“Hold on a moment; I’ll phone down on the house phone.”
A couple of minutes later, Mrs. Kehoe informed Peel that Beagle’s car was in the garage, he hadn’t used it in three days.
Peel hung up and stared at the phone. On a hunch he called Ole’s Swedish Baths and then a club in Beverly Hills. They hadn’t seen Beagle at either place.
Peel locked the office and walked down to the street floor. Outside the building he walked to a taxi stand at the corner and climbed into a waiting taxi.
“Las Palmas,” he said to the driver. “Between Selma and Hollywood Boulevard.”
Five minutes later he climbed out of the cab. “Wait,” he told the cabby. “I’ll only be five or ten minutes.”
He walked into the court and rang the bell of Angela’s apartment. There was silence inside and he rang the bell again — insistently. That produced results — the padding of feet and a sleepy voice.
“What is it?”
“It’s me, baby,” Joe Peel called. “Joe Peel.”
“You!” came the disgusted reply. “Go home to your wife and children.”
“Open up; this is serious.”
“Last night was last night,” retorted Angela through the door.
“Baby,” said Joe Peel, “I’ll count to five and if you haven’t opened up by them, I’m coming right through the door… One, two…”
Angela opened the door and peeked out. “Damned if I don’t think you would.”
Peel pushed open the door and went into the apartment. Angela was wearing a padded kimono and probably little else under it.
“Have you seen Otis Beagle?” Peel demanded.
“I never want to see that big babboon again as long as I live,” snapped Angela. “And that goes for you, too.”
“Where’d you go last night after you ran out on us?”
“Home, where do you suppose?”
“With Ethel?”
“Of course. Say — what is this?”
“I don’t know,” Peel replied grimly. “But Otis has disappeared.”
“What do you mean — disappeared?”
“Just that. I haven’t seen him since last night and he hasn’t been at his apartment.”
Angela sniffed. “What’s so unusual about that? He was howling last night…”
“Otis has never failed to show up in the morning. Now, look, baby, fun’s fun, but this is serious… what did Ethel tell you in the ladies’ room last night?”
“Why, nothing, except that she was bored. And, frankly, so was I — after what that redhead spilled…”
“How long have you known Ethel?”
“Oh, two-three months…”
“Been out with her before?”
“No, but she’s been here when I’ve had friends. And I’ve stopped in at a couple of her parties.”
“Where’s her apartment?”
“Across the court — Number 6.”
Peel nodded and went to the door. Then he turned. “Remember that badger game I was telling you about last night?”
“What about it?”
“Nothing. I just want you to remember it…” Peel went out and crossed the court. Tacked to the door of Number 6 was a card on which was printed: E. Tower.
Peel pushed the doorbell. He pressed it again, after a moment. Then he tried the doorknob. It turned. Peel pushed the door open and looked into the apartment.
“Miss Tower!” he called.
There was no reply. Peel went into the apartment and headed for the clothes closet in the bedroom. It was empty, save for some wooden clothes hangers.
Ethel Tower had moved — suddenly.
Peel left the apartment and walked back to his taxicab. He got in and the cab started off.
“Where to now?”
“Drive me to your garage.”
“Huh? What’s the beef?”
“No beef. I just want to locate one of your drivers — a lad who picked me up last night, outside of the Bull Dog and Pussy Cat.”
“That’ll be either Harry Manton or Gus Hobson. Or maybe, Dave Fleck… what’d the guy do — roll you?”
“No. I lost something. Nothing very valuable, but I need it. I thought maybe the driver might have found it.”
“If you’d lost it in my cab, I’d’a found it. I always look in back when a customer steps out. Most of the guys do that. Be surprised what you find sometimes…”
“Yeah, but what do you do with the stuff you find?”
“Turn it in to the office — whaddya s’pose?”
The cabby blew his horn and made a sharp turn around a comer, then went into second gear and drove into a garage.
“That’s two-ten,” he said, looking at the meter.
Peel climbed out and paid him.
“There’s Gus Hobson just coming to work,” the cabby said, nodding to a stocky cab driver.
The man looked familiar, although Peel hadn’t paid any particular attention to the cabby of the night before. He accosted the man.
“Didn’t you pick me up last night outside the Bull Dog and Pussy Cat?”
Gus Hobson shook his head. “Not me, mister.”
“There was another man with me — a big, heavy set flash fellow about forty.”
“Don’t remember nobody like that.”
Peel took a five dollar bill from his pocket and showed it to Hobson. “Do you remember now?”
Hobson kept his eyes on the bill. “Where’d I take you?”
“Ivar and Hollywood Boulevard. But the other man stayed with you.”
“Where’d I take him?”
“That’s why I’m going to give you this five dollars. To tell me where you took him.”
Hobson stared hard at the five dollars, then finally shook his head. “Nope, wasn’t me.”
“Look,” said Peel patiently, “there isn’t any beef. All I want is the address where you took my friend…”
“If he’s your friend, why don’t you ask him?”
“Because I can’t find him. It’s important that I do.”
“Maybe he don’t want you to know where he is.”
A man in shirt sleeves and wearing a green celluloid visor over his eyes, came out of the garage office. “What’s the trouble there?” he called.
“Are you the manager?” Peel asked.
“Yes. Any complaints?”
“This man picked me up last night,” Peel began…
“Who says I did?” Hobson exclaimed truculently.
The garage manager fixed Hobson with a cold stare. “Keep your trap shut, Hobson. Now, Mister, are you sure it was one of our cabs?”
“Yes, I’m sure. And I’m sure it was this man who picked up my boss and me last night at the Bull Dog and Pussy Cat…”
“That’s your stand, Hobson,” said the manager, coldly.
“All right, what if it is? I’m not the only hackman who picks up people at the Bull Dog and Pussy Cat. I tell you I don’t remember this guy…”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted the manager, “we’ll settle this once and for all…”
He turned and went back into his office. Hobson gave Peel some dirty looks, but Peel didn’t mind. Then the manager came out of the office, carrying some sheets of paper.
“What time was it?” he asked Peel.
“Around eleven-thirty…”
The man studied one of the sheets. Then he looked at Hobson. “It’s here — two fares, 11:40. You took them to Hollywood and Ivar…”
“That was me!”
“…and then to Laurel Canyon and Mulholland,” the taxicab manager went on. He looked sharply at Hobson. “Mulholland, eh?”
“If that’s what it says on there,” growled Hobson.
“That’s screwy,” Peel said. “Why would Otis want to go to Laurel Canyon and Mulholland Drive at midnight? There isn’t anything up there…”
“The guy was drunk,” Hobson snarled. “It’s none of my business where a drunk wants to go in the middle of the night.”
“Gus,” said the manager, “come here a minute…” He walked to one side and Hobson followed him. The two engaged in a whispered conversation for a moment, then they came back to Peel.