Beagle Scented Murder

8

Otis Beagle stared at the automatic in Marcy Holt’s hand and a slow flush started from his throat and moved up into his face.

“Now, look here, Holt…” he began.

“Yes or no?”

“But why should you want me to leave town? You never saw me before now and…”

Holt gestured Beagle to silence. “I’m not going to argue the matter, Beagle. You can take this thousand dollar bill and leave town, or…” He tapped the muzzle of the gun on the edge of the desk. “…or you can take the consequences.”

Joe Peel pushed open the door. Otis Beagle had never been so glad to see him.

“Joe!” he said.

Marcy Holt swiveled the gun so it pointed at Joe Peel. Then he caught himself and swung the gun back toward Beagle. That left Peel uncovered. Holt was an amateur about such things. He sprang to his feet and started to back away so he would have both Peel and Beagle covered.

Joe Peel moved toward him and Holt bleated, “Stand back! Stand back or I’ll shoot!”

Joe Peel stepped to the filing cabinet and hooked his elbow over the top of it. Leaning his weight against the files he looked thoughtfully at Marcy Holt.

“Make up your mind,” he said.

Holt came to a quick decision. Peel’s retreat had cleared the door. He sprang for it, whipped it open and darted out. Joe Peel headed for the door to follow, but Beagle called him back.

“Hold it, Joe — look!” He waved the thousand dollar bill that Marcy Holt had deserted in his precipitate flight.

Joe Peel took one look at the bill, then whirled and sprang toward the door. He shot the bolt.

“Is that what I think it is?” he asked as he turned back. He took the bill from Beagle’s hand and examined it closely. “I wouldn’t know, never having had a piece of lettuce like this, but it looks genuine.”

“It is.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that’s what Holt wanted to give me… if I left town.”

“Why should you leave town?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

Peel handed the bill back to Beagle and going to his chair seated himself. “He offered you a thousand bucks — just like that — to leave town? Then how come you aren’t down at the depot now?”

Beagle scowled. “What do you think I am?”

“I sometimes wonder.”

“Could I leave town, with what’s hanging over my head?”

“Do you suppose this has something to do with… Wilbur Jolliffe?”

“Figure it out for yourself, Joe. We haven’t had a case or a client in weeks. Until yesterday. Then today this happens. It’s got to tie in.”

“What was the gun for?”

“That was the alternative — if I didn’t take the thousand.”

Peel snickered. “You mean a guy pulled a gun to make you take a thousand dollars?” He shook his head. “There’s something screwy about this”

“It’s the truth. My reputation’s worth more than a thousand dollars…”

“Is it?”

“Cut it out, Joe. We haven’t got time for comedy. This business is serious. What did you find out?”

Joe Peel took a dime novel from his pocket and tossed it on the desk. “Jolliffe read dime novels.”

Beagle made an impatient gesture. “How’d he and his wife get along?”

“They didn’t. She knew that he chased, but didn’t care. She’s an iceberg; just as big and just as cold. But I gather she held the purse strings because Wilbur didn’t even break even on his business and she said something about giving him an allowance.”

“What did you find out about Wilbur personally? Did he have any enemies — I mean outside of the dames he toyed around with?”

“Aren’t those enough?”

“Yes, but they’re all old stuff. Except this Wilma. Could she have done it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t find any evidence at his house. But then I only had a few minutes before Sergeant Fedderson showed up.”

Beagle groaned. “What’s he want?”

“We made a deal; he didn’t tell me anything and I didn’t tell him anything… I also went down to Wilbur’s office and had a talk with the redhead. Mrs. Jolliffe’s brother interrupted that.”

“Where did he come from?”

Peel shrugged. “For all I know he’s been around all the time. He’s taking over Wilbur’s business.”

“His wife’s brother,” said Beagle thoughtfully. “Do you suppose…?”

“Wronged wife’s brother shoots husband? Maybe yes, maybe no. He’s a likely looking suspect, if it was murder.”

“It’s got to be murder, Joe. If it isn’t you’re in an awful spot…”

“Me, Otis?”

Beagle winced at the slip. “I meant the agency.”

“You’re the agency, Otis. I’m only an employee…” Peel looked sharply at Beagle. “Are you up to something…?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… something like throwing me to the wolves?”

“How could I do that?… Even if I wanted to.”

“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t put anything past you, Otis.”

Beagle came over to Peel and standing in front of him smiled down. “Now, let’s don’t you and I get suspicious of each other, Joe.” He dropped his hand on Peel’s shoulder. “We’ve been friends too long.”

Peel shrugged off Beagle’s fat hand and got to his feet. “I don’t like that look in your eye — or that tone in your voice, Otis…”

“Why, Joe,” said Beagle reproachfully, “you just saved my life, didn’t you? That man was all set to shoot me.”

