Beagle Scented Murder

4

The good California sun was shining into Joe Peel’s room when he awakened. He guessed that it was after eight by his watch in the pawnshop on Western Avenue. He yawned, then winced. He had forgotten the lump behind his ear.

He climbed out of bed and went into the tiny bathroom. The lump was down somewhat but was now discolored. Joe Peel scowled. Somebody was going to pay for that.

He dressed and was about to leave the room when he discovered that his right coat pocket contained something bulky. He reached in and brought out the old dime novel he had picked up in Wilma Huston’s apartment. He had been reading it while Wilma dressed and when she re-entered the room he had automatically stuck it into his pocket.

He looked at the booklet a moment, then shrugged and tossed it on the desk. Turning, he left the room.

On the comer of Hollywood Boulevard he went into a Thrifty Drugstore and had a breakfast of orange juice, hot cakes and coffee. After that he lit a cigarette and strolled leisurely to the office of the Beagle Detective Agency. It was a quarter after nine and Otis himself never got in much before eleven.

He rode up to the second floor in the elevator, walked around a corridor and saw someone standing in front of the office door. Joe Peel blinked. A customer; and what a customer!

She was in her early twenties, fairly tall and wearing a gray suit that could have been a Hattie Carnegie model but wasn’t. She had hair the color of young corn silk, a complexion that matched and the best-looking nose Joe Peel had ever seen. He whistled under his breath as he walked up to the door and reached up to the transom for the key.

“ ’Morning,” he said casually. “Waiting for me?”

“Are you Mr. Beagle?”

“Joe Peel is the name,” Peel replied smoothly. “Beagle’s a figurehead. I run the shop.”

He unlocked the door and stepped aside politely for the girl to enter. That was the impression she made on him.

She went into the office and Peel pulled out his own swivel chair for her to sit down. He went around to Beagle’s chair.

“Something I can do for you, Miss… Miss…?”

“Huston.” The girl hesitated briefly. “Wilma Huston.”

Joe Peel looked at her steadily. This was not the girl he had talked to in Wilma Houston’s apartment the night before. Definitely not.

“I’m glad to know you, Miss Huston,” he said. “Is there something I can do for you in the detecting lines? This is a detective agency, you know.”

“Of course, that’s why I’m here.” A tiny frown marred the smoothness of her forehead. “It’s… well, I don’t know if this kind of work comes within your field, but…” She exhaled suddenly. “The fact is, a man is bothering me and I want you to stop him.”

“Mmm,” said Peel, “a very interesting case. Can you tell me just how this man is annoying you…? I mean, does he whistle at you?”

“This is no joking matter, Mr. Peel,” the girl said. “The man is married and I don’t want to be named as the corespondent in a divorce case.”

“You’ve got something there, Miss Huston.”

“I want it made clear that I do not only not want his attention; but he is to leave me entirely alone. No letters, no flowers, no presents. And no telephone calls.”

“No nothing?”

“Right. Now, how much will this cost me?”

“The case doesn’t seem like a very difficult one, Miss Huston; shall we say, uh, fifty…” Peel took another look at Miss Huston. “Call it twenty-five.”

The girl opened her purse, took out a wallet and skimmed out a twenty and a five. “Will you give me a receipt, please?”

Joe Peel hesitated, then pulled out the center drawer of Otis Beagle’s desk and brought forth a pad of receipt blanks. He wrote: ‘Received of Miss Wilma Huston, Twenty-five dollars…’

Miss Huston said, “Put down, ‘for professional services rendered’.”

Peel wrote what she directed. Then he signed his name to the receipt and handed it to Wilma Huston. She put it in her purse and got to her feet.

“Wait a minute,” Joe Peel exclaimed. “You haven’t told me yet the name of the man who’s bothering you?”

“That’s right, I forgot. Well, it’s Wilbur Jolliffe. He has an office in the Claymore Building, down on Hollywood Boulevard. Wilbur Jolliffe & Company.”

Joe Peel had expected that. He looked dourly at the alligator skin bag in which now reposed the receipt he had given Wilma Huston.

He said, “All right, Miss Huston, now if you will give me your address and phone number…”

“That won’t be necessary, will it? That’s all I want you to do — make the man stop bothering me. I’ll know if he lets me alone, won’t I?” She smiled brightly. “And if he does bother me again, I’ll be right down here…”

“Of course,” Peel said, unhappily. “But it’s a rule of the office that clients leave their addresses…”

“Well, you’re really the agency, aren’t you?” Wilma gave Peel the business with her eyes. “You can make or break a rule, can’t you?”

“Yes,” said Joe Peel.

“Then…?” She left it unfinished and walked out.

Joe Peel stared at the closing door. There was a queer sensation in his stomach. He had felt that sensation at other times — just before something happened to him.

He got up from Otis’ chair and went around to his own. The faint odor of Chanel #5 wafted into his nostrils. Wilma Huston. The first Wilma had been all right — until he’d met the second one. Fried rabbit is all right, too, until you taste fried chicken.

The door of the office opened and Lieutenant Becker entered. He had been on the force only four years and was already a lieutenant. That was the son of cop he was. With him was Sergeant Fedderson.

“Good morning, Mr. Peel,” the lieutenant said, cheerfully. “Has Otis been in yet?”

“Little early for him, Lieutenant.” he looked sourly at Sergeant Fedderson. “Hello, Mike.”

The lieutenant went around to Otis Beagle’s chair and seated himself. Fedderson walked to the files and leaned against them.

