“You couldn’t make it a buck, could you?”
“No,” said the bookman, “I don’t know if it’s rare or not. Why don’t you try Eisenschiml in the next block? That’s his specialty.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Peel put the book back in his pocket and left the store. In the next block he came to a store, with a sign in the window: Oscar Eisenschiml, Rare Books, Autographs, Americana.
The store was empty of customers. Eisenschiml himself, a bald man in his early sixties, was reading a pamphlet at a rolltop desk in the rear of the store.
“I understand you’re interested in rare dime novels,” Peel said as he handed the book to the dealer.
Eisenschiml scowled. “What do you want to fold it like this for?” he tried to smooth out the crease. “Deadwood Dick’s Big deal. You call this rare?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Bah. Bragin in Brooklyn’ll sell you fifty copies for three dollars apiece.”
“It’s worth three dollars?”
“Not to me it ain’t; if it was a Beade or a Tousy now, I might give you three dollars, but not for this. What else you got at home?”
“Malaeska.”
Eisenschiml wrinkled up his face in disgust. “First he wants to sell me Deadwood Dick’s Big Deal, then he says he’s got a copy of Malaeska at home.”
“Well, I have.”
“Yah, sure.”
“Look,” said Peel, “this Malaeska is something? It’s only a little book about half this size.”
“Of course.” Eisenschiml’s eyes showed a spark of interest. “You really got such a book?”
“If I did have, how much would it be worth?”
“Two-three hundred dollars, if you had it. Depends on the condition. Bring it in and I’ll make you an offer.”
“I may do that,” said Peel. He retrieved Deadwood Dick’s Big Deal. Eisenschiml winced as Peel refolded it.
Ten minutes later, Peel entered the Lehigh Apartments and rode in the automatic elevator up to the fifth floor. He approached the door of #504 and placed his hand on the door buzzer, for the benefit of any tenant on the floor who might come along. He placed his ear to the door and listened carefully. For a moment or two he heard nothing, but then thought he heard muffled footsteps.
He drew a deep breath and pressed the door buzzer. Footsteps slithered over the rug inside. A voice demanded, “Yes?”
“It’s me,” said Peel.
“Who’s me?”
Peel made no reply. The door chain rattled and the face of the first Wilma Huston appeared in the opening. She reacted at the sight of Peel.
“You’ve got a nerve coming back here.”
“Haven’t I though?”
She slammed the door in his face. Peel waited a moment then pressed the buzzer again.
“Go away,” the girl inside cried. “Go away or I’ll call the police.”
“Go ahead,” said Peel. “I’ll come in with them.”
There was a moment’s silence inside the apartment, then the door chain was removed. Peel turned the doorknob and pushed against the door. The girl put her weight against it for a moment, then yielded.
Peel entered the apartment and closed the door. He gave the girl a sharp look and headed for the bathroom. He assured himself that it was empty, then went toward the kitchen.
As he had guessed, in describing it to Otis Beagle, the kitchen ran the entire length of the apartment and was about six feet in width. Unless they were hiding in the refrigerator there was no one in the kitchen.
He returned to the living room.
“Satisfied?” the girl asked.
Peel nodded. “Can you blame me, after last night?”
“You had it coming to you.”
Peel seated himself in the same chair he had occupied the night before.
“Let’s begin with your name,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because you’re not Wilma Huston.”
“I never said I was.”
“That’s right, you didn’t. But there’s only one name on the mailbox.”
“I’m visiting Wilma.” She hesitated. “I don’t see that it matters. My name is Helen Gray.”
“Pleasedtameetcha, Helen. Now, if you’ll tell me the name of the stumble-bum who was here last night…”
“Stumblebum, eh? He laid you out with one punch.”
“He hit me when I wasn’t looking.”
“Keep your eyes on him the next time and see if it’ll be any different. He’s looking for you, by the way.”
“Who’s looking for me?”
“Who’re we talking about?”
“I don’t know.”
“My brother — Bill Gray.”
“Your brother?” Peel sent a quick glance toward the kitchen. Helen got it.
“So that’s what you were thinking!”
“Well, it did throw me off my guard.” Casually, Peel got to his feet. “You’ve heard about Wilbur Jolliffe…?”
“What about him?”
Peel made an impatient gesture. “We’re not going to get anywhere, Helen, if you keep on with that who, what, when and why routine. I’m talking about Wilbur Jolliffe, the old boy who was here last night. He was Wilma’s boy friend and he went home last night and shot himself through the head. Those are facts. Let’s go on from there.”
“Let’s not.”
Peel seated himself on the couch beside Helen and picked up one of her hands. “Look, baby,” he said, “you’re a nice kid…”
“Am I?”
Helen smiled at him and with that hauled off and smacked Joe Peel with her free hand. She closed the hand just before it landed on his jaw.
The blow was so unexpected and there was so much power behind it that Joe’s head went back and bumped the wall over the couch. He let out a bellow pain and rage and lunged for the girl. But she eluded his grasp and springing to her feet crossed to the table, standing beside the armchair. She whipped open a small drawer in the end of it and her fingers were closing about the butt of a.32 automatic, when Peel, making a desperate dive caught her about the waist and pinned her arms to her sides.
She struggled furiously in his grip. “Let me go!” she cried.
Joe Peel fell back into the armchair, the girl in his lap. The fall jarred the gun from her hand and it fell to the carpet. He kicked it away with his foot.
He was tempted then to hold on to Helen, but she continued to struggle and he released her. She went for the gun, but he sprang up and kicked it away again, then retrieved it.
“I have more trouble in this place,” he said, finally.
“What you’ve had isn’t a fraction of what you’re going to get,” Helen Gray said, furiously. Her face was flushed and Peel, looking at her thought: this is a helluva way to make a living.
He said, “Baby, me and my boss are in a spot. Wilbur Jolliffe left a note for the cops, blaming us for his trouble. We stand a good chance of winding up in the clink, unless we clear ourselves.”
“If I can do anything to help put you in jail, you can count on my doing it,” Helen Gray declared.
Peel shook his head sadly. “And yet you’re the kind of a dame I could go for — if I didn’t have this trouble to worry about.” He slipped the cartridge clip out of the automatic and saw that it was full. He put the clip in his pocket and tossed the gun to the couch. “I suppose you’ve got a permit for that. If you haven’t you’re going to get in trouble with the cops.”
“The gun isn’t mine.”
“Wilma’s — which reminds me — I really came here to see her.”
“I wish she’d been here, last night as well as today. If you don’t mind my saying so, I’m awfully fed up with you.”