“I never play with welshers.”
The smile faded from Dunning’s face. “I had to get you out here, didn’t I?” He reached into his pocket and brought out a roll of bills. “Here’s your money — if it’ll do you any good.” he peeled off a twenty and a ten and handed the bills to Peel.
“Give them back to him, Joe,” said Beagle. “They’re counterfeit…”
“Are you crazy?” Dunning snapped at Beagle.
“I’ve got ears,” Beagle retorted. “I heard your printing press. And I got a sample of your work from Holt, yesterday… a thousand dollar bill.”
“I’ll be damned!” said Dunning. He looked at Joe Peel. “So that’s what you think we do…”
Peel shook his head. “That’s Otis’ idea. I know what you do.”
“What?”
“Oh, you’re a counterfeiter all right; but not money. Dime novels.”
Dunning seemed pleased. “Like to see how it’s done?”
“Why not?”
Dunning stepped back from the doorway and permitted Peel and Beagle to come out. Then the three went to the next stall. Johnny Wade remained aloof — but vigilant.
Dunning switched on a light. This stall, unlike the adjoining one, had a concrete floor. And a very neat layout of machinery including a printing press.
On a bench was a stack of several hundred little booklets. Peel walked over to them and picked up a handful. He riffled them out and whistled, “Malaeska.”
“The first dime novel,” chuckled Dunning, “printed by Beadle & Adams in the year 1860… with slight improvements by Dunning & Holt, 1946.”
“How do you age them?” Peel asked.
“That’s the secret,” Dunning replied, “that and the paper. Holt’s awfully good with the paper. That was his business back east.” He pointed to a tub filled with a pulpy mass. “He makes the paper himself — by hand. There’s a little cave back here, with a bit of a spring in it — keeps the air nice and moist. Ages paper 86 years in thirty days.”
Beagle came over to Peel and took one of the books from his hand. He glanced at it and snorted. “This looks just like that cheap pulp magazine you had in your room at the hotel…”
“Ah,” said Dunning, “so you had it.” He exhaled. “Too bad.”
“You mean Helen Gray?” Peel asked, softly.
Dunning nodded. “I had a bit of an accident on our second printing. A capital ‘M’ broke and a few sheets got bound and distributed before I discovered the accident. Wilbur Jolliffe happened to get one of them. Mr. Jolliffe was a very suspicious soul. He took his copy of Malaeska to the Huntingdon Library and checked it with a copy they have there…”
Beagle snorted. “A helluva note, killing a man over a cheap dime novel.”
“Not I,” Dunning said, “I’m only the printer.”
“This little book,” Peel said gently. “The genuine article — is worth three hundred dollars.” He looked curiously at Dunning. “How many have you shoved out?”
“More than a hundred,” Dunning replied. “We did it quite judiciously and sometimes get as high as four hundred for a copy.”
Otis Beagle did some rapid mental arithmetic. Then he exclaimed, “You mean there are that many suckers in this country?”
“A copy of Murders in the Rue Morgue which is a little book no bigger than this one, sold last year for forty thousand dollars.”
Beagle’s eyes narrowed. “Then, as long as you were printing, why didn’t you print up this Murders in the Rue Morgue?”
“Because the book is too well known to experts. Nobody would suspect a dime novel…”
“Nobody except Wilbur Jolliffe,” Peel corrected.
There was a step in the door and Marcy Holt entered. Beagle frowned at him. “That thousand dollar bill you gave me, Holt…”
“I want that back. You had no right to keep it…”
“What I want to know,” said Beagle, firmly, “is it genuine or is it—” he gestured to the books, “—counterfeit?”
Holt’s eyes widened. “Do you think I’d counterfeit money?”
For some strange reason, Peel laughed.
Dunning looked questioningly at Holt. The latter nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“It’s getting dark outside,” Dunning said. “Shall we go to the house?”
Holt hesitated. “Don’t you think they’d better stay out here…”
Johnny Wade came to the doorway. “I just got through telling Dunning I’m not staying out here all night.”
“It’ll only be a couple of hours, Johnny…”
“That’s what you said this morning.”
Holt sighed. “Very well, bring them along.”
22
They left the little printing plant and went through the barn to the ranchhouse.
It was a very nice place. The living room was a huge room furnished in western style, with Navajo rugs draped on the walls as well as the floor. Marcy Holt switched on the electric lights and pulled the Venetian blinds. Then he motioned to a sofa at the side of the room.
“Now, if you gentlemen will make yourselves comfortable…”
“Until the boss gets here?” Peel asked.
Holt and Dunning exchanged quick glances. “What boss?” Dunning asked.
Peel laughed without humor. “There’s got to be a Brain behind this. You two didn’t figure this all out by yourselves.”
“And why not?” Dunning asked sarcastically.
“A hick printer,” said Peel. Then looking at Johnny Wade, “a stumblebum and,” looking at Marcy Holt, “a broken-down paper manufacturer who’s in the last stages of T.B.”
“My cane!” suddenly exclaimed Otis Beagle.
The stick was standing in a corner on the other side of the room. He started toward it, but Johnny Wade slipped forward and jammed the muzzle of his gun into Beagle’s side.
Beagle said, “Oof!” and retreated to the couch, where he sat down.
“A hick printer,” Dunning said, slowly. “Maybe that’s why I went into this. A fellow gets tired of crumbs.”
Marcy Holt took out his handkerchief, coughed into it, then looked at the hankerchief before putting it away again. Peel seated himself on the couch beside Beagle.
Johnny Wade went to a closet and brought out a bridge table. He set it up, just within the doorway and drew up a chair. He brought out a pack of cards from his pocket and started to deal himself a hand of solitaire.
Joe Peel watched him a moment. “How about a game of gin?”
Dunning grunted. “You play gin, too?”
“About as well as I shoot pool. Like to try a rubber or two, for a nickel a point.”
Johnny Wade got to his feet again. “That reminds me.” He came toward Peel. “Shell out.”
“What for?” Peel asked in astonishment.
“You haven’t got any more use for money and I have.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Peel retorted coldly.
“Dish up!” Wade snarled.
“So that’s why you gave me the thirty bucks,” Peel said to Dunning, “You knew the gorilla would get it back for you.”
“Let him keep it, Johnny!” Dunning snapped.
“I ain’t takin’ orders from you…”
Marcy Holt interposed. “Johnny!”
Johnny Wade looked at Marcy Holt, then walked back to his solitaire game.
“Of course if you gentlemen would like to play a few hands of poker,” Beagle said, suddenly.
Dunning chuckled. “I’m willing.”
“Thought you lost all your money last night?” Peel said to Beagle.
Beagle grunted. “You didn’t think I’d risk real money in a joint like that, did you? I gave them my check…” He pulled out a roll of bills. “How about you, Holt?”