He reached for the phone and jerked his hand away as it rang under his fingers. He took off the receiver. “Yes?”
A click sounded in Beagle’s ear and the phone went dead.
“Damn!” exclaimed Beagle.
He got up and going to the file pulled out the top drawer and took out the revolver. He looked at it in aversion, then put it back again.
19
The door opened and Lieutenant Becker and Sergeant Fedderson came in. Beagle sighed in relief. This was just what he needed, a good workout.
“Well, Otis,” said the Lieutenant. “Shall we talk a little?”
Beagle chuckled wolfishly.
“Name the subject, Lieutenant.”
“How about anonymous telephone calls?”
Beagle shot a quick, guilty look at the phone, but there hadn’t been time for Becker to ring him from across the street, then come up. He shrugged. “It’s your nickel.”
“Ten cents these days. As a rule, I pay no attention to anonymous phone calls.”
“But this time you did, eh?”
“It sort of fit in with my thinking.”
“Let’s see,” said Beagle, “it was about Oswald P. Ketterling?”
“Who’s Oswald P. Ketterling?”
“A client of mine.” Beagle shook his head. “Ketterling doesn’t ring a bell with you? Then, how about Lester Littlefield? No...?”
Becker scowled. “Try Susan Sawyer. Or David Corey.”
“Oh, are you still interested in them?”
“Aren’t you?” snapped Becker. He looked around the office, although it was obvious that there was no place where a man could hide. “Where’s Joe Peel?”
“Working on the Morgan Cotswold case,” Beagle said sarcastically. “You see, I don’t mind telling the police about the various cases we’re handling.”
“Then tell me what you’re doing for Thaddeus Smallwood. And Linda Meadows. And Charlton Temple.”
Beagle held up a well-manicured index finger. “One moment.” He stepped to the desk and reached for the card file. “Smallwood? Do you spell that with two L’s?”
Becker bared his teeth in a snarl. “The razzle-dazzle won’t work with me, Otis. The only people I’m interested in are those that are connected with the murders of Susan Sawyer and Dave Corey. And those are the only ones you’re interested in — Smallwood, Meadows and Temple.” He lashed out suddenly, “And you’re representing all three!”
Beagle had laid his foundation nicely. He had anticipated the homicide lieutenant and now he smiled indulgently. “Oh, now, Lieutenant!”
“It’s true. Here—” Becker dug out a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Joe Peel made out this receipt to Linda Meadows — fifty dollars, on account, for finding Susan Sawyer.”
“Now show me the receipt I gave, what was that name — Smallwood?”
“I just came from talking to Linda Meadows,” gritted Becker. He pointed to the phone. “Call her, ask her if she told me you were also representing her employer.”
Beagle held up both palms, facing up. “She’s mad at us. Can’t say that I blame her either. Here she was, on a date last night, the dinner ordered, then you walk in and pinch her date! Stand up a little lady, Lieutenant, and she’ll say anything to get even with you. Or don t you know about little ladies?”
Becker’s eyes smoldered. “Who is Charlton Temple?”
Beagle whirled on Mike Fedderson who had opened the top drawer of the big steel filing cabinet and was glancing at the files inside. “Get your fingers out of those files!”
Fedderson slammed shut the files. “I wasn’t doin’ anything.”
“You just can’t help snooping,” snapped Beagle. He turned back to Becker. “What was that name?”
“You heard it, Beagle. You know damn well a private eye can’t handle more than one client in a case. You’re representing not one, not two, but three.”
“Your anonymous telephone caller told you that?” Beagle smiled mockingly. “The little lady I had with me last night, Iowa Lee, runs a Lonely Hearts Club. How come you’re not accusing me of representing her also; that would make four clients in the same case.”
“I was just coming to her.”
“Oh, you were.” Beagle pointed derisively at Fedderson. “Ask your stooge there how it sounds? Look at the expression on his face.”
“What’s the matter with my expression?” growled Fedderson.
“Talking to you, Beagle,” said Lieutenant Becker, “is just a waste of time.”
“It is, unless you’ve got the answers before you come here.”
Then Beagle’s triumphant expression disappeared. The door was slammed open and Iowa Lee came in swiftly. “Mr. Beagle,” she began, then stopped as she recognized Lieutenant Becker.
Beagle swore under his breath. Aloud, he said, “I’ll be with you in a moment, Miss Lee. The lieutenant was just leaving.”
Iowa Lee shook her head. “He may as well hear this.”
“The agency’s business doesn’t concern the police,” Beagle said quickly.
“What I’ve got to say does concern the police. I... I told you about the picnic, Mr. Beagle. But I didn’t tell you everything.” She bit her lip, then faced Lieutenant Becker squarely. “A murder was committed at my picnic, Lieutenant.”
“Oh, no!” wailed Beagle.
“Oh, not Mr. Peel,” said Iowa Lee quickly. “It... it happened after he disappeared.”
“Who was killed?” Becker asked curtly.
“A man named Smallwood, Thaddeus Smallwood!”
Beagle reeled back. Lieutenant Becker’s eyes glinted. “Has this been reported to the police?”
Iowa Lee nodded. “The Ventura County sheriff came out.”
“Ventura County?” cried Becker.
Beagle snatched at the straw. “The picnic was in Ventura County?”
“Yes. I... I wasn’t even aware of that, but when one of the... the people at the picnic went to the nearest phone, a roadstand on Ventura Boulevard, he put in a call to the police and they connected him with the Ventura County sheriff. He came out in a little while, and” — Iowa Lee shuddered — “there wasn’t anything anyone could tell him. Everybody was searching around in the woods and, when this shot was fixed, nobody would admit they’d fired it. All we knew was that Mr. Smallwood was dead.”
“What time was this murder committed?” asked Becker.
“Around two o’clock, just a few minutes after lunch. We’d started the baseball game and—”
“It’s a few minutes to five now.” Becker frowned. “How come the sheriff turned everyone loose so quickly?”
“He questioned everyone, but no one — no one knew anything.”
Becker crossed, reached for Beagle’s phone. “Get me the sheriff in Ventura County.”
Beagle exclaimed, “That’s a long distance call!”
“Send your bill to the city,” snapped Becker. He gave the operator the number of Beagle’s phone and waited a moment or two. Then:
“Hello, Sheriff? This is Lieutenant Becker of Los Angeles Homicide. I’m interested in the murder of that man out at the Lonely Hearts Club picnic. Yes...?” He listened, nodding. “It ties in with a couple of killings we’ve had here in town.” He listened again. “That’s right. We want to work with you on it. By the way, how come you let all the people go?”
He listened, looking at Iowa Lee. A frown grew on his face. “Yes, I know about him. As a matter of fact, I’m calling from his employer’s office... A couple of chiselers.”
“I resent that,” howled Otis Beagle.
Becker clapped his hand over the mouthpiece. “I wasn’t talking about you.”