Beagle Scented Murder

22

They left the little printing plant and went through the barn to the ranchhouse.

It was a very nice place. The living room was a huge room furnished in western style, with Navajo rugs draped on the walls as well as the floor. Marcy Holt switched on the electric lights and pulled the Venetian blinds. Then he motioned to a sofa at the side of the room.

“Now, if you gentlemen will make yourselves comfortable…”

“Until the boss gets here?” Peel asked.

Holt and Dunning exchanged quick glances. “What boss?” Dunning asked.

Peel laughed without humor. “There’s got to be a Brain behind this. You two didn’t figure this all out by yourselves.”

“And why not?” Dunning asked sarcastically.

“A hick printer,” said Peel. Then looking at Johnny Wade, “a stumblebum and,” looking at Marcy Holt, “a broken-down paper manufacturer who’s in the last stages of T.B.”

“My cane!” suddenly exclaimed Otis Beagle.

The stick was standing in a corner on the other side of the room. He started toward it, but Johnny Wade slipped forward and jammed the muzzle of his gun into Beagle’s side.

Beagle said, “Oof!” and retreated to the couch, where he sat down.

“A hick printer,” Dunning said, slowly. “Maybe that’s why I went into this. A fellow gets tired of crumbs.”

Marcy Holt took out his handkerchief, coughed into it, then looked at the hankerchief before putting it away again. Peel seated himself on the couch beside Beagle.

Johnny Wade went to a closet and brought out a bridge table. He set it up, just within the doorway and drew up a chair. He brought out a pack of cards from his pocket and started to deal himself a hand of solitaire.

Joe Peel watched him a moment. “How about a game of gin?”

Dunning grunted. “You play gin, too?”

“About as well as I shoot pool. Like to try a rubber or two, for a nickel a point.”

Johnny Wade got to his feet again. “That reminds me.” He came toward Peel. “Shell out.”

“What for?” Peel asked in astonishment.

“You haven’t got any more use for money and I have.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Peel retorted coldly.

“Dish up!” Wade snarled.

“So that’s why you gave me the thirty bucks,” Peel said to Dunning, “You knew the gorilla would get it back for you.”

“Let him keep it, Johnny!” Dunning snapped.

“I ain’t takin’ orders from you…”

Marcy Holt interposed. “Johnny!”

Johnny Wade looked at Marcy Holt, then walked back to his solitaire game.

“Of course if you gentlemen would like to play a few hands of poker,” Beagle said, suddenly.

Dunning chuckled. “I’m willing.”

“Thought you lost all your money last night?” Peel said to Beagle.

Beagle grunted. “You didn’t think I’d risk real money in a joint like that, did you? I gave them my check…” He pulled out a roll of bills. “How about you, Holt?”

Holt shrugged, “If it’ll amuse you.” He signaled to Wade. The latter brought the bridge table into the middle of the room, but seated himself so that he was closest to the door. The others got chairs and sat down around the little table.

“Dollar limit?” Dunning asked, looking at Peel.

Peel brought out his roll, in the neighborhood of a hundred and twenty dollars. “What’s the matter with table stakes?”

Dunning showed his teeth. “All right, sport. Cut for deal…” he spread out the cards, face down and all five drew a card. Marcy Holt drew an ace and the deal.

He shuffled the cards quickly and expertly and put them down in front of Beagle for the cut. He dealt first to Peel, on his left, then to Johnny Wade, then Dunning, Beagle and finally to himself.

“Dealer’s choice,” he said, “but this one’s straight poker, jacks or better to open.”

Peel looked at his cards, discovered that he had a pair of queens, a ten, a king and a seven spot. “Pass,” he said.

Johnny Wade studied his cards, hesitated, then passed.

“Pass,” said Dunning.

Beagle passed.

“Open for a dollar,” Holt announced.

“I’ll stay for the fun,” Peel said and threw in a dollar. Johnny Wade hesitated again and finally called.

