Beagle Scented Murder

20

Peel fished a tiny scrap of paper from his pocket and studied it. It was the piece he had found in Wilma Huston’s trash can — the fragment that had failed to burn.

He shook his head and got out the California road map. There were several towns in the state that had the word ‘Palms’ in its name, but only one had both a 3 and a Palms. 13 Palms, a little town on the southwestern edge of the Mojave Desert. It was only about fifty miles from Los Angeles.

Peel put the scrap of paper back into his pocket and went to the steel filing cabinet. Rummaging about in the rear of a file he found the office revolver, a rusty, nickel-plated.32-caliber affair. Further search failed to produce any cartridges. Beagle had a phobia about guns. He never carried one himself and as a rule objected to Peel taking the office gun.

Peel stuck the weapon in his pocket, looked around the office, then left.

On Hollywood Boulevard he stepped into a taxi and twenty minutes later arrived at Otis Beagle’s apartment house on Wilshire Boulevard.

He descended into the garage in the basement of the building and whistled for the garage attendant.

After a while, a colored man came out of a little room.

“Hello, Mistah Peel,” he said, “what’s this I hear ’bout Mr. Beagle?”

“Oh, he’s all right. Sent me here to get his car.”

“Y’mean he ain’t dead?”

Peel laughed. “Think anybody can kill Otis Beagle when he don’t want to be killed?”

“No, guess not. But I was sure worried about him… He owe me four dollars for washing the car.”

“He mentioned that. Here…” Peel pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket, then remembered Otis Beagle’s reputation of never tipping less then two dollars and added another dollar. “Keep the change.”

“Yas suh! And thankee… Here’s his car right here, all polished up full of gas, rarin’ to go.”

The car was a Cadillac convertible; Beagle wouldn’t drive anything less. Of course it was ’37 model, but better an old model Cadillac than a brand new smaller car. For Beagle.

It was four-thirty when Joe Peel drove out of the garage and turned west on Wilshire. After a few blocks he reached Sepulveda and turned right. He let out the old car now and in a few minutes was climbing up the mountain pass. Ten minutes later he rolled down into San Fernando Valley, cut across Ventura and headed for the mountain range at the east end of the valley.

It was five forty-five when Peel saw a sign beside the road: 13 Palms, Population 850.

There had probably been thirteen palms here originally, but now there were a good many more. In fact the main street was lined with them.

The town consisted of about four business blocks with residential streets crossing them. The side streets were usually not more than a block in length. Then the desert took over.

In the second block was a two-story brick building, over which was a neon sign that read: 13 Palms Hotel.

Peel parked the Cadillac in front of the hotel and went into the tiny lobby.

“Room and bath,” he said to the clerk.

“Got a reservation?”

“Are you kidding?”

The clerk grinned. “I’m just practising in case we ever get full up like in the city… Baggage?”

“I’ll pay in advance.”

“Yes sir, that’ll be three dollars.” He got a key out of a slot. “Room 210.”

“I’ll go up later.” Peel put the key in his pocket and walked out of the lobby. Across the street was a one-story frame building. Lettering on the window read:

Peel crossed the street and entered the building. The long narrow room contained a linotype machine, a couple of presses and in front, a rolltop desk that was heaped high with exchanges. A man of about thirty, with ink on his face, was running a small job press. He stopped it when he saw Peel.

“Yes sir, anything I can do for you?”

“Like to talk to the editor.”

“That’s Mr. Dunning.”

“Where’ll I find him?”

The man took off his printer’s apron, wiped his face with a towel and came forward. “Now, I’m Mr. Dunning, the editor of the 13 Palms Oasis. I hope you want to subscribe.”

“I see you do job printing,” said Peel nodding to the job press.

“Best job work in 13 Palms.”

“You mean there are other printing shops in this little town?”

“Mister — please! 13 Palms is the oasis of Mojave Valley.” He picked up a copy of a four-page newspaper. “See, it says so in big type, right under the title of our leading paper.”

Peel took the newspaper from Dunning. “Oasis Printing Company,” he read.

“…Publishers of the 13 Palms Oasis. William C. Dunning, President and Editor… Stranger in town, aren’t you?” he took a pencil from his pocket. “I’m also the star reporter of the Oasis. Would you mind giving me your name?”

“Joe Peel.”

“And would you care to state what business brings you to our city?”

“I represent a newspaper chain and I’m looking over towns that have only one newspaper, with a view to establishing competition.”

“Then you’ve come to the right town, Mr. Peel. 13 Palms could stand two weeklies. I don’t make a living and if you started another paper there, two of us couldn’t make a living… I was just about to knock off and have a drink; care to join me?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Dunning got his coat and he and Peel crossed the street to the Oasis Cafe, which had a lunch counter in front and a couple of pool tables in the rear. Also two slot machines. Peel pointed at the machines.

“We get a little business here from people on the way to Nevada,” said Dunning. “They like to practice.” He held up two fingers to the man behind the lunch counter. “Two of the usual, Elmer.”

Elmer brought out a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. He filled the glasses and looked at Peel. “Chaser?”

“Yes — another bourbon.”

Dunning’s eyes lit up. “A friend. I’ll have a chaser, too, Elmer…”

They drank the second whiskey and then Dunning stepped to a rack and took down a cue. “A little game of rotation?”

Peel hesitated. “I haven’t had a stick in my hand for quite a while.”

