car was in the garage, he hadn’t used it in three days.

Peel hung up and stared at the phone. On a hunch he called Ole’s Swedish Baths and then a club in Beverly Hills. They hadn’t seen Beagle at either place.

Peel locked the office and walked down to the street floor. Outside the building he walked to a taxi stand at the corner and climbed into a waiting taxi.

“Las Palmas,” he said to the driver. “Between Selma and Hollywood Boulevard.”

Five minutes later he climbed out of the cab. “Wait,” he told the cabby. “I’ll only be five or ten minutes.”

He walked into the court and rang the bell of Angela’s apartment. There was silence inside and he rang the bell again — insistently. That produced results — the padding of feet and a sleepy voice.

“What is it?”

“It’s me, baby,” Joe Peel called. “Joe Peel.”

“You!” came the disgusted reply. “Go home to your wife and children.”

“Open up; this is serious.”

“Last night was last night,” retorted Angela through the door.

“Baby,” said Joe Peel, “I’ll count to five and if you haven’t opened up by them, I’m coming right through the door… One, two…”

Angela opened the door and peeked out. “Damned if I don’t think you would.”

Peel pushed open the door and went into the apartment. Angela was wearing a padded kimono and probably little else under it.

“Have you seen Otis Beagle?” Peel demanded.

“I never want to see that big babboon again as long as I live,” snapped Angela. “And that goes for you, too.”

“Where’d you go last night after you ran out on us?”

“Home, where do you suppose?”

“With Ethel?”

“Of course. Say — what is this?”

“I don’t know,” Peel replied grimly. “But Otis has disappeared.”

“What do you mean — disappeared?”

“Just that. I haven’t seen him since last night and he hasn’t been at his apartment.”

Angela sniffed. “What’s so unusual about that? He was howling last night…”

“Otis has never failed to show up in the morning. Now, look, baby, fun’s fun, but this is serious… what did Ethel tell you in the ladies’ room last night?”

“Why, nothing, except that she was bored. And, frankly, so was I — after what that redhead spilled…”

“How long have you known Ethel?”

“Oh, two-three months…”

“Been out with her before?”

“No, but she’s been here when I’ve had friends. And I’ve stopped in at a couple of her parties.”

“Where’s her apartment?”

“Across the court — Number 6.”

Peel nodded and went to the door. Then he turned. “Remember that badger game I was telling you about last night?”

“What about it?”

“Nothing. I just want you to remember it…” Peel went out and crossed the court. Tacked to the door of Number 6 was a card on which was printed: E. Tower.

Peel pushed the doorbell. He pressed it again, after a moment. Then he tried the doorknob. It turned. Peel pushed the door open and looked into the apartment.

“Miss Tower!” he called.

There was no reply. Peel went into the apartment and headed for the clothes closet in the bedroom. It was empty, save for some wooden clothes hangers.

Ethel Tower had moved — suddenly.

Peel left the apartment and walked back to his taxicab. He got in and the cab started off.

“Where to now?”

“Drive me to your garage.”

“Huh? What’s the beef?”

“No beef. I just want to locate one of your drivers — a lad who picked me up last night, outside of the Bull Dog and Pussy Cat.”

“That’ll be either Harry Manton or Gus Hobson. Or maybe, Dave Fleck… what’d the guy do — roll you?”

“No. I lost something. Nothing very valuable, but I need it. I thought maybe the driver might have found it.”

“If you’d lost it in my cab, I’d’a found it. I always look in back when a customer steps out. Most of the guys do that. Be surprised what you find sometimes…”

“Yeah, but what do you do with the stuff you find?”

“Turn it in to the office — whaddya s’pose?”

The cabby blew his horn and made a sharp turn around a comer, then went into second gear and drove into a garage.

“That’s two-ten,” he said, looking at the meter.

Peel climbed out and paid him.

“There’s Gus Hobson just coming to work,” the cabby said, nodding to a stocky cab driver.

The man looked familiar, although Peel hadn’t paid any particular attention to the cabby of the night before. He accosted the man.

“Didn’t you pick me up last night outside the Bull Dog and Pussy Cat?”

Gus Hobson shook his head. “Not me, mister.”

“There was another man with me — a big, heavy set flash fellow about forty.”

“Don’t remember nobody like that.”

Peel took a five dollar bill from his pocket and showed it to Hobson. “Do you remember now?”

