“A couple of days ago Jolliffe came to Otis. He was mixed up with a new girl…”
“Helen Gray?”
“He said Wilma Huston…”
“The girl who lives with Helen Gray?”
“Yes, but it really wasn’t Wilma. That I’ve found out. It was Helen Gray, using her roommate’s name…”
“Why should she do that?”
“I can’t ask her… remember?”
“This Gray girl wasn’t five eleven.”
“Oh, she isn’t Ethel Tower, if that’s what you mean. I saw Ethel last night.” Becker’s eyes lit up. “She flew the coop this morning. But Ethel put the finger on us.”
“I thought you said it was the new doll…”
“Look,” said Peel patiently. “Let me tell it my way.”
“Who’s stopping you?”
“Yesterday morning,” Peel went on, “a man named Marcy Holt came into this office. He offered Beagle a thousand dollars if he’d go to New York for a month. When Beagle refused…”
“Beagle refused a thousand dollars?”
“He wouldn’t be run out of town. So this Holt pulled a gun. I took it away from him. Then last night Beagle called one of his girls. He asked her if she had a friend for me… The friend turned out to be Ethel Tower.”
Becker began to show interest. “So…?”
“So we went to the Mocambo and then to a joint called the Bull Dog and Pussy Cat. There was some ribbing and the girls got sore and ran out on us — but not before Ethel made a call from the washroom. Otis and I got a cab and by that time Ethel’s crowd was on our trail. Only we didn’t know it. I went home and Otis had his cab take him up to Charlie’s place on Mulholland Drive. He ran into Wilma Huston and her boy friend up there and asked them to drive him down to Hollywood Boulevard when they left. They did — and Marcy Holt’s car forced Aleck’s — that Wilma’s boy friend — off the road. They took Otis.”
“Go ahead,” Becker said.
“That’s all.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth.”
Becker looked at Fedderson. “You tell him, Mike.”
Sergeant Fedderson put the tip of his tongue between his lips and blew.
“I could take your story point by point,” said Lieutenant Becker, “and make a monkey out of you. But I won’t. I’ll just touch on this Ethel Tower… if she was the dame who worked the badger game on Jolliffe, how come she was willing to go out with you two last night?”
“That’s the easiest one, Becker. When Otis called Angela he didn’t tell her my name. And when Angela asked Ethel to go on the double-date, she didn’t tell Ethel our names. Of course when Ethel came in, she knew me right away. Not Otis, though, because I handled that deal. I saw Otis fall for her right away, so I switched dates with him. For fun.”
“You have a strange sense of humor. Did you break it to Otis, later?”
“When the girls were in the powder room — the second time.”
“Then Otis just happened to go up to Charlie’s — this joint Mulholland — and Wilma Huston just happened to be there.”
“Wilma’s boy friend is an actor; it’s the sort of place he’d go to.”
“But he couldn’t have been in cahoots with Marcy Holt, could he?” Becker asked sarcastically. “That never struck you.”
“It did… except that you ought to see Aleck Chamber’s eyes. Two of the most beautiful shiners you ever saw. He got them from Marcy Holt’s strong-arm lad. I forgot to tell you about him. He caught me at Ole’s Swedish Baths yesterday.”
Becker scowled. “I still don’t like it, Peel. But I’ll put it on the radio… about Otis, I mean. You say, this Aleck Chambers is an actor? I shouldn’t have any trouble finding him then.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Peel, “you’ll probably find him over at Wilma Huston’s apartment. I saw him there less than an hour ago…”
Becker started for the door. “I’ll see you later.” He went quickly through the door, followed by Sergeant Fedderson.
Peel shook his head. Mr. Aleck Chambers was due for a bad couple of hours. Well, it might help him in his next crook role. A man who’s been given a real third degree can play it better in front of a camera then one who’s never even been in a police station.
20
Peel fished a tiny scrap of paper from his pocket and studied it. It was the piece he had found in Wilma Huston’s trash can — the fragment that had failed to burn.
…ting Co.
3 Palms, Calif.
He shook his head and got out the California road map. There were several towns in the state that had the word ‘Palms’ in its name, but only one had both a 3 and a Palms. 13 Palms, a little town on the southwestern edge of the Mojave Desert. It was only about fifty miles from Los Angeles.
Peel put the scrap of paper back into his pocket and went to the steel filing cabinet. Rummaging about in the rear of a file he found the office revolver, a rusty, nickel-plated.32-caliber affair. Further search failed to produce any cartridges. Beagle had a phobia about guns. He never carried one himself and as a rule objected to Peel taking the office gun.
Peel stuck the weapon in his pocket, looked around the office, then left.
On Hollywood Boulevard he stepped into a taxi and twenty minutes later arrived at Otis Beagle’s apartment house on Wilshire Boulevard.
He descended into the garage in the basement of the building and whistled for the garage attendant.
After a while, a colored man came out of a little room.
“Hello, Mistah Peel,” he said, “what’s this I hear ’bout Mr. Beagle?”
“Oh, he’s all right. Sent me here to get his car.”
“Y’mean he ain’t dead?”
Peel laughed. “Think anybody can kill Otis Beagle when he don’t want to be killed?”
“No, guess not. But I was sure worried about him… He owe me four dollars for washing the car.”
“He mentioned that. Here…” Peel pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket, then remembered Otis Beagle’s reputation of never tipping less then two dollars and added another dollar. “Keep the change.”
“Yas suh! And thankee… Here’s his car right here, all polished up full of gas, rarin’ to go.”
The car was a Cadillac convertible; Beagle wouldn’t drive anything less. Of course it was ’37 model, but better an old model Cadillac than a brand new smaller car. For Beagle.
It was four-thirty when Joe Peel drove out of the garage and turned west on Wilshire. After a few blocks he reached Sepulveda and turned right. He let out the old car now and in a few minutes was climbing up the mountain pass. Ten minutes later he rolled down into San Fernando Valley, cut across Ventura and headed for the mountain range at the east end of the valley.
It was five forty-five when Peel saw a sign beside the road: 13 Palms, Population 850.
There had probably been thirteen palms here originally, but now there were a good many more. In fact the main street was lined with them.
The town consisted of about four business blocks with residential streets crossing them. The side streets were usually not more than a block in length. Then the desert took over.
In the second block was a two-story brick building, over which was a neon sign that read: 13 Palms Hotel.
Peel parked the Cadillac in front of the hotel and went into the tiny lobby.
“Room and bath,” he said to the clerk.
“Got a reservation?”
“Are you kidding?”
The clerk grinned. “I’m just practising in case we ever get full up like in the city… Baggage?”