“I’ll stay,” said Dunning.

“So will I,” Beagle announced, “and I’ll raise it two.”

“Layin’ back, eh?” Wade sneered.

“I’m raising on prospects,” Beagle said smugly.

“Fine,” Holt said, “I’ll just see what you think of your prospects and raise you ten.”

“Hey!” exclaimed Peel.

“Costs you twelve dollars,” Wade told him, “and maybe I’ll raise too.”

Peel looked sharply at Wade, then put up his twelve dollars. Wade studied his cards again and thought better of raising. He merely called.

Dunning put up the money, but did not seem happy about it. “I’ll just call,” said Beagle.

“Cards?”

Peel tossed his seven spot to the center of the table. “One!”

“Oh, wise guy,” said Johnny Wade. He squeezed his cards. “Two.”

“Holding an ace for a kicker,” Peel said, “or maybe you’ve already got three of a kind?”

“Cost you money to find out.”

“Three,” Dunning said, sourly.

Then came Beagle. “I think I’ll play these.”

“Dealer takes two,” Holt announced, “and since I’m the openers, I’ll bet twenty dollars.”

“I think you’re all bluffing,” Peel said, “I’ll call the twenty and…” he counted his money, “…raise it one hundred and six dollars… all I’ve got.”

“Goddamit!” snarled Johnny Wade. “What kind of poker do you call that?” he glared at Peel, then shifted the glare to Beagle. “You two in cahoots?”

“Aren’t you three?” Peel demanded.

Johnny Wade shoved back his chair and started to his feet.

“Johnny!” said Holt.

Johnny sank back into his chair. “All right,” he said, thickly, “you better have them, because I’m calling…”

Dunning threw his cards into the discards. “Beats me.”

Beagle looked across at Peel. “Well, Joe, it looks like it’s between you and me.”

“Oh, no, I’m here, too,” Holt reminded.

“In that case, I’ll call Joe’s hundred and six dollars and…” he counted out the balance of his money, “raise you — and Johnny — another hundred and two. My pile.”

“So you did hold out on me yesterday, Otis!” Peel accused.

“Just a hundred.”

“I’ll call,” Marcy Holt said.

Johnny Wade smote the bridge table with the palm of his hand. “Damned if I will.” He turned up his cards savagely. “Three lousy little sixes!”

“Too bad you didn’t call,” Beagle said, pleasantly. “Because I’ve only got a pair of aces.”

Johnny swore violently. Marcy Holt shook his head.

“Mr. Beagle, you’ve got more than I thought you had.” He turned up his cards. “I’ve only got my openers… jacks…”

Beagle began to reach for the money. Peel thrust out a hand. “Wait a minute, Otis, you get Holt’s hundred and two, that’s all… I’ve got two pairs — kings and queens.” He grinned. “I went in with a pair of queens and held a king and a ten for a kicker. I drew another king.”

“Your poker,” Dunning said, “is almost as good as your pool.”

Beagle was counting out his two hundred and four dollars. “Been playing pool with Joe, Mr. Dunning? He cut his eyeteeth on a pool cue.”

“That’s what I discovered.”

Peel finished shuffling the cards and placed them on the table for Holt to cut. “A little low-ball, gentleman?”

“No!” roared Johnny Wade. He banged the bridge table with his fist and the cards flew up into the air and scattered over the table. Some of them went to the floor.

Otis Beagle stooped to pick up the cards from the floor.

“Keep your hands on the table!” Johnny Wade cried, whipping out his gun.

An automobile horn honked outside, then again. Dunning’s gun appeared in his hand. Johnny Wade rushed to the door, popped out. Marcy Holt also got up, but did not produce a gun.

Dunning moved to the door, looked out and turning, nodded to Marcy Holt.

“The boss,” said Joe Peel.

Feet crunched on the gravel outside, then scraped on stone and Johnny Wade re-entered the room. Behind him came…

“George Byram,” Peel said, calmly.

