“That’s what I thought.”
“Unless you count Marcy Holt.”
Now it was Peel’s turn. “Marcy Holt lives here?”
“Out of town a ways — right next door to my place, for that matter. Marcy’s got a press and a couple of fonts of type, although he doesn’t do much regular printing. Gets out a fancy, hand-set booklet now and then. He’s very good at it.”
“How well do you know Holt?”
“Oh, quite well. We’re not exactly competitors, you know. His business is really a hobby. He’s out here on the desert for his health…” he paused. “So Holt’s your man?”
“I think so.”
“Johnny Wade, who works for Holt is more the type. Hard as quartz.”
“How’s the law around here?”
“Not so good. We got a constable, but he hasn’t got any authority out of the town. There’s a deputy over at Lancaster, although if you ask me, I don’t think we’ll need him.”
“We?”
“I got the best.45 you ever saw over at the office. And Holt doesn’t really count. We can handle Johnny Wade between us.”
“Let’s go.”
They left the pool room and walked back to Dunning’s newspaper office, where Dunning got out his.45. “Army surplus.” He winked at Peel. “Your car or mine?”
“Mine,” said Peel.
They crossed the street and got into Beagle’s convertible. “Which way?”
“Left at the next street. It’s about four miles — right at the edge of the mountain.”
21
The sun was disappearing behind the mountains on the west side of the valley, but there was still plenty of light as Peel sent the convertible rolling along a narrow desert road that was almost as smooth as pavement.
After a while, Dunning pointed to a rambling red adobe ranchhouse on the left. “Mine. We’ll stop on the way back and I’ll give you the money… There’s Holt’s place…”
It was a very neat desert layout, a Mexican-type ranchhouse with a red tile roof, stables, a corral and a green patch of pasture, green because of irrigation.
A car was standing in the ward as Peel drove up. Marcy Holt himself was seated on the veranda of the ranchhouse, enjoying a cigar. He got up as Peel stopped the convertible some fifty feet away.
“Watch it,” Dunning said to Peel. “I don’t see Wade.”
Peel slipped his empty revolver from his hip pocket to his side coat pocket. He got out of the car and dropped his hand into his pocket. Dunning got out of the car on the other side.
“Hello, Marcy!” he called to the man on the veranda.
Marcy Holt looked at Joe Peel. “You’re smarter than I figured.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Dunning.
Peel turned to look at Dunning… and saw the.45 pointed at his stomach.
“Take the hand out of the pocket,” Dunning ordered. “But be awfully careful.”
“Sucker!” said Peel bitterly. He brought his hand cautiously out of his coat pocket.
A hundred feet away, Johnny Wade appeared in the open doorway of the stables. A gun was in his hand. He came forward.
“That’s all?” Peel asked.
Dunning looked at him narrowly. “Who else do you expect?”
“How about a fellow named Bill Gray?”
“You mean Johnny Wade. He isn’t Bill Gray any more.”
Johnny Wade came up and slapped Peel’s coat pockets. He located the revolver and extracted it. He broke it and looked sharply at Peel. “Empty!”
“Yeah. People get hurt with loaded guns.”
“You couldn’t take a hint yesterday, could you?”
Peel touched the still sore bruises on his face. “I’d like to give you a massage the next time you come into Ole’s Swedish Baths.”
“Maybe there won’t be any next time for you.”
Which reminded Peel of something. “Uh, how’s Otis Beagle?”
Johnny Wade looked at Marcy Holt. The latter nodded. “Might as well stable them together. But if anybody else comes we’re going to be a little crowded.”
Wade struck Peel on the shoulder with his fist. “Come on.” He pointed to the barn.
“Watch out for him, Johnny,” Dunning cautioned. “He’s a sharp one.”
Johnny Wade grunted contemptuously. “I can handle him.”
Peel struck out for the barn, Wade following closely behind him.
The barn was a long narrow one, consisting entirely of enclosed horse stalls and an aisle. Bags of feed, harness, bridles and other horse equipment hung from the walls and stalls. The place, Peel noted, was equipped with electricity.
Before he stepped into the barn, Peel sent a glance over his shoulder and saw Dunning and Marcy Holt going into the ranchhouse.
“All right,” said Johnny Wade, “the third stall.”
The door was fastened on the inside with an iron pin which fitted into a steel hasp. As Peel reach for the iron pin he was startled by a sudden hoarse yell inside the stall.
“Help!” cried the voice.
“Jeez!” gasped Peel. “Otis…”
“Joe!…” cried the voice inside the stall. “It isn’t… you…?”
Peel took out the steel pin and swung open the door. He faced Otis Beagle. The big detective agency proprietor groaned when he saw Peel.
“And I was counting on you!”
“Get in,” Johnny Wade said, behind Peel.
Peel surveyed the stall with considerable distaste. The straw on the floor was clean, but still — it was a stable. It smelled very strongly of horse.
He stepped into the stall and Wade slammed the door shut on him. It was almost dark inside with the door closed, but Beagle pawed the air and finding a dangling string pulled on it. An overhead electric light bulb went on.
Peel surveyed Beagle. “You look like hell.”
“You stay in here ten-twelve hours and see how you look. Not even a chair.”
“And not even your cane,” Peel jeered.
Beagle scowled. “They took it away… Where’d they get you?”
“They didn’t exactly get me, Otis. I walked into this myself. I came all the way out here under my own power.”
“How’d you find out about it?”
“I picked up a piece of paper in Wilma Huston’s kitchen. Somebody’d tried to bum it. I made out enough to see that it was part of the printed return address from a printing company in 13 Palms. That brought me down to 13 Palms. From thereon the blundering was all my own.”
“And I was hoping you’d get me out of this.” Beagle looked toward the door and dropped his voice. “They’re counterfeiters. There’s a printing press in the next stall. They were running it this morning.” He shook his head. “I should have known… that thousand dollar bill.”
“That reminds me,” said Peel. “That check you gave Charlie… it bounced…”
“The damn crooks; if I get out of this I’ll have Pinky Devol shut them up.”
“I don’t think he’ll do it. It was Pinky who called to tell me about the check.”
Beagle stared at Peel. “You’re kidding!”
“I think Pinky’s behind the joint.”
Beagle groaned. “You can’t trust anyone any more.”
“Ain’t it the truth?”
“They all right?” asked Dunning’s voice outside the stall.
“For now,” replied the voice of Johnny Wade, “but if you think I’m gonna sit out here in the barn all night, you got another guess coming.”
“Oh we can take ’em into the house,” said Dunning. “There’s no chance of anyone coming around after dark.”
“That’s damn decent of you,” exclaimed Joe Peel.
Dunning chuckled. “Still chipper, eh?” He pulled open the stall door and looked in. “Too bad we haven’t got a pool table out here. I’d play you a game.”