Mary Lou pulled out a desk drawer and brought forth an instrument about four by seven inches in size. The bottom of it was shaped like a rocker and had a mimeographing stencil tightly bound over it.
“This,” she said. “It’s a small mimeographing machine. Mostly for postcards. Mr. Jolliffe sold it — by mail.”
“Oh, a mail-order business.”
“That’s right. He ran ads in a number of newspapers and magazines. Secretaries of lodges and clubs, small businessmen bought these mimeographers.”
“What does it sell for?”
“Nine ninety-five.”
Peel pursed his lips. “The advertising must cost quite a lot. I wouldn’t think there’d be such a great profit in it…”
“There wasn’t. The machine costs S3.95 wholesale and it costs from five to six dollars to sell.”
Peel did some rapid mental arithmetic. “Add to that this office, and, uh, overhead and he didn’t…”
“He didn’t. He lost money every month.”
Peel nodded. “I see what his wife meant.”
“You’ve talked to her?”
“Yes. Do you know her?”
“She came in here only once in the three months I’ve worked here. I never got such a dirty look from anyone in all my life.”
“By the way,” said Peel, “how did you get along with Wilbur?”
“Pretty good — for the last couple of months. The first month my fingernails were worn down to the quick and I lost four pounds, from dodging around desks. Then I reached an understanding with Mr. Jolliffe… and not what you think, either! My boy friend was home on furlough and I had him in here one day. You remember I told you I like big men. Well, Wilbur never bothered me after he saw the captain.”
Peel nodded thoughtfully, then said casually, “By the way, who is Wilma?”
The question put casually, made no unusual impression on Mary Lou. “She’s one of Wilbur’s girl friends; was one, I should say.”
“What does she look like?”
“Never saw her; she was just a voice on the telephone.”
“How were they getting along? I mean, had she started shaking him down?”
Mary Lou regarded Peel coldly. “I must say, you don’t have a very high opinion of women.”
“Not young girls who go out with old married men like Wilbur Jolliffe.”
Mary Lou would undoubtedly have made a retort to that, but just then the door opened and a heavy-set man of fifty entered.
“How do you do,” he said, “I’m George Byram.” Then, as the name did not seem to register on Mary Lou, he added, “Mr. Jolliffe’s brother-in-law.”
Peel looked at the newcomer with interest. There was little family resemblance between Byram and Mrs. Jolliffe.
“Oh, yes,” said Mary Lou.
“I’m taking over this place,” Byram went on. “My sister asked me to.” He looked at Joe Peel. “Anything I can do for you?”
“Not unless you’d be interested in buying a subscription to True Confessions?”
Byram snorted his answer and Peel pulled open the door. He gave Mary Lou a wink and went out.
So Mrs. Jolliffe had a brother, a robust younger brother.
7
In the offices of the Beagle Detective Agency, Otis Beagle champed on a cold cigar and dialed a phone number. He had been making telephone calls all morning.
“I’d like to talk to Judge McGinnis,” he said when he got his number. “Tell him it’s Otis Beagle…” He waited a moment, then, “Judge McGinnis? Look, Judge, I’d like to ask your opinion about something. You know I operate a private investigation agency… well, I’d like to ask you just how responsible am I for the actions of my employees… an operator…” he frowned as he listened a moment. “It’s not that, Judge… nothing financial; it… it might be a matter of well, ah, a prison sentence… I see… but suppose the operator did something in direct violation of my instructions… No, I don’t think it could be construed as blackmail…” The perspiration began to come out on Beagle’s face. “To put it bluntly, the client committed suicide. He left a note blaming it on the agency… something to the effect that we, ah, the agency, had caused him to take such a step…” He was silent for a long moment.
While he listened the office door opened and a man came in. He was about forty-five, of medium height and inclined to plumpness. He was dressed in a blue serge suit and his vest actually had the piping you used to see on the vests of bankers and merchant chiefs. He also wore a Homburg hat and carried a thick cane.
Otis Beagle sized him up and cleared his throat. “Yes, Judge, I see… I see…” he said into the phone. “I understand all that. I’d like to think it over. Would it be all right if I called you back? Thanks. Goodbye.” He hung up, cleared his throat again and looked at the man who was standing in front of the desk.
“Yes, sir, anything I can do for you?”
The man pulled out Joe Peel’s swivel chair and seated himself carefully. “My name is Marcy Holt,” he announced. “And you are Mr. Beagle?”
“Yes.” Beagle’s mind was still on his recent telephone conversation so he did not follow up with his customary sales talk for himself.
Mr. Holt reached into his breast pocket and drew out a fat wallet. “Mr. Beagle,” he said, “I’d like to show you something interesting.”
He riffled through some bills in the wallet and skimmed out a crisp one, which he placed on the desk and skidded toward Beagle with a forefinger.
Beagle looked at the bill as it started toward him. His eyes widened then when the figure on the bill came into focus he let out a gasp.
“A thousand dollar bill!”
“A very handsome one, too,” said Mr. Holt smoothly. “Look it over — feel it.”
Beagle took the bill in his hands and examined it on both sides. “Counterfeit?”
“Genuine.”
Beagle looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“You can become the possessor of that bill, Mr. Beagle,” said Holt.
Beagle examined the bill with increased interest. “How?”
Holt smiled and leaned back in Joe Peel’s chair. “By performing a service for me.”
“Name it,” exclaimed Beagle. “It so happens that I am quite busy at the moment, but in view of such a fee…” He held up the thousand dollar bill. “…perhaps I can put off some of my other work…”
“I was hoping you could. As a matter of fact, this job would require you taking a trip — to New York…”
“Out of this?”
“No, your expenses would be paid in addition.”
“Sounds interesting, Mr. Holt. Now, just what do I have to do to earn this money?”
“Nothing. You are to go to New York and remain there one month.”
Beagle stared at his visitor. “I don’t get it.”
“You don’t have to get it. That’s all there is to it. This thousand dollars is yours if you go to New York and stay there for a month. Your hotel and train fare will be paid in addition; the thousand dollars is yours, clear.”
Otis Beagle looked at the thousand dollar bill once more and sighed wearily. “Mr. Holt,” he said, “I wasn’t born yesterday. There’s more to this…”
“Of course there is,” snapped Marcy Holt. “But I’m not going to tell you. The question is — do you accept?”
“You want to get me out of town,” Beagle said wearily.
“Precisely.”
“The answer is…” Beagle drew a deep breath. “No!”
Mr. Holt smiled. He laid his wallet down on the desk, reached to his breast pocket once more… and produced a.32 automatic.