Peel whirled on Linda. “You said Miss Meadows...”
“My maiden name. We... we were divorced.”
“That’s what you say,” Dave retorted. “Only I don’t know a thing about it. Remember? You forgot to tell me. There’s a law against that in this and quite a few other states. The sucker — I mean the husband — has to be told he’s being divorced.”
“By publication, if the plaintiff doesn’t know the whereabouts of the defendant,” said Linda.
“Why, Linda honey,” chided Dave, “I wasn’t lost, was I? Look” — he held up the door key — “I had this all the time, so I couldn’t have been so hard to find, could I?”
“Get out of here,” Linda cried. “Get out!”
“Excuse me,” Peel murmured, “but I think I’ve got to run along.”
He started for the door, but Dave moved a couple of paces to his left and blocked Peel’s passage. “What’s your hurry, laddie boy? We haven’t even introduced ourselves.”
“No point to it,” replied Peel. “I was just standing here, waiting for a streetcar.”
“It’s come. Me.” Dave held out a hand. “Dave Corey’s the name. And you?”
“If you don’t mind...”
“But I do mind, laddie boy. The least you can do is give me your name. It ain’t polite to knock off a stranger’s head.”
“Look, pal,” Peel said, swallowing hard. “There’s no call for the rough stuff. There’s been a mistake. I didn’t know the little lady was married—”
“You know it now.”
“Sure, so I’ll beat it.”
“Okay, laddie. Do that. No hard feelings, huh? You understand these things, don’t you?”
“Sure, sure. No hard feelings.”
Peel took a step forward. And then a trench mortar exploded on his chin. Peel cried out and dropped to his knees. A roaring filled his ears. He tried to look up, saw Dave Corey’s foot coming at his head — and couldn’t move his head aside.
How long he was out, Joe Peel didn’t know. He dreamed of comets and meteors and atomic explosions, and when he awakened there was a vast aching in his head. He groaned aloud and sat up. He shook his head to clear away the cosmic dust, and then his eyes focused on the bloody face of Dave Corey and he forgot all about his pain.
Corey was quite dead.
Peel shot one wild glance around the room. Linda Meadows was gone and...
...and the siren of a police car wailed up the street. Joe Peel waited for no more. He slammed out of the apartment and took the stairs three at a time. All