Hobson kept his eyes on the bill. “Where’d I take you?”

“Ivar and Hollywood Boulevard. But the other man stayed with you.”

“Where’d I take him?”

“That’s why I’m going to give you this five dollars. To tell me where you took him.”

Hobson stared hard at the five dollars, then finally shook his head. “Nope, wasn’t me.”

“Look,” said Peel patiently, “there isn’t any beef. All I want is the address where you took my friend…”

“If he’s your friend, why don’t you ask him?”

“Because I can’t find him. It’s important that I do.”

“Maybe he don’t want you to know where he is.”

A man in shirt sleeves and wearing a green celluloid visor over his eyes, came out of the garage office. “What’s the trouble there?” he called.

“Are you the manager?” Peel asked.

“Yes. Any complaints?”

“This man picked me up last night,” Peel began…

“Who says I did?” Hobson exclaimed truculently.

The garage manager fixed Hobson with a cold stare. “Keep your trap shut, Hobson. Now, Mister, are you sure it was one of our cabs?”

“Yes, I’m sure. And I’m sure it was this man who picked up my boss and me last night at the Bull Dog and Pussy Cat…”

“That’s your stand, Hobson,” said the manager, coldly.

“All right, what if it is? I’m not the only hackman who picks up people at the Bull Dog and Pussy Cat. I tell you I don’t remember this guy…”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted the manager, “we’ll settle this once and for all…”

He turned and went back into his office. Hobson gave Peel some dirty looks, but Peel didn’t mind. Then the manager came out of the office, carrying some sheets of paper.

“What time was it?” he asked Peel.

“Around eleven-thirty…”

The man studied one of the sheets. Then he looked at Hobson. “It’s here — two fares, 11:40. You took them to Hollywood and Ivar…”

“That was me!”

“…and then to Laurel Canyon and Mulholland,” the taxicab manager went on. He looked sharply at Hobson. “Mulholland, eh?”

“If that’s what it says on there,” growled Hobson.

“That’s screwy,” Peel said. “Why would Otis want to go to Laurel Canyon and Mulholland Drive at midnight? There isn’t anything up there…”

“The guy was drunk,” Hobson snarled. “It’s none of my business where a drunk wants to go in the middle of the night.”

“Gus,” said the manager, “come here a minute…” He walked to one side and Hobson followed him. The two engaged in a whispered conversation for a moment, then they came back to Peel.

“This friend of yours,” the manager began.

“My boss,” said Peel.

“You were doing the town last night?”

“But we were sober.”

“Look,” said Hobson, “I’m only a hack driver. I got to make a buck where I can, see…”

“Oh,” said Peel, “it’s like that.”

“Yeah, this boss of yours looks like a sport and he says to me he wants some action, see…” Hobson pantomimed the shaking and rolling out of dice. “…So I took him to Charlie’s; that’s all I know.”

Peel nodded thoughtfully. “And Charlie is up on Laurel and Mulholland?”

“Near there.”

“Okay,” said Peel, “let’s go.”

“Huh?”

“Charlie’s Place. Drive me up there.”

“What for? It’s only open at night.”

“There’ll be somebody there.”

“Uh-uh. The place is deserted in the daytime. They don’t open till around eight. You go up there now and all you’ll find is a bunch of padlocks and boards on the windows. It looks like a haunted house during the day.”

Peel rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. The taxicab manager, watching him, said, “We run taxicabs, Mister, that’s all. We take passengers where they want to go; what happens to them, ain’t our fault.”

“I know, I know.” Peel scowled, then sighed. “Okay, fellows.” He started to leave the garage, then turned back to the manager. “Mind if I use your phone?”

“There’s a booth right there in the comer. You can use it — if you’ve got a nickel!”

Peel went to the booth and thumbing through a grimy directory found the number of Sunset Athletic Club. Then he went into the booth and dialed it.

“Mr. Devol,” he said, when the club operator answered.

“Who shall I say is calling?”

Peel hesitated a second. “Otis Beagle…”

“Just a moment please and I’ll see if Mr. Devol is here.”

There was a short wait, then a voice snapped in Peel’s ear: “Hello, Otis…”

“This isn’t Otis, Mr. Devol,” said Peel. “It’s Joe Peel…”

“Who?”

“Joe Peel. I work for Otis Beagle…”

“Are you the fellow that Otis fired yesterday?” Pinky Devol snapped.