“Maybe I should have come in a few minutes later.”

“Don’t say that!”

Joe Peel drew in a deep breath. “All right, I won’t say it. But I’m warning you, Otis, you try anything funny…”

“I won’t. You have my word. Now, let’s get to work again. I think you ought to have a showdown with Wilma Huston…”

“I don’t even know if I can get her before evening. She may be a working girl. But I’ll run over and see what I can find out around the Lehigh Apartments.”

“Go ahead.”

Joe Peel picked up the dime novel and stuck it in his pocket. He started for the door, then turned. “If I were you, I wouldn’t flash that thousand dollar bill around. And if you’re going to stay in the office lock the door from the inside.”

Beagle nodded.

Joe Peel wasn’t awfully happy with his mission as he walked down Hollywood Boulevard. True, the prospect of going a round or two with Wilma Huston — either of them — appealed to him, provided the big bruiser was not in the apartment. But he was just as likely to be there as not. A repetition of last night’s debacle would do Peel no good.

He reached Cherokee and was about to turn off, when a bookshop on the opposite comer caught his eye. He crossed to it and entered.

It was a secondhand bookshop and in addition to books had a large stock of old magazines in the rear. Peel sought out the proprietor.

“You buy old books here, don’t you?” he asked.

“I sure do. How many’ve you got?”

“Just this one.” Peel drew the dime novel from his pocket. “What’ll you give me for it?”

The book dealer shook his head. “I don’t do much in dime novels, although if you had a bunch of them I might take them off your hands.”

“Then you wouldn’t be interested in buying this one?”

“Oh, I’ll give you a quarter for it.”

That was at least twenty-three cents more than Peel had expected since the paper-bound book had only cost ten cents originally. Peel knew less about books than he did about atomic energy.

“You couldn’t make it a buck, could you?”

“No,” said the bookman, “I don’t know if it’s rare or not. Why don’t you try Eisenschiml in the next block? That’s his specialty.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Peel put the book back in his pocket and left the store. In the next block he came to a store, with a sign in the window: Oscar Eisenschiml, Rare Books, Autographs, Americana.

The store was empty of customers. Eisenschiml himself, a bald man in his early sixties, was reading a pamphlet at a rolltop desk in the rear of the store.

“I understand you’re interested in rare dime novels,” Peel said as he handed the book to the dealer.

Eisenschiml scowled. “What do you want to fold it like this for?” he tried to smooth out the crease. “Deadwood Dick’s Big deal. You call this rare?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Bah. Bragin in Brooklyn’ll sell you fifty copies for three dollars apiece.”

“It’s worth three dollars?”

“Not to me it ain’t; if it was a Beade or a Tousy now, I might give you three dollars, but not for this. What else you got at home?”

“Malaeska.”

Eisenschiml wrinkled up his face in disgust. “First he wants to sell me Deadwood Dick’s Big Deal, then he says he’s got a copy of Malaeska at home.”

“Well, I have.”

“Yah, sure.”

“Look,” said Peel, “this Malaeska is something? It’s only a little book about half this size.”

“Of course.” Eisenschiml’s eyes showed a spark of interest. “You really got such a book?”

“If I did have, how much would it be worth?”

“Two-three hundred dollars, if you had it. Depends on the condition. Bring it in and I’ll make you an offer.”

“I may do that,” said Peel. He retrieved Deadwood Dick’s Big Deal. Eisenschiml winced as Peel refolded it.

Ten minutes later, Peel entered the Lehigh Apartments and rode in the automatic elevator up to the fifth floor. He approached the door of #504 and placed his hand on the door buzzer, for the benefit of any tenant on the floor who might come along. He placed his ear to the door and listened carefully. For a moment or two he heard nothing, but then thought he heard muffled footsteps.

He drew a deep breath and pressed the door buzzer. Footsteps slithered over the rug inside. A voice demanded, “Yes?”

“It’s me,” said Peel.

“Who’s me?”

Peel made no reply. The door chain rattled and the face of the first Wilma Huston appeared in the opening. She reacted at the sight of Peel.

“You’ve got a nerve coming back here.”

“Haven’t I though?”

She slammed the door in his face. Peel waited a moment then pressed the buzzer again.

“Go away,” the girl inside cried. “Go away or I’ll call the police.”

“Go ahead,” said Peel. “I’ll come in with them.”

There was a moment’s silence inside the apartment, then the door chain was removed. Peel turned the doorknob and pushed against the door. The girl put her weight against it for a moment, then yielded.

Peel entered the apartment and closed the door. He gave the girl a sharp look and headed for the bathroom. He assured himself that it was empty, then went toward the kitchen.

