She looked inquiringly at Peel.
“I’d like to see Mr. Jolliffe,” Peel’s tone conveyed the impression that he expected Mr. Jolliffe to drop everything to talk to him.
The redhead thought otherwise, however, “May I have your name?”
“Jolliffe,” said Peel. “Julius Jolliffe. I’m Wilbur’s uncle.”
“Quit your kidding,” said the girl. “And your beard is slipping.”
Peel adjusted it. “Thanks. All right, so Wilbur’s my uncle. I still want to see him.”
“I’ve a good notion to call a cop.”
Peel looked steadily at her. “Get much exercise around here, if you know what I mean?”
“Now, wa-ait a minute…”
“Without the disguise, baby, I’m a tall, handsome fella and I like you, too, but this is business. Cross my heart.”
Peel crossed his heart.
The girl shook her head. “I don’t get it.” But she went to a ground glass door, opened it and went through. She closed the door carefully behind her.
Peel leaned over the receptionist’s desk and picked up a couple of letters. One was on the letterhead of the Ward Restaurant Supply Company of Toledo, Ohio. It was addressed to Jolliffe & Company, Hollywood, California. From it, Peel gathered that the Ward Restaurant Supply Company thought Jolliffe & Company’s price for two hundred duplicators a little too high. The other letter was written in longhand and was obviously a complaint about a duplicator. Peel didn’t get to finish the letter, however, for the door of Mr. Jolliffe’s private office opened a couple of inches and a frightened eye peered out.
“Hello,” Peel said.
The door went shut, was reopened by the redhead. She came out, closing the door behind her again.
“Mr. Jolliffe will see you in a moment.” Then as Peel dropped the letters to her desk, “Are you a cop, or do you just like to snoop?”
“You never can tell,” Peel retorted.
The door of Wilbur Jolliffe’s office opened and a man with the collar of a topcoat turned up over his ears came out. He nodded to the redhead, gave Joe Peel a sharp glance and left the office.
“You can go in now,” the girl said to Peel.
Peel winked at her and went into Jolliffe’s office. Jolliffe was seated behind a big desk. He was a sporty-looking old bird, weazened and pop-eyed, but wearing a tailored grey suit that wouldn’t have looked bad on a man thirty years younger.
He was toying nervously with a letter opener. “Y-you w-wanted to see me?”
“Not especially,” said Peel, “but I thought I ought to.”
There was a chair a few feet from Jolliffe’s desk. Peel seated himself in it, crossed his legs and looked inquiringly at Jolliffe.
Jolliffe looked at Peel. Peel looked at Jolliffe. The color faded from Jolliffe’s face. “W-w-well?”
“Go ahead,” said Peel. “I’m listening.”
“F-for what?”
“For what you’ve got to say.”
Jolliffe’s Adam’s apple raced up and down twice. “About what?”
Peel cleared his throat noisily. “Cut it out. You know very well why I’m here.”
Jolliffe’s eyes flickered to the door, came back to Peel. “Is it about… W-Wilma?”
Peel gave no indication that it was or wasn’t. Perspiration began to come out on Jolliffe’s face. “Look here,” he said, making a last attempt to control himself, “if you think you can…”
“Yes?”
“Yes?”
A shudder ran through Wilbur Jolliffe’s thin frame. He dropped the letter opener on his desk and pushed back his chair. Joe Peel got up.
“Okay,” he said, “if that’s the way you feel about it.”
He turned, opened the door and stepped out into the anteroom. He closed Jolliffe’s door.
“Your name Wilma?” Peel asked the redhead.
The girl’s eyes widened. “No.” The tip of her tongue flicked out and moistened her lips. Peel shrugged and stepping past her opened the corridor door. He went through, turned and pushed the door open again.
Wilbur Jolliffe was just bursting out of his private office. His eyes threatened to pop from his head as he saw Peel’s face again. Peel laughed raucously and let the door swing shut.
He turned and headed for the stairs. As he descended to the third floor he whisked the false whiskers from his face and stuck them into his pocket.
He walked down the other three flights, left the building and walked to a drugstore on the comer of Hollywood and Vine. He got change for one of his two bills and headed for a telephone booth in the rear.
Entering, he dialed the number of the Beagle Detective Agency. The line was busy. He waited two minutes, then tried the number again. Beagle answered this time.
“Beagle Detect…”
Peel cut him off. “Joe. You don’t have to wait until tomorrow…”
“I know,” Beagle replied eagerly. “He just telephoned me…”
“Oh, so that’s why the line was busy.”
“Where are you, Joe?”
“In the Owl on Hollywood and Vine.”
“Mmm, I’d better not meet you, just in case somebody followed you. But look — I’m going right over to Jolliffe’s… what was it that scared the hell out of him?”
“His guilty conscience… and the phony beard. But he’s afraid of a girl named Wilma.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. That’s all there is. Wilma. But you might take a look at the redhead in his office. Look, but don’t touch. I saw her first.”
Otis Beagle began to bluster but Peel hung up on him. At the soda fountain he had a chocolate malted milk, which only whetted his appetite, so he followed with a sandwich and a piece of pie. As he ate he considered giving Wilbur Jolliffe another call, but finally concluded that it would be overdoing things a bit.
Leaving the drugstore he strolled leisurely to the office and curled up on top of the double desk. In two minutes he was sound asleep.
Otis Beagle found him like that when he came in an hour later. He strode angrily into the office and prodded the small of Joe Peel’s back with the end of his thick cane.
“Wake up, Joe!”
Peel opened one eye. “Poke me with that stick again and I’ll break your fat skull.”
“Suppose a client came in,” Beagle growled. “How would it look — a detective sleeping?”
Peel got down from the desk. “Spare me the platitudes.” He yawned and stretched himself. “Well, are we working?”
“We are. I gave Jolliffe the old razzle-dazzle and…”
Peel thrust out a hand. “Give!”
“Give what?”
“You got a retainer, didn’t you?”
“Just a small one. Fifty dollars…”
“Two hundred. You always lie in that proportion.”
Beagle’s fat face got red. “Now, look, Joe. I’ve had just about enough—”
“So have I. You’ve got two hundred dollars and I want my share.”
“There’s office rent and overhead…”
“Pay it out of your share.”
Beagle hesitated. “I’ll give you seventy-five…”
“A hundred or you’ll handle Jolliffe yourself.”
Beagle brought out four fifties and handed two to Peel. “I’ll remember this, Joe.”
“You do that, Otis.” Peel put the bills away. “Now, what about Wilbur?”
“The girl lives at the Lehigh Apartments in Hollywood.”
“What’s her status at the present time?”
“That’s what worrying Wilbur. He thought everything between them was hunky.” Beagle grinned. “He’s going to call on her tonight and he wants you to follow him.”
Peel scowled. “There won’t be any need of that. Since everything probably is hunky between them.”