Byram came into the room. “So, you’re here, too.”

Last, but not least, came — Mary Lou Tanner, Wilbur Jolliffe’s secretary.

“And I thought you threw me over for a Marine, six feet tall,” Peel said, shaking his head.

“I don’t like wise guys,” Mary Lou retorted.

George Byram surveyed first Peel, then Otis Beagle.

“What am I going to do with you fellows?”

Peel looked at Otis Beagle and blinked. The big fellow had his cane. During the commotion attending the arrival of the newcomers he had somehow crossed the room and secured possession of it.

He pointed the cane at Byram.

“That’s your problem, not mine.”

George Byram sighed. “Why couldn’t you have taken the thousand dollars and left town? In a month we could have cleaned up this business and then nobody would have been hurt.”

“Except Wilbur Jolliffe,” Peel reminded, “he was already hurt when you sent around the thousand.”

Byram fixed Peel with a cold glance. “Wilbur committed suicide.”

Peel laughed. “You don’t really think the police swallowed that, do you?”

“What difference does it make?” Beagle cut in. “There’s still that girl — Helen Gray.”

“Oh,” Peel said, “it looks like Byram’s going to let our friend Johnny take the rap for that, all by his-self…”

“You got another think coming,” Johnny Wade snarled, “because I didn’t do it. That was you — or fat stuff here. In fact, I gonna personally take apart whichever one of you…”

“Now wait a minute,” exclaimed Peel. “We seem to have a difference of opinion… Let’s get together.” He pointed at Byram. “You say Johnny killed Helen Gray…”

“I do not!” Byram declared emphatically. “Helen Gray was shot and I don’t think Johnny would have to shoot a woman.” He glowered at Peel. “Johnny’s got the right of it… you disposed of Helen Gray. You were at her apartment yesterday morning. Johnny picked you up outside and an hour later she was found…”

Johnny Wade came toward Peel, a ferocious gleam in his eyes. Then Otis Beagle stepped forward, thrusting his cane between Peel and Johnny Wade.

“Hold it, Johnny!” he cried.

Johnny struck at the cane with the gun in his hand. “Put down that stick!…” His eyes were still on Peel and he was poised to spring forward and smash Peel with the gun in his hand. His hand went up…

There was a click and eight inches of sharpened steel leaped out of the end of Otis Beagle’s cane. Johnny cried out and tried to turn his gun on Beagle. But it was too late. The blade slithered into Johnny Wade’s chest and choked off his scream.

Joe Peel caught Johnny Wade’s revolver before it hit the floor. He started to swing up with it, but saw Dunning bearing down on him. Peel let himself fall flat on his face and rolled over onto his side. Dunning’s gun roared and the bullet clipped a lock of hair from Peel’s head.

Peel fired from his elbow. An expression of shock and horror broke Dunning’s face and he fell back.

“Look out, Joe!” cried Beagle.

Peel whirled, saw the muzzle of George Byram’s gun pointing at him. He threw himself back, yelled and fired. Flame seared his left arm even as he pulled the trigger. But Byram disappeared before him.

Peel began to climb to his feet, was aware that Otis Beagle had Marcy Holt pinned to the wall, with the point of the blade in his cane, less than a half inch from Holt’s throat.

“That’s that,” said Joe Peel, thickly.

And then he saw Mary Lou Tanner struggling with her purse. Even as he lunged for her, a little automatic appeared. Peel saw he wouldn’t reach her in time, stopped and threw Johnny Wade’s gun with the last strength he had in him.

The gun made a sickening plop as it struck Mary Lou, halfway between her mouth and forehead. She screamed and clawed at her face with her hands. The little gun fell from her hand to the floor. Peel kicked it away weakly, staggered to the couch.

He surveyed the scene.

“That’s the trouble with guns,” Beagle said, coldly. “You fool around with them and someone always gets hurt…”

And Peel was looking at Johnny Wade, who had been perforated by the blade of Beagle’s cane.