As he had guessed, in describing it to Otis Beagle, the kitchen ran the entire length of the apartment and was about six feet in width. Unless they were hiding in the refrigerator there was no one in the kitchen.

He returned to the living room.

“Satisfied?” the girl asked.

Peel nodded. “Can you blame me, after last night?”

“You had it coming to you.”

Peel seated himself in the same chair he had occupied the night before.

“Let’s begin with your name,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because you’re not Wilma Huston.”

“I never said I was.”

“That’s right, you didn’t. But there’s only one name on the mailbox.”

“I’m visiting Wilma.” She hesitated. “I don’t see that it matters. My name is Helen Gray.”

“Pleasedtameetcha, Helen. Now, if you’ll tell me the name of the stumble-bum who was here last night…”

“Stumblebum, eh? He laid you out with one punch.”

“He hit me when I wasn’t looking.”

“Keep your eyes on him the next time and see if it’ll be any different. He’s looking for you, by the way.”

“Who’s looking for me?”

“Who’re we talking about?”

“I don’t know.”

“My brother — Bill Gray.”

“Your brother?” Peel sent a quick glance toward the kitchen. Helen got it.

“So that’s what you were thinking!”

“Well, it did throw me off my guard.” Casually, Peel got to his feet. “You’ve heard about Wilbur Jolliffe…?”

“What about him?”

Peel made an impatient gesture. “We’re not going to get anywhere, Helen, if you keep on with that who, what, when and why routine. I’m talking about Wilbur Jolliffe, the old boy who was here last night. He was Wilma’s boy friend and he went home last night and shot himself through the head. Those are facts. Let’s go on from there.”

“Let’s not.”

Peel seated himself on the couch beside Helen and picked up one of her hands. “Look, baby,” he said, “you’re a nice kid…”

“Am I?”

Helen smiled at him and with that hauled off and smacked Joe Peel with her free hand. She closed the hand just before it landed on his jaw.

The blow was so unexpected and there was so much power behind it that Joe’s head went back and bumped the wall over the couch. He let out a bellow pain and rage and lunged for the girl. But she eluded his grasp and springing to her feet crossed to the table, standing beside the armchair. She whipped open a small drawer in the end of it and her fingers were closing about the butt of a.32 automatic, when Peel, making a desperate dive caught her about the waist and pinned her arms to her sides.

She struggled furiously in his grip. “Let me go!” she cried.

Joe Peel fell back into the armchair, the girl in his lap. The fall jarred the gun from her hand and it fell to the carpet. He kicked it away with his foot.

He was tempted then to hold on to Helen, but she continued to struggle and he released her. She went for the gun, but he sprang up and kicked it away again, then retrieved it.

“I have more trouble in this place,” he said, finally.

“What you’ve had isn’t a fraction of what you’re going to get,” Helen Gray said, furiously. Her face was flushed and Peel, looking at her thought: this is a helluva way to make a living.

He said, “Baby, me and my boss are in a spot. Wilbur Jolliffe left a note for the cops, blaming us for his trouble. We stand a good chance of winding up in the clink, unless we clear ourselves.”

“If I can do anything to help put you in jail, you can count on my doing it,” Helen Gray declared.

Peel shook his head sadly. “And yet you’re the kind of a dame I could go for — if I didn’t have this trouble to worry about.” He slipped the cartridge clip out of the automatic and saw that it was full. He put the clip in his pocket and tossed the gun to the couch. “I suppose you’ve got a permit for that. If you haven’t you’re going to get in trouble with the cops.”

“The gun isn’t mine.”

“Wilma’s — which reminds me — I really came here to see her.”

“I wish she’d been here, last night as well as today. If you don’t mind my saying so, I’m awfully fed up with you.”

“I’ll make a deal with you, then. Tell me where Wilma works and I’ll get out.”

Helen hesitated only a moment. “All right, she works at the Halsey-Wilshire.”

“What department?”

“The glove counter.”

Peel picked up the telephone directory and turned to the H’s. Helen let him start to dial the number before she exclaimed, “All right, she works for a talent agency on the Strip — The Horatio Oliver Agency.”

Peel grinned. “This time I think you’re telling the truth.”

“You’d find out, anyway.”

“That I would. Thanks for the workout.”

He went to the door and gripped the doorknob. Then he turned. “You wouldn’t care to split a hamburger sandwich and a bottle of beer with me this evening?”

“I have a date — at the Mocambo,” Helen Gray replied coldly.

“I was afraid of that,” Peel said and went out.

He walked down the five flights of stairs and was so wrapped in thought that he didn’t see the man who was leaning against an apartment house on the opposite comer, reading a newspaper. Nor did he see the man fold the newspaper and follow him down toward Hollywood Boulevard.