Lieutenant Becker’s face had turned pink down to his collar line. “Wilbur Jolliffe committed suicide last night. I’ve just come from his house.” He brought a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “He wrote this before he shot himself.”
He thrust the note at Beagle. Beagle took it and began to read. Across the desk, Joe Peel whistled tunelessly.
The note made a tremendous impression on Otis Beagle. A fine film of perspiration came out on his fat face. He finished reading and without a word skimmed the note across the desk to Joe Peel. Peel read:
To Whom It May Concern:
I am taking the easy way out, because I do not know which way to turn. To spare my dear wife, Mildred, I will not go into details. It is sufficient to say that my troubles are due entirely to the machinations of a scoundrelly private detective, one Otis Beagle, to whom I wish only the worst of everything.
Peel refolded the letter and skidded it back across the desk. There was more than one mouse in his stomach now. In fact, it felt like a couple of teams of them were playing hockey.
Lieutenant Becker picked up the note. “This was in the typewriter on his desk,” he said. “Do you think you’ll talk now?”
5
Beagle said, “You’re sure it’s suicide?”
“There was a bullet in his head, his head was on the typewriter and the gun was on the floor, under his hand. What would you call it?”
“Who found the body?”
“The maid — this morning. He’d been dead since about one o’clock.”
Beagle scowled. “Jolliffe was married. Wasn’t his wife home?”
“Yes, but she’s hard of hearing. She claims she didn’t hear the shot.” Becker hesitated. “They had separate bedrooms.” He made an impatient gesture. “Now, let’s have your explanation.”
“About what?”
“Stop beating about the bush, Beagle,” Lieutenant Becker exclaimed. “That letter was in Jolliffe’s typewriter. It was the last thing he did before shooting himself…”
“The letter is typed,” Beagle retorted. “And it isn’t signed…”
“Hurray for our side,” Joe Peel exclaimed.
“I expected that,” Becker said, bitterly. “But you were doing something to Jolliffe.”
“Who says so?”
“His secretary. I talked to her before I came here. She said you were with Jolliffe for an hour yesterday.”
Beagle thought that over and decided not to say anything. Becker went on angrily, “You’ve a reputation for shaking down people, Beagle…”
“That’s libel, Lieutenant,” Beagle snapped. “I run a private detective agency and my reputation is as good as yours. Better.”
Becker’s face was getting pale from suppressed anger. “What was your business with Wilbur Jolliffe?”
“I don’t have to tell you.”
“You’ll tell, Beagle. You’ll tell even if Pinky Devol is your pal. I promise you that.”
Becker strode to the door, whipped it open, then turned and gestured to Sergeant Fedderson. “Come on, Mike!”
Fedderson followed his superior out. The moment the door closed Otis Beagle put his forefinger to his lips, then tiptoed to the door. He waited a moment, then pulled it open suddenly. The corridor outside was empty. He let the door swing shut.
When he turned to Peel he was trembling. “Joe!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “We’re in it… deep!”
“You are, Otis,” Joe Peel said, “I’m only your employee… remember?”
“Yes, yes. I’m responsible for your actions. I know that. I’m in a jam. Pinky can only help me so much. That damn letter of Jolliffe’s…”
“You said it was a forgery.”
“Maybe it is.” Beagle’s face twisted. “What happened last night?”
“Not much.”
“Then why’d Jolliffe cash in his checks?”
“Search me.”
“Stop it, Joe. I’m in big trouble and I’ve got to clear myself. Let’s go over everything very carefully. You saw Jolliffe last night, didn’t you?”
Peel nodded. “I went over to the Lehigh Apartments at seven o’clock. I stood outside for about a half hour, then Jolliffe came up in a taxi…”
“Why, a taxi? He’s got two cars.”
“Maybe he didn’t like to park his car around there. Someone might remember the license number…”
“Yeah, I can see that. All right — go ahead.”
“He got out of the taxi a half block from the building, then walked right past me…”
“Did he talk to you?”
“No — I talked to him.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing important. Just hello, or okay or something like that. He didn’t reply, just went into the apartment house. And then…” Peel drew a deep breath. “Then the cops came.”
“No!”
“A patrol car. Some skittery old maid turned in a call that a suspicious character was loitering around. The cops grabbed me before I could disappear…”
“Oh, no, Joe!”
“Oh yes, Otis! Not only that but one of them knew me. A flatfoot named Rafferty…”
“He’ll tie you up to me…”
“He knew I worked for you. On the strength of that he didn’t take me down to the station. But he shagged me away and I spent a half hour walking around comers losing him. When I got back to the apartment house…”
“You went back?”
“Naturally… Better sit down, Otis. You ain’t gonna be able to take all this standing.”
“There’s worse?”
Peel nodded and Beagle dropped into his chair. “I went into the Lehigh Apartments…”
Beagle groaned. “Why?”
“Well, how was I to know if Jolliffe was still there?”
“What difference did it make?”
“What kind of a dick do you think I am?”
“I sometimes wonder.”
“Do you want to hear this or not?” Beagle signalled him to go on. “Her name is Wilma Huston and she lives in Apartment 504. I went up and…” Beagle shrank a little more. “I rang the doorbell…”
“And Jolliffe answered!”
“No, he didn’t. In fact, I don’t think he was even in the apartment.” Peel frowned suddenly. “Although he might have been. I’ll have to describe the apartment for you. There’s a main room with an in-a-door bed, a sofa and a couple of chairs. On the left side of it is a door leading to a dressing closet and bathroom. The kitchen is on the right. There’s a glass door with a curtain over it at the far end. I imagine the kitchen is a long narrow one running the entire width of the apartment. I didn’t get to look into it, but I judged that from the layout.”
“Why didn’t you look into the kitchen?”
“I’ll get to that. A girl answered the door, I assumed it was Wilma Huston…”
“Naturally.”
“Naturally nothing. Hear me through. This dame is about twenty-five with plenty of S-E-X. She had on a dressing gown…”
“Was the bed down?”
“You’ve certainly got a nasty mind, Otis.”
Beagle didn’t even blush. Peel went on. “Like I say, I assumed she was Wilma Huston and told her a few facts…”
“You’re about as subtle as an elephant, Joe,” Beagle snapped.
Peel folded his hands together and leaned back in his chair. “If you’re going to keep interrupting…”