“Yes, but it was a mistake. Otis…”

“Baloney! And let me tell you, you got a crust telephonin’ me…”

“Hold it, Mr. Devol!” Peel cried. “It’s about Otis I’m calling…”

“Yeah, well, I can’t be bothered…”

“He’s disappeared!” yelled Peel.

He didn’t know whether he was too late or not. The connection was broken. Savagely, Peel looked for another nickel and finding one, dialed the Sunset Athletic Club once more.

“Mr. Devol,” he said to the operator. “Tell him it’s the man who just called and that it’s a matter of life and death. Otis Beagle’s life…”

“I’ll see if Mr. Devol is here,” the operator said, unruffled.

Pinky Devol came on the line again. “What’s this about Otis’ life…”

“You didn’t let me finish. Otis has disappeared. He didn’t sleep in his apartment last night…”

“So he’s in a kip with a blonde! What the hell!…”

“No,” said Peel doggedly, “I’ve been tracing him. A cab driver took him to Charlie’s Place on Mulholland Drive.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s the last anyone saw of him.”

Devol’s sneer rasped in Peel’s ear. “What’re you trying to hand me, Peel?”

“Nothing, Devol. I’m worried about Otis, that’s all.”

“What can I do about it?”

“I thought you might know Charlie.”

“Charlie who?”

“The Charlie who runs Charlie’s Place.”

“Say, who do you think I am?”

“Pinky Devol, who’s supposed to be Otis Beagle’s friend.”

“I am Otis Beagle’s friend,” Devol snapped. “But that doesn’t mean that I know every gambler in this town, does it?”

“How’d you know Charlie was a gambler?”

Pinky Devol suddenly had to cough, but when he spoke again there was less heat in his tone. “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know what happened at Charlie’s Place last night… I mean, to Otis…”

There was a pause, then Devol said, “Call me back in five minutes.”

Peel hung up and walked to a drugstore on the corner. He had a coke, then went into a phone booth and called the Sunset Athletic Club. He went through the same routine with the operator, then Devol came back.

“All right,” Devol said, “Otis dropped about twelve hundred…”

“Twelve hundred!” exclaimed Peel.

“Yeah, the way I get it, he had a run and was ahead three-four grand. But he tried to win the cloth off the table and wouldn’t quit, so he dropped it all and some of his own. It happens all the time.”

“What happened then?”

“Nothing. He gave his check and went home.”

“How? He went up in a taxi.”

“I suppose he called a taxi.”

“Can you find for sure — if he called a taxi?”

Devol swore. “If it was anybody but Otis…”

“I’ll call you back in five minutes, Mr. Devol.”

Peel hung up and went back into the drugstore. He spent ten minutes looking at the magazines, then reentered the phone booth and once more called the Sunset Athletic Club.

“No,” Devol said, “he didn’t call a taxi. One of the customers was leaving about the same time and Otis asked him for a lift down to Hollywood Boulevard.”

“Who was the customer?”

Devol chuckled. “I beat you to that one. It was an actor named Aleck Chambers. He was there with a cutie whose name I didn’t get. Charlie didn’t know her. I don’t know this Chambers myself, but you shouldn’t have any trouble running him down. You try the Screen Actor’s Guild…”

“I know Chambers,” Peel said.

“Well, ask him where he dropped Otis, will you. And let me know as soon as you find out something.”

“I will Pinky.”

Peel stepped out of the booth and going to the fountain ordered a ham sandwich. While it was being prepared he thought things over. Then the sandwich came and he took a bite of it. Munching, he returned to the telephone booth and looked up the number of the Horatio Oliver Agency.

He called it. A strange voice said, “Horatio Oliver Agency…”

“I want to talk to Wilma Huston.”

“Sorry,” was the reply, “she isn’t here today.”

“Well, what’s her home number?”

“Sorry; I can’t give you that information.”

“Oh, hell!” Peel said in disgust. He slammed down the receiver and went back to the directory. If Wilma had a phone it was an unlisted number and Peel left the drugstore, still chewing on his sandwich.

He walked back to the taxicab garage and flagged a taxi that was just leaving the garage. The driver was Gus Hobson.

“Now, what?” Gus sneered at him. “Now, you can take me to the Lehigh Apartments.”

“Yeah? What about the fin?”

“You had your chance at that. You get the meter and a ten-cent tip.”

“Sure you can spare it?”

“Easy come, easy go,” said Peel, climbing in to the cab.