“You don’t mind if we wait for Mr. Beagle, do you?” Lieutenant Becker asked.

“Not at all. Although I can’t imagine why you’d want to see Otis.”

“Oh, there’s a little problem connected with a case I’m working on,” said the lieutenant. “Thought I’d stop in and ask Otis’ opinion. Clever man, you know.”

“Otis?”

“Don’t you find him so?”

Sergeant Fedderson pulled out one of the file drawers and began toying with the contents. “Keep your fingers out of there, Mike!” Joe Peel snapped.

Fedderson pushed the drawer shut and gave Joe Peel a dirty look. The latter turned back to the lieutenant. “What did you say, Lieutenant?”

“I was just asking how business was?”

“Slow. We ain’t had a case in a week or more.”

“Oh no? I thought you were working on something for a man named Jolliffe.”

At that moment Joe Peel would have sworn that a mouse was running around in his stomach. He looked at the lieutenant and moistened his lips.

“I only work here,” he said.

“But you do the dirty work.”

Sergeant Fedderson was pulling out a file drawer again. Joe Peel saw him, but did not remonstrate this time. He was too busy thinking. About San Quentin and things like that.

He said, “Who, me?”

“Uh-huh. Been reading the want ads lately?”

“Should I be?”

“You never can tell. When you’re working for a man like Otis Beagle.”

Joe Peel drew a deep breath. “Otis is the smart one here, Lieutenant. Give it to me in one-syllable words.”

Becker looked down at his fingernails; his tongue was in his cheek. “We’ve got Otis.” He paused just a moment, then added, “At last.”

Joe Peel watched Sergeant Fedderson as he browsed through the file drawer.

Lieutenant Becker said, “Otis has been skating around the thin ice for years. You know that. Well, the ice has broken… and I’ve got him.”

“Where?” asked Peel.

At that moment the door opened and Otis Beagle came into the office. His suit was nicely pressed; he was freshly shaved and reeked of cologne. The glass on his fingers and in his necktie sparkled brighter than ever.

“Ah, good morning,” he said, jovially. “Lieutenant Becker, to what do I owe this honor?” He waggled a fat forefinger at Sergeant Fedderson, at the file. “Naughty-naughty!”

Joe Peel tried to catch Otis’ eye, but his big employer refused to look at him. He was all attention for Lieutenant Becker.

“Hello, Otis,” Becker said lazily. “Been waitin’ for you.”

“Have you now?”

“Thought you might like to take a little ride down to the station house.”

“I can’t this morning, Lieutenant. Awfully busy on an important case…”

“Indeed? Peel said you haven’t had a case in more than a week.”

“That’s what I told him,” Peel blurted out, “but he says he heard we were working for a man named…”

“Never mind, Joe!” Becker warned.

“…For a man named Jolliffe,” Peel finished.

Beagle went to the coat rack and hung up his thick cane. He followed with his Homburg, then turned to Lieutenant Becker.

“I don’t have to tell you, Lieutenant,” he said, “that a licensed private detective cannot be forced to talk about his clients any more than a doctor can be made to tell about his patients.”

Sergeant Fedderson closed the file drawer. There was an eager look in his eye.

Becker got up from Beagle’s swivel chair. “Let’s talk about professional ethics down at the station, shall we, Otis?”

“I’m not going with you,” Beagle said, getting hard.

“Now, lieutenant?” exclaimed Sergeant Fedderson.

Becker shook his head. “I’m not joking, Beagle. You’re coming with me…”

“If you have a warrant for my arrest.”

“I can get one.”

“On what charge?”

“On a charge preferred by Mrs. Wilbur Jolliffe.”

Beagle brushed past Becker and seated himself at the desk. He reached for the phone and began dialing a number.

“Mrs. Jolliffe, you say?” he said to Becker.

Becker nodded. Then Beagle’s call went through. “Hello… let me talk to Doug Devol…”

Lieutenant Becker’s eyes began to glow. Sergeant Fedderson’s face twisted into a scowl. They knew who Doug Devol was.

“Pinky?” Beagle boomed into the telephone. “Otis. Hope I didn’t wake you up. Oh, I’ve been up an hour or more. I didn’t drink as much as you did last night… Hang-over, eh? Well, too bad… Look, Pinky, what I called you about… a couple of flatfeet are bothering me… poking their noses into my business. One of them, a Lieutenant Becker by name, even had the gall to talk about getting a warrant for my arrest… what’s that? Call you the moment he shows up with a warrant? Swell, Pink, old man… no, don’t do it, now… he’s been fairly civil. Okay, Pinky, I’ll see you at the club later…” he hung up and turned to Becker. “Now, what was that about Mrs. Jolliffe?”

Lieutenant Becker’s face had turned pink down to his collar line. “Wilbur Jolliffe committed suicide last night. I’ve just come from his house.” He brought a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “He wrote this before he shot himself.”

He thrust the note at Beagle. Beagle took it and began to read. Across the desk, Joe Peel whistled tunelessly.

The note made a tremendous impression on Otis Beagle. A fine film of perspiration came out on his fat face. He finished reading and without a word skimmed the note across the desk to Joe Peel. Peel read:

Peel refolded the letter and skidded it back across the desk. There was more than one mouse in his stomach now. In fact, it felt like a couple of teams of them were playing hockey.

Lieutenant Becker picked up the note. “This was in the typewriter on his desk,” he said. “Do you think you’ll talk now?”