“The least I can do,” Beagle offered, “is to take you home.”
“I can find the way myself,” retorted Linda. She turned her back on Beagle and strode off.
Beagle turned back to Iowa Lee with a sigh. “Always something to spoil a man’s dinner.”
Iowa looked at him in surprise. “You’re not going to eat now?”
“Why not? The food’s ordered and I’m hungry.”
“But you promised your assistant that you’d get this Pinky, whoever he is, to do whatever is necessary.”
“That’s right But a half hour more or less isn’t going to make any difference.”
“Mr. Beagle,” Iowa Lee said, “I think you’re a louse!”
Beagle sat down opposite her and grinned...
Forty-five minutes later, Beagle helped Iowa Lee into a taxicab. He started to climb in after her, but she held out a detaining hand.
“Thank you for the dinner, Mr. Beagle.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll take you home—”
“The taxi’ll do that, Mr. Beagle. Thank you — and good night.”
She pulled the door shut in his face. The cab started off, leaving Beagle standing at the curb.
Another taxicab moved into the spot vacated by the first. The driver looked inquiringly at Beagle.
“Cab, mister?”
Beagle got in. “The Sunset Athletic Club.”
But at the Sunset Athletic Club, Beagle learned that Mr. Douglas Devol had not been in that evening. In the lounge, Beagle had a phone brought to him and put in a call to four night clubs, five restaurants and three club members with whom he knew Devol was friendly. None had seen Mr. Devol that evening, none was expecting him.
Finally he put down the phone and stared at a leather armchair opposite him. He knew Lieutenant Becker from old, a fair man, but a policeman. And he knew Joe Peel. The little man was stubborn and hard, but he had a fine temper. And he was too suspicious. In spite of his long term of service with the agency, Joe did not trust Otis. Beagle had never let him down, but Peel was always accusing him of it.
It was only two hours since the police had taken him away. Beagle had spent most of that time in a sincere effort to locate Pinky, but would Peel appreciate that? No, he would...
In desperation Beagle picked up the phone again and dialed Pinky’s unlisted home number. After a moment the voice of Pinky’s man of all work replied, “Mr. Devol’s residence.”
“Justin,” Beagle said, “this is Otis Beagle. It’s a matter of extreme importance that Mr. Devol phone me as soon as he gets in.”
“He can’t do that,” said Justin. “Not when he comes in, ’cause he’s in already.”
“What?” cried Beagle. “It’s only eleven o’clock.”
“Yes, sir, but Mr. Devol spent an evening at home. He’s... he’s sleeping.”
Beagle groaned. “Call him. Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.”
Justin hesitated. “If I wake him it might be my death.”
“You’ve got to call him, Justin,” Otis Beagle said desperately. “Wait. Tell him I’m on the way over. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He slammed down the phone and rushed out of the club. Outside he got into a cab and gave the driver Pinky Devol’s address. Ten minutes later he entered a luxurious apartment building a block north of Sunset Boulevard. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and pressed the door buzzer.
Justin, a retired middleweight prize fighter, opened the door. He shook his head. “Oh, boy!”
But he let Otis Beagle enter. Beagle strode through a hall into Pinky’s library, a large paneled room filled with books that Pinky had never read.
Pinky Devol, in a handsome dressing gown, came out of a bedroom. He was of middle height, had flaming red hair and a violently pink face which had given him his nickname. He was a tubby, irascible man, who had started out as a lawyer and still had an office somewhere with his name on the doors. But a battery of other attorneys took care of the legal end of things while Pinky spent his full time taking life easy and associating with the “right” people. He was not a politician, but politicians were afraid of him. He held no public office, but he knew all the important officials of the city and county.
He was not in a good mood. “Dammit, Otis,” he cried petulantly. “The first time in four months I spend a night at home, you’ve got to break in.”
“Sorry, old man, you know I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t a matter of the utmost urgency.”
“I’ll bet,” said Pinky skeptically.
“You know that detective agency I run,” began Beagle.
Devol groaned. “License trouble again?”
“Well, no. Not yet. It’s that... that man I’ve got working for me.”
“Peel? Mean-tempered little fellow. What’s he done now?”
“He’s been arrested!”
“Again? Well, teach him a lesson.” Pinky shrugged. “Get yourself a good man next time. Although I can’t for the life of me see why you’ve got to have a detective agency in the first place.”
“Oh, it brings me in a little money now and then. And it’s something to do. A man can’t sit around the club all the time, can he?”
“Get a respectable business then.” Pinky yawned. “I went to bed at nine o’clock. Does a man good once in a while.”
“I won’t be able to sleep tonight,” Beagle said. “Can’t, knowing Peel’s down there being third-degreed.”
“That stuff went out with the old iron helmet,” snorted Pinky. “Do Peel good to spend a few days down there. Why’d they pick him up?”
“Murder...”
“Murder!”
“He’s innocent, of course,” Beagle said quickly. “It... it just looks bad. Peel’s got his faults but he wouldn’t really kill anyone. Not a... a woman.”
Pinky whistled. “A woman? What was it, a drunken brawl?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I believe it had something to do with a case the agency was handling. You read yesterday about this chap Dave Corey who was found up on Mulholland?”
“Hoodlum. Probably in the rackets.”
“He was working a badger game,” Beagle said. “This girl who was killed tonight — Susan Sawyer — she was his partner.”
“Serves ’em right. No use for people like that. One of the victims killed them no doubt. But how does your man, Peel, fit into this?”
“The agency had been retained by one of the victims. I believe Peel wrote some letters to these people, trying to get a line on them. Well, Lieutenant Becker found the letters on the woman.”
“Mmm, Becker’s a good man. The chief was telling me about him a few days ago. There’s a captaincy open and Becker’s up for the job.”
“That’s it!” cried Beagle. “He wants the job, so he’s trying to make himself look good. A juicy case and he breaks it, he’s a cinch for the promotion. That’s why he grabbed Joe.”
“Uh-uh,” Pinky shook his head. “If he makes a mistake his goose is cooked. Becker wouldn’t take a chance, not right now. He must have it on Peel.”
“He hasn’t. I give you my word, Pinky.”
“The chief thinks a lot of Becker,” persisted Pinky. “I happen to know that. If you came here to ask me to get Peel sprung, it’s no dice. If it was anyone but Becker...”
“Becker’s a louse!” cried Beagle, then winced. Someone had called him that earlier in the evening.
“No,” Pinky said doggedly. “I won’t interfere. Not this time.” There was a note of finality in his voice and Beagle turned away. “Good night, Pinky,” he said hopelessly.
“Good night?” cried Pinky. “You expect me to go back to sleep now? I’m wide awake. Come on, we’ll play a little gin.”
He went to a card table on which lay cards and a score pad. Beagle followed and drew out a chair.