“Sure, but didn’t you notice? It’s Wilma’s name on the door, Wilma’s alone. Helen never put hers on. Jolliffe didn’t even know Helen had a roommate. When he called here he saw Wilma’s name on the door, that’s all. And Helen was Wilma. That’s what was driving him nuts. He telephoned Wilma — Helen, I mean — and once in a while he got the real Wilma on the phone. She hung up on him, told him a thing or two probably… so he was ripe for us yesterday, Otis…”
The elevator reached the main floor but Otis made no move to open the door. “I’ll be goddamned!”
“Simple, isn’t it? When you get the answer. Wilbur went up for a showdown with Helen last night and guess what? He ran into Bill Gray, Helen’s brother. Only I don’t think he was a brother. Catch on?”
“Then it’s Gray we want — Bill Gray. He knocked off Wilbur Jolliffe and — his sister!”
“Maybe,” said Peel. He opened the elevator door and stepped into the lobby. Beagle followed.
“I’ll get the police to throw out a dragnet for him,” he said, eagerly. “I’ll give his name to Pinky. It’ll make up for… for… well, for other things.”
Beagle reached for the front door, but before his hand touched it the door was pulled away and Lieutenant Becker’s face appeared.
Becker yelped. “For the love of Pete — don’t you guys ever give up?”
“Not as long as crime is rampant in the city,” Peel retorted. “Whaddya want the citizens to do — depend on the police?” He laughed raucously to show what he thought of the police.
Lieutenant Becker half raised his fist, but let it fall to his side.
“Keep out of my hair,” he said, thickly.
“You tell him, Otis…?”
“I was going to save it for Pinky, but…” Otis Beagle frowned, then suddenly surrendered. “All right, Lieutenant, you shall have it… the name of the murderer. It is Gray — Bill Gray…”
“How do you know?” Becker snapped.
“Intuition, old boy, intuition.”
Lieutenant Becker told Otis what he thought of his intuition then went into the building.
“A very uncouth man,” said Beagle. He looked at his wrist watch. “A quarter to seven, Joe; how about a bite of dinner?”
“You want to take me to dinner?”
“Why not?” Beagle clapped Peel on the shoulder. “We’re partners, aren’t we?”
Peel moved his shoulder out from under Beagle’s hand. When Beagle clapped a man on the shoulder it was eight to five that he was looking for a place to sink the knife.
16
As they reached Hollywood Boulevard a taxicab was stopped by the traffic lights and Beagle and Peel climbed into it. A few minutes later they alighted in front of the Brown Derby, on Vine Street. The rope was up, but Otis Beagle caught the eye of the headwaiter and they were whisked through a crowd of at least twenty waiting people and shown to a table.
“How you do it is beyond me,” Peel said, shaking his head. “Every restaurant, every night club…”
“A good tip now and then,” said Beagle, magnanimously.
“Never less than two dollars,” grunted Peel. “That’s what the man at Ole’s Swedish Baths told me…”
Beagle chuckled. “How about a hair of the dog?”
Peel shuddered. “I’m not used to getting drunk twice in one day.”
“Oh, it won’t hurt to relax for this once.” Beagle took a little black notebook from his pocket. “As a matter of fact, I might call up a couple of girls. A bit of a celebration…”
“What’ve we got to celebrate?”
Beagle smiled. “After all, we’ve just solved a case…”
“What case?”
“Don’t be obtuse. The police’ll get Bill Gray.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Why should I kid? The police are very good at catching people — once they know the name of the person…”
Peel signalled the waiter. “A pair of Martinis,” he ordered. Then he looked at Beagle. “I didn’t think you really believed that crap — about Bill Gray killing Helen Gray…”
Beagle groaned. “Now, wait a minute, Joe…”
“Brother, husband or boy friend — whatever he was — why should he kill Helen?”
“That’s obvious. She was carrying on with Jolliffe… a man old enough to be her father…”
Peel shook his head. “What about Marcy Holt?”
“Holt?” Beagle suddenly winced. “I’d forgotten all about him. But…” He frowned. “We’re not sure that he ties in with Jolliffe and Gray…”
“I’m sure,” said Peel. “And so is a fellow who followed me from the Lehigh Apartment to Ole’s bath House.”
“Well, maybe one of them killed Helen Gray…”
“Yeah — but why?”
“Dammit, Joe,” said Beagle, “you’ve spoiled my dinner.”
The waiter came with the martinis. Peel picked up his. “To crime, Otis…”
He put his glass to his mouth, started to drink, then lowered the glass. “Why, the dirty little liar…”
Beagle caught Peel’s eyes looking off. His head swiveled and picked out Mary Lou Tanner.
“Jolliffe’s secretary!” he exclaimed. “Who’s the bird with her?”
“George Byram, the late Mr. Jolliffe’s brother-in-law… And she told me she was true to a Marine, six feet tall.” He got to his feet. “I think I’ll tell her a thing or three…”
Otis Beagle started to protest but Joe Peel ignored him and started for the booth where Mary Lou Tanner sat across from George Byram.
As he approached he fixed his eyes on George Byram.
“George!” he cried. “George Byram — imagine meeting you here!”
He thrust his hand into that of Mrs. Jolliffe’s brother. Byram stared at him in astonishment. “I beg your pardon…” he began.
Peel plopped down opposite Byram, about six inches from Mary Lou, but still without looking at her. “I sure am glad to see you, George. How’s your wife — and the kids?”
Sudden anger blazed up in George Byram’s face. “I’m not married and I haven’t got any kids—”
Peel stared in astonishment at Byram. “Why, George…” Then he shot a quick, covert glance at Mary Lou and put on a mock cringing act. “Holy cat! What a boner…”
“Always the comic, aren’t you?” Mary Lou said sarcastically.
Peel refused to look at her. He got to his feet and held out a placating palm. “I’m sorry, Mister — I guess I did make a mistake… But you sure look like my old friend George Byram.”
“Look here, you,” Byram snarled. “I don’t know you and you don’t know me…”
“Okay, George,” Peel cut in. “Okay… I apologize…”
He turned and walked back to his own table. “All right, Otis,” he said, sitting down. “Look into your little black book and see what’s good in it.” He held up a warning finger. “But I warn you, I’ve been on blind dates before… I get first choice…”
Beagle caught the eyes of the waiter and snapped his fingers. Then he opened his little book. “Agnes,” he mused, “a sweet girl…” He turned a page and brightened. “Alice! How could I ever forget her.” He shook his head. “No — she lives in Santa Monica — too far.”
The waiter brought a telephone with a long cord and plugged it in. Beagle nodded his thanks and continued to study his book. “Anna… mmm… a bit on the plump side…!”
“No!” said Joe Peel. “I know what plump means.”
“Like ’em thin, eh? Well, here’s one on the thin side, but — ha-ha — with a bit of padding in the right places. Angela… Crestview one…” He drew the phone closer and began dialing. After a moment his eyes lit up.