Becker seemed a trifle disappointed. He took another look at the card file, then shrugged. “Come on.”
Beagle locked the office and the three went down Ivar, crossed Hollywood Boulevard and presently entered Joe Peel’s hotel. Beagle led the way to the desk.
“Joe Peel lives here, I believe,” he said, to the clerk. “I don’t suppose he’s in now, though…”
“Why, yes, he is,” was the reply. “He don’t usually come in so early, but today…”
“What’s the number of his room?” Becker cut in.
“I’ll announce you…”
Becker flashed his shield and the clerk swallowed hard. “Uh, Room 204…”
They climbed to the second floor and Sergeant Fedderson banged on the door of Room 204. There was no audible response for by that time Joe Peel was at the bottom of the whiskey bottle and was, frankly speaking, stinkeroo.
Fedderson pounded the door again, then tried the knob. It turned and the three detectives, two municipal and one private, entered the room.
Joe Peel was on the bed, lying on his back. He was wearing only shorts, socks and shoes. The bottle on the night table beside the bed, told the story.
Beagle stepped to the bed and placing a hand on Peel’s shoulder, shook him violently. “Joe!” he cried. “Wake up…”
“G’way,” mumbled Peel.
Sergeant Fedderson went into the bathroom. When he returned carrying a sopping wet towel both Becker and Beagle were trying to rouse Peel.
“Excuse me,” said Fedderson, politely. He swished the towel past Beagle, catching his face with the tail of it and flopped it on Joe’s bare stomach. Peel gasped and half sat up. Fedderson swung the towel again, this time into Peel’s face.
“Goddamit!” roared Peel, swinging his feet to the floor.
Fedderson chuckled and draped the cold, wet towel over Peel’s shoulder. Peel snatched it off and flung it into Fedderson’s face.
“Joe!” exclaimed Beagle. “Listen to me… Helen Gray’s been killed…”
“I’ll do the talking,” Lieutenant Becker snarled, shoving Beagle aside.
Peel blinked owlishly for a moment, then his eyes came into focus. He stared at Becker, then shook his head and got wobbily to his feet. He reeled into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He stuck his head and torso under it, growled like a sea lion and taking a dry towel from the rack, returned to the bedroom.
“Who killed her?” he asked.
“Guess,” said Sergeant Fedderson.
“I’m not in a guessing mood,” Peel retorted. He began to rub himself dry with the towel.
“Who was Helen Gray?” Lieutenant Becker demanded.
“My girl friend,” said Peel.
Becker made an impatient gesture. “Get your clothes on.”
“What for?”
“You’re coming down to the station, that’s what for.”
Peel gave Beagle a bitter look. “Fink!”
“No, Joe,” protested Beagle. “I’m your friend. I always have been.”
“Yah,” said Peel slipping out of his shorts that had become soggy during the sobering up process. He went to an ancient bureau, got out clean shorts and a fresh shirt. He dressed slowly. He hadn’t been out long enough for his system to absorb the booze.
While Peel dressed, Sergeant Fedderson seated himself on the edge of the bed and picking up Peel’s copy of Malaeska from the night table, began reading it.
He chuckled, “So this is the kind of reading you go in for, eh, Peel?”
“No,” said Peel. “I generally read Vogue, and Harper’s Bazaar, but the newstand was sold out this month before I got around.”
Peel knotted a necktie, then went to the closet and got out his other suit. He put it on and finally turned to Becker. “Will I get this outfit dirty in your jail?”
“Joe,” said Beagle, “You’re not going to stay in jail. Not longer than it will take me to telephone a couple of friends. I never let you down yet and I’m not going to now…”
“Is it that bad?”
Beagle winced. “You shouldn’t have needled me this afternoon, Joe. I was suffering from indigestion. Forget it, will you?”
“Forget what?”
“What I said about your, uh, not working for me any more.”
“Aren’t you forgetting your promise to Pinky Devol?” Becker asked sarcastically.
“I made Devol no promise.”
“What’s the score, Otis?” Peel asked.
“Becker’s trying to make something out nothing…”
“Fedderson,” Becker cut in, “keep this walrus here. And don’t let him use the phone for at least an hour.” He caught Peel’s arm and propelled him through the door into the lobby. Peel heard Beagle bellow all the way down to the lobby.
14
“Look, Peel,” said Sparbuck, the assistant district attorney, “you were an employee of Beagle’s, that’s all. You’ll get off with a year or two, if you come clean.”
“Sure,” said Peel, “just tell me what you want to know.”
“Everything. The whole story from the beginning and don’t be afraid to go fast because the stenographer’ll get it all down in shorthand and then type it out.”
Peel looked at Sparbuck, then at Lieutenant Becker and the half dozen assorted policemen and officials in the room. “Okay, I’ll tell you everything.” Sparbuck and Becker exchanged triumphant glances.
“I didn’t do it,” said Peel.
“You didn’t do what?” Sparbuck prodded.
“Whatever you think I did.”
Sparbuck frowned. “I haven’t accused you of anything specifically. I just want you to tell the whole story…”
“That’s it. There isn’t any more…”
“I told you!” Lieutenant Becker howled at Sparbuck.
Sparbuck’s face turned from pink to a deep red. “I’ve had wise guys here before, Peel. Some of them are up in San Quentin now…”
“There’s a few cops up there, too. And maybe a couple of D.A.’s,” Peel retorted.
“Le’me talk to him alone, Mr. Sparbuck,” Becker pleaded. “Just leave us alone here for ten minutes and I’ll get it out of him…”
“I doubt it,” said Peel.
Becker started for Peel, but Sparbuck waved him back.
“A forced confession’s no good, Lieutenant. Besides, Otis Beagle…” Sparbuck caught the sudden grin on Peel’s face. “You think Beagle will get you out of this, don’t you? That’s why you won’t talk.”
“I haven’t got anything to talk about.”
“The devil you haven’t. I know more about this mess than you think I do.”
“I don’t doubt that, because I don’t know anything.”
Sparbuck made an effort to control himself. “All right, Peel, I’ll give it to you straight. Six months ago, Wilbur Jolliffe came to your agency…”
“Did he?”
“You know very well that he did. He was being blackmailed by a woman. Beagle was busy on another case and turned Jolliffe over to you. You scared off the woman and told Jolliffe you had made a settlement with her. Actually, you put the money into your own pocket…”
“What did I spend it on?”
Sparbuck gritted his teeth and went on. “The blackmailer came back and this time her demands were greater than Jolliffe could meet. He killed himself.”
“He should’ve gone to the police…”
“That was his mistake; if he’d come to us he’d be alive today, but he trusted a crooked private detective…”
“There’re witnesses here,” said Peel. “Otis won’t like it when he hears you called him crooked…”
“Beagle had nothing to do with Jolliffe. You handled the whole thing.”
“Oh, is that Beagle’s story?”
“Isn’t it true?”