“I’ll tell you the truth,” said Dunning. “I play every day. In fact I’m the local pool shark. I’ll play you for a buck and spot you the ten ball.”

“Why don’t I just give you the dollar?”

“Because I prefer to win it.”

Peel took out a dollar bill and laid it on the railing. He got a cue. “Go ahead, break.”

Dunning broke the balls and the four-ball went into a pocket. He had good position for the one and dropped it neatly into a side pocket. He was practically sewed up for the two-ball, but made a rail-shot and sank the deuce and put himself into position for both the three and five. Then he missed a bank-shot for the six.

Peel got the six and dropped the seven on a nice combination, but couldn’t see the eight. He played safe.

“Dirty pool, eh?” exclaimed Dunning.

“I’m playing for a buck.”

Dunning studied the table for a moment. “I think I got a chance. Three cushion in the comer pocket.”

“Another dollar say you don’t.”

“That’s a bet.”

Peel took out another dollar bill and Dunning put the eight-ball into the comer pocket in as neat a shot as Peel had seen in some time.

“Must have good competition in this town.”

Dunning chuckled. “Not bad.” He took off the nine and eleven. “Give up?”

“No — I can win if I get three of those four.”

Dunning missed the twelve, an impossible shot. Peel dropped it and the thirteen, then made the fourteen, but scratched. Dunning put the fourteen on the post. He sunk it neatly and wound up in perfect position for the fifteen. He tapped it in and picked up Peel’s two dollars.

“Sucker,” he said.

“Spot me the fifteen-ball this time,” said Peel, “and I’ll play you for five dollars.”

“Uh-uh,” said Dunning. “You’re not that bad. I’ll give you the ten points again and lay you six to five.”

Peel thought for a moment. “Make it thirteen to ten. Or, if you really want to gamble, make it twenty to fifteen and you don’t have to spot me anything.”

Dunning looked sharply at Peel. “A pool hustler, eh?”

“I used to do it for a living. Twenty dollars even money,” he smiled tantalizingly.

“You shoot a fair stick,” Dunning said thoughtfully. “That scratch on the fourteen could have been an accident. Or maybe you did it on purpose. Still, I don’t think you can beat me…”

“Make it thirty dollars and I’ll spot you the ten-ball?”

“Oh, now wait a minute, Peel…”

“The fifteen-ball…”

The smile faded from Dunning’s features. “It’s your break.”

They racked up the balls and Peel broke. The eleven-and twelve-balls went into pockets.

“Lucky,” said Dunning.

“Yeah,” Peel admitted. He picked out the fifteen-ball — the one he was spotting Dunning — and dropped it into a pocket. Then he studied the table for a moment.

He made the one-ball on a combination shot and slopped in the four. Then he settled down and ran off the entire table. He made a couple of shots the likes of which had never been seen in 13 Palms. When the last ball plopped into the pocket, Dunning hung up his cue.

“I’m cured.”

“Would you like to see a couple of shots I made at the St. Louis Pocket Billiard Tournament?” Peel asked.

Dunning shook his head. “I haven’t got thirty dollars with me.”

“I’ll take a check.”

“The bank doesn’t like me to write out checks, on account I haven’t got any money in the bank.”

“That bad here in 13 Palms?”

“I’m always broke on Wednesdays. But on Thursday the paper comes out and on Friday I collect for the ads. Then I’m in good shape until Monday. Will you have another drink then run out to my place? I’ve got a hundred bucks salted away for emergencies.”

“Forget it.”

“Against the rules. When I get a sucker, I make him pay. Besides, I’m going to make some money from you.”

“How?”

“You didn’t come into my shop just to hustle me for a game of pool.”

“That’s right, I didn’t.”

“And I don’t think you want any printing done.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Peel, “I came to 13 Palms to look for a murderer.”

“Eh?”

“A murderer who might be a printer.”

“Have another drink,” said Dunning, “then we’ll get something to eat.”

“I’ll have the drink, but I’m still looking for a murderer.”

“You’re not… a detective?”

“Why not?”

“The way you shoot pool?” Dunning looked thoughtfully at Peel. “I’m the only printer in 13 Palms.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Unless you count Marcy Holt.”

Now it was Peel’s turn. “Marcy Holt lives here?”

“Out of town a ways — right next door to my place, for that matter. Marcy’s got a press and a couple of fonts of type, although he doesn’t do much regular printing. Gets out a fancy, hand-set booklet now and then. He’s very good at it.”

“How well do you know Holt?”

“Oh, quite well. We’re not exactly competitors, you know. His business is really a hobby. He’s out here on the desert for his health…” he paused. “So Holt’s your man?”

“I think so.”

“Johnny Wade, who works for Holt is more the type. Hard as quartz.”

“How’s the law around here?”

“Not so good. We got a constable, but he hasn’t got any authority out of the town. There’s a deputy over at Lancaster, although if you ask me, I don’t think we’ll need him.”

“We?”

“I got the best.45 you ever saw over at the office. And Holt doesn’t really count. We can handle Johnny Wade between us.”

“Let’s go.”

They left the pool room and walked back to Dunning’s newspaper office, where Dunning got out his.45. “Army surplus.” He winked at Peel. “Your car or mine?”

“Mine,” said Peel.

They crossed the street and got into Beagle’s convertible. “Which way?”

“Left at the next street. It’s about four miles — right at the edge of the mountain.”