“I was afraid you would say that, Mr. Beagle.”
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.