“But you just said he committed suicide,” protested Angela.
“That was last night,” Peel said, “the badger game was six months ago.”
“What’s a badger game?”
Beagle groaned, but Peel took Angela’s hand and patted it. “A badger game is something a girl like you shouldn’t know anything about.”
“Why not?”
“Because it isn’t nice.”
“I know games that aren’t — well, too nice.”
“Don’t ever get caught playing this one. They send you to jail for it.”
“This Joll-Jolliffe went to jail?”
Peel winced. “It isn’t the victim who goes to jail. It’s the woman — and the other man.” Then, as Angela’s face still remained blank, Peel appealed to Ethel. “You tell her, Ethel.”
Ethel’s eyes were flashing sparks. “I don’t know anything about this what is it you call it? — badger game?”
“No? I thought you might have heard of it.” Peel turned back to Angela. “I’ll make it simple, baby… a man and a woman are caught in a bedroom — well, let’s say, a compromising situation, by the woman’s husband. He threatens to tell the man’s wife…”
“The man’s wife? But isn’t she the one who’s caught?…”
Peel groaned. “The other man’s wife? He’s a married man, see…”
“They’re both married, is that it?” Angela frowned prettily. “But why should he want to tell the other man’s wife, when he’s caught his wife…”
“Forget it,” said Peel, in disgust.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” Ethel announced suddenly.
“But we just got here,” Beagle protested.
“There’s a new place up the street I’ve heard is very interesting. It’s cozy and…” she smiled tantalizingly, “…dim…”
“Let’s go!” exclaimed Beagle. He paid the check while the girls went to powder their noses.
The new place turned out to be the Bull Dog and Pussy Cat, where Peel had almost had lunch that day. Beagle was a stranger here, but a five-dollar bill made him an old friend of the headwaiter and they were shown to a booth near the rear — a cozy booth, lighted only by two stubby candles on the table. Beagle promptly blew out one of the candles.
“Don’t you like this much better?” Ethel asked as she cuddled up to Otis Beagle.
“Why, Mister Peel!” exclaimed a feminine voice.
It was Mary Lou Tanner.
“Uh, hello,” said Peel.
Mary Lou smiled sweetly. “And is that Mrs. Peel? I’m so glad to meet you. Mr. Peel has talked of you so often. And the baby…”
“Sit down,” said Peel, grimly. “Or do you have to run back to grandpa?”
Mary Lou laughed hollowly. “It’s been so nice meeting you, Mrs. Peel. I must run along now…” And she went back to her own table.
“I think I’ll go home,” Angela said, coldly.
“That was a rib,” Peel said.
“Will your wife think so?”
Peel appealed to Beagle. “Tell her if I’m married or not.”
“Of course not. We ran into her and the fellow she’s with at the Brown Derby. Joe pulled the same gag on the guy, so she was only getting even…”
“You’re quite a character, Mr. Peel, aren’t you?” Ethel said sweetly.
“Joe, Baby. Call me Joe.”
Ethel picked up her purse. “I’ve got to powder my nose. Want to come along, Angela?”
“Hey!” cried Otis Beagle. “What gives here? You powdered your nose only ten minutes ago.”
“I have to do it again, darling.” Ethel got up. Angela, who was still sulking, hesitated, then followed her friend. The moment the girls were out of sight, Beagle pounced on Peel.
“For the love of Mike, Joe, are you always like this with girls? No wonder you never get anywhere with them.”
“What’ve I done?”
“You were sniping at Ethel.”
“You like Ethel?”
“Of course I like her. She’s my type. I like them, ah, statuesque…”
“Then get ready for a shock, Otis. Ethel’s last name is Tower. Ethel Tower.”
“So what?”
“Don’t you remember the name?”
“Am I supposed to?”
“I thought you would tumble when I talked about the badger game… and Jolliffe…”
For a moment Beagle stared at Peel, then his mouth fell open and he sucked in air. “No!…”
“Yes, Otis, old boy. Miss Badger. I paid her off, remember?”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course. The minute she came into the apartment… you saw her look at me, didn’t you? She was afraid I was going to spill it…”
“Well, why didn’t you?”
“Oh, I thought I’d play along for awhile…”
“But Angela…”
“I don’t think she knows anything about it. She didn’t mention our names to Ethel when she told her she had a date for her.”
Beagle remained silent for a moment, then he finally shook his head and said, bitterly, “You can’t trust anybody. A fine looking girl like that…”
“That’s what Jolliffe thought.” Peel chuckled. He leaned out of the booth to look toward the wash rooms. “They’re taking a long time to powder their noses.”
A waiter came up. “Something, Mister?”
“The ladies who were with us…”
“Oh, didn’t you know? They left… by the side door.”
“Goddammit!” bellowed Beagle.
“She was a nice kid,” said Joe Peel. “Ethel?”
“No, Angela.” Peel sighed. “Well, shall we go?”
Beagle’s face set in stubborn lines, then the futility of it struck him and he groaned. He called for the check and paid it.
As they waited for a taxi outside the Bull Dog and Pussy Cat, Peel said, “And so home to bed.”
“My eye,” snapped Beagle. “I was all set for a good time tonight and I’m going to have it — girls or no girls.” A cab pulled up to the curb and they climbed in.
“Where to, gents?” the driver asked.
“Ivar and Hollywood Boulevard for me,” Peel said.
“You going to be a killjoy?” Beagle demanded.
“After the day I’ve had — yes!”
“Well, I’m going out to have some fun.”
“You go right ahead, but I’m going home and sleep.”
They were still wrangling about it when the cab pulled up at Ivar and Hollywood Boulevard and Peel climbed out. Beagle yelled after him, but Peel paid no attention.
18
Joe Peel slept an hour later than usual the next morning and stopping at the Mayflower on Hollywood Boulevard for breakfast, did not get to the office until after ten-thirty. He was surprised to find it locked. But the key was on the transom sill and he let himself into the office.
He got out a road map of California and studied it for ten minutes. Then he telephoned Beagle at his Wilshire Boulevard Apartment. There was no answer.
He tried the Sunset Athletic Club. They hadn’t seen Beagle since lunch the day before. By that time it was eleven five. Peel paced the office floor for ten minutes, then tried Beagle’s apartment once more. There was still no response. Calling information he got the telephone number of Beagle’s apartment manager. The manager identified herself as Mrs. Kehoe and said that she hadn’t seen Mr. Beagle all morning.
“Look, Mrs. Kehoe,” Peel said, then, “would you run up to Mr. Beagle’s apartment and if he doesn’t answer your ring, take a look inside? I’ll hold the wire.”
It was a full five minutes before Mrs. Kehoe returned to the phone. There was a note of alarm in her voice as she said, “His bed hasn’t been slept in and his milk and morning paper are still outside the door.”
“What about his car?” Peel exclaimed. “Is it in the garage?”