Lieutenant Becker moved forward swiftly. “Here’s your chance, Joe. Talk and I’ll hang Beagle so high no one’ll be able to help him. Not even Pinky Devol.”
“It’s his caper,” cried Joe Peel. “He wrote the letters to the Lonely Hearts Club. He used my name, but he wrote the letters.”
Sparbuck and Lieutenant Becker exchanged triumphant looks. “Why did he write the letters?” Becker asked smoothly. “What was the angle — blackmail?”
But a shred of reason still clung to Joe Peel. He gulped, shot quick looks at the predatory faces of Sparbuck and Becker, caught a glimpse of Sergeant Fedderson’s gloating.
“Huh?” he gulped. “Who said anything about blackmail? I... I, uh, I mean we had a client.”
Becker saw his victory melting away. “There was no client, Joe. Beagle was trying to make a case out of thin air. That’s what it was, wasn’t it?” Then, desperately as he saw Peel cooling off, “He’s thrown you to the wolves, Joe. He’s playing cards while you’re in jail. The fire’s got too hot and he’s polishing up Pinky Devol. He and Pinky’ll be playing cards at the plushy club while they’re leading you to the gas chamber.”
But Becker had overdone it. Otis Beagle was Peel’s only hope. He had to trust the big fellow. Without him he was utterly and completely lost. With his assistance, dubious as it was, there was a chance — a slim chance.
He said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Lieutenant Becker groaned. Mike Fedderson stepped forward, his huge right hand doubled into a fist. “Five minutes, Lieutenant, give me just five minutes alone with him and he’ll talk.”
“Give us five minutes alone,” sneered Peel, “and I’ll cut you down to size and make dog meat of you.”
Sergeant Fedderson let swing, but Lieutenant Becker threw out his own arm and averted the blow...
Beagle stepped out of the elevator and saw Lieutenant Becker and Sergeant Fedderson waiting outside the door of the Beagle Detective Agency.
“Ten o’clock on the dot,” said Becker. “Just like a bank.”
“I didn’t get to sleep until four,” growled Beagle. “I had a bad night.”
“I’ll bet you did.”
Beagle put his key in the lock. “Surprised you didn’t wait inside. Or have you already been in and snooped through things?”
“That’s what you’d have done if you were me,” said Becker, meaningly. He followed Beagle into the office. Fedderson crowded in on his heels.
“All right, Becker,” snapped Beagle, inside the office. “You got your orders about Peel, didn’t you?”
“I made a mistake,” Becker said. “I shouldn’t have taken him down in the first place. He only works for you. I should have arrested you.”
“Try it sometime — and then see how quickly you’re pounding a beat out in Santa Monica—”
“Sanat Monica’s a different city.”
“All right, Canoga Park, then!”
“Big man,” said Sergeant Fedderson.
Beagle indicated Fedderson with his head. “He talks, does he?”
“One of these days...” said Fedderson thickly.
“Shut up, Mike,” snapped Becker. Then, to Beagle, “They just brought the Sawyer girl back from Victorville. I saw her down at the morgue. A very pretty girl — except for a bullet hole in her face.”
“I get a newspaper with my breakfast,” Beagle said. “Last night you pretended that you’d found her. The Victorville sheriff picked her up and on the basis of a phone talk with him you had the nerve to arrest Joe Peel.”
Becker took two letters from his pocket. “They found these in her purse.” He pointed to the typewriter. “I’ll bet a dime the typing was done on that machine.”
“So?”
“So you and Peel are writing letters to the lovelorn. You can’t get girls any other way.”
“I’ll give you about three minutes more, Becker,” growled Beagle.
“I won’t need three minutes,” said Becker, baring his teeth. “I just dropped in to tell you... I think you stepped across the line this time. I think I can prove it, too. And when I do, Otis, I’m warning you, Pinky won’t be able to spring you.”
Sergeant Fedderson smacked his right fist into the open palm of his left hand.
Becker stepped to the door. “Think about it, Otis, think about it!”
He and Fedderson left. Beagle thought about it for ten seconds, then reached for the telephone, but before he could reach it, the phone rang.
The voice of Iowa Lee said, “Mr. Beagle? I did a little thinking last night and—”
“I’m glad you did, Iowa!” boomed Beagle. “And I’ve been thinking about you.”
“Now wait a minute!” cut in Iowa Lee. “We haven’t been thinking about the same things. This is business...”
“Oh, business,” said Beagle, disappointed.
“Yes, and I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. First that man Corey and now this Sawyer girl... I don’t like it, Mr. Beagle.”
“I don’t think they liked it either.”
“That isn’t the point. I’m running a legitimate business. I pay a license fee to the state and to the city. I’m entitled to the same privileges as other business people.”
“Sure, Iowa, sure.”
“Don’t interrupt me, Mr. Beagle. As I was saying, I’m a reputable businesswoman. But unfortunate publicity can ruin my business, and I have a right to protect myself—”
“You certainly have,” said Beagle, suddenly getting the drift of things. “And sometimes a... a lone woman needs outside assistance. The services of a — reputable protection agency.”
“Why do you think I’m calling you? To engage your services, naturally.”
“You’ve come to the right place, Miss Lee. Yes, Miss Lee, this agency can help you.”
The office door opened and a trim, middle-aged man, wearing a gray Homburg, popped into the office. He took off his hat, revealing a bald pate circled by a fringe of gray hair. Beagle covered the mouthpiece.
“Be with you in a minute.” He said into the phone, “Could you possibly come down to the office, madam?”
Iowa Lee tumbled at once. “There’s someone with you?”
“That’s right.”
“I can’t come down now, Mr. Beagle. I’m busy. But I want you to work for me, understand?”
“Quite!”
“Very well, then, I’ll phone you later, but it’s understood you’re working for me.”
“Quite, madam.”
He put down the phone. “Yes, sir, and now what can I do for you?”
“My name,” said the visitor, “is Thaddeus Smallwood.”
Beagle was not surprised. He got up, pulled forward Joe Peel’s chair and reseated himself. “Won’t you have a seat, sir?”
“No!” cried Thaddeus Smallwood. “I haven’t time for that. Look here, I received a circular from this outfit in the mail this morning.”
“Ah, yes, our regular monthly mailing to business people.”
“This is the first time I’ve heard of the Beagle Detective Agency.”
“Oh, you’re probably in the Wilshire district,” said Beagle easily. “We’ve never covered that with our mailings, but we’re expanding our services and—”
“Expanding your services!” snapped Mr. Smallwood. “This looks like a hole-in-the-wall outfit.” He gestured angrily. “Never mind. You’re probably crooked, too, but it takes a thief to catch a thief.”
“Sir,” said Otis Beagle with cold rage, “I will have you understand...”