“What’s that for?” exclaimed the massuer.
“A tip.”
The massuer looked Peel squarely in the eye. “Give Mr. Beagle my best regards.”
“I’ll do that.” Peel turned for the door. Behind him the masseur took the quarter and hurled it to the floor.
It was twenty minutes after one when Peel reached the Horatio Oliver building. As he had expected, Wilma Huston was not there. She wasn’t the type who would wait twenty minutes for a man… especially a man she did not want to see.
10
Peel looked across the street at the drugstore; they served lunches there and it was convenient for a switchboard operator who worked across the street. Yet Peel did not believe that Wilma Huston was the sort of girl who ate her lunches in drugstores.
A half block up the street was a sign: Little Finland. Peel strolled to it and peered through the windows. He could see into all of the booths with the exception of two or three in the rear. Accordingly he entered the restaurant and walked to the rear. Wilma Huston was not among the diners. He left the place and walking another block, tried the Bull Dog and Pussy Cat, a very snazzy eating joint.
Peel went in and found Wilma in the first booth. Opposite her was a dark, sullen-faced young man of about thirty. Wilma gave a slight start when she saw Peel.
Peel smiled coldly. “Why, hello, Wilma!”
“Hello.” She shot a quick glance at her companion and a little frown appeared on her forehead. “Aleck, this is Mr. Peel. Mr. Peel, Mr. Chambers.”
“How’re you,” Peel said.
Aleck Chambers put his hands under the table. “Hello,” he said shortly.
“Mind if I join you?” Peel asked.
“Yes,” Chambers snapped. “I mind it very much.”
“Good,” said Peel, sliding into the booth on Wilma’s side. “You can throw me out.”
Chambers half arose, ready to try, but Wilma exclaimed, “Aleck — please! Mr. Peel is a… a detective…”
“Him?” There was disdain in Chamber’s tone.
Peel gestured at Chambers. “The boy friend?”
“Mr. Chambers is a client of the office,” Wilma replied.
“Oh yeah?” Peel looked at Chambers with intereste. “What is he — a movie director?”
“I’m an actor,” Chambers growled.
“Stage?”
“Pictures,” said Wilma hurriedly. “Aleck played the second lead in Hidden Witness.”
Peel frowned thoughtfully. “I saw the picture, but you don’t look much like the fellow who played the prosecuting attorney…”
“I was Cheyney, the detective,” Aleck Chambers snarled.
“The detective’s name was Peters,” Peel said. Then he snapped his fingers. “Oh, you mean Peter’s stooge, who only appeared in one or two scenes…”
“I had fourteen lines,” Chambers said through this teeth.
“Please,” Wilma said. “Aleck, I was supposed to have lunch with Mr. Peel…”
“Then why wasn’t he on time?”
“I’m sorry about that,” Peel said to Wilma. “I got tied up on an important matter.” He looked suggestively at Aleck Chambers. “I would like to talk to you, though.”
“Well, let him talk,” Chambers snapped. “What’s he got that’s such a secret? If it’s about this Jolliffe gink…”
“It is,” said Peel.
“Wilma didn’t even know the man. He kept bothering her and she never even met him. If she’d told me about him sooner, I’d have taken care of him…”
“Aleck!” exclaimed Wilma, in alarm.
“Well, I would have. I’d’ve beaten the goddam daylights out of him.”
“Maybe you did.”
“Huh?” Chambers blinked at Peel. “He was shot… uh, wasn’t he?”
“Was he?”
“Mr. Peel,” Wilma said. “Please… Mr. Chambers didn’t even know about Jolliffe until last night…”
“You mean you’ve, ah, that is, you and Jolliffe were, ah, all this time and he didn’t…”
Wilma flared. “Jolliffe and… I…? What’re you talking about?”
“Well?”
“Look here, you,” snarled Chambers. “Detective or not, you can’t…”
“Aleck!” exclaimed Wilma. Then she turned wide eyes on Peel. “Your insinuation is ridiculous. I told you I had never met this man Jolliffe.”
Peel looked at Wilma, then at Chambers, then back at Wilma. “You never even met Jolliffe?”
“Of course not. That’s why I came to you this morning… he had been sending me flowers — and candy — and was calling me on the phone continuously and I’d never even met him.”
Peel just continued to stare at her. And Aleck’s rage kept mounting. “Don’t you believe her?”
“Yes,” said Peel. “But it’s a little hard.”
“Why?” Aleck’s meaning was plain enough; why should Wilma consider Wilbur Jolliffe when she had a man like Aleck Chambers.
“I only came to you to keep Aleck from going there,” Wilma said. “They’d have gotten into a fight and it would have got into the papers. At this stage of his career…”
“Yah,” said Joe, thoughtfully. “I see what you mean.” He got to his feet. “Been nice meeting you, Mr. Chambers…”
“I wish I could say the same,” Chambers retorted.
Peel winked at Wilma, made a clucking sound with his tongue and walked off, leaving young Aleck Chambers fit to choke.
On Sunset Boulevard, Peel walked to the comer and waited for a bus. None came for five minutes and he crossed the street to the drugstore.
Entering, he went to the telephone booths in the rear. He thumbed through a ragged telephone directory, then finding the number he sought, went into the booth and dialed it.
A voice said gruffly into his ear, “Eisenschiml!”
“Mr. Eisenschiml,” said Peel, “This is the man who talked to you a while ago about Malaeska, the dime novel…”
“You haven’t got it,” Eisenschiml’s voiced snapped.
“Oh yes I have, but a funny thing’s happened in regard to it… a man’s offered me a hundred and fifty dollars for it and—”
“Reisinger, eh?”
“Why, yes,” said Peel.
“Then it’s no use for me to make you an offer. Reisinger’d only go higher…”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you, Mr. Eisenschiml. Just how much is this book worth…?”
“As much as you can get. If it’s Reisinger — ask him three hundred. He can afford it.”
Peel thanked the book dealer and hung up. Thoughtfully, he consulted the directory once more. There were four Reisingers listed; one had a Bel-Air address. Peel re-entered the phone booth and called the number of the Bel-Air Reisinger.
A drawling voice from Dixie answered. “Mr. Reisinger’s res’dence!”
“Like to talk to John,” Peel said.
“Who is this calling?”
“Joe Peel.”
“Hol’ the wire a second.” There was silence for a moment or two then the Southland voice came on again. “Mr. Reisinger say he don’ know no Joe Peel.”
Joe Peel groaned. “Tell Mr. Reisinger that’s his loss. I wanted to talk to him about dime novels…”
“Dime novels? Just a momen’ — I ask him again.”
Ten seconds later another voice came on the phone. “This is John Reisinger; what’s this about dime novels?”
“I wanted to talk to you about them…”
“…Then why not run out to my place…?”
Joe Peel blinked at the telephone. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Actually it was twenty, for it took him ten minutes to get a taxicab. John Reisinger appeared to be very well fixed; his home on top of a knoll just a few blocks off Sunset Boulevard was worth more than a hundred thousand dollars. There were two acres of grounds, a tennis court and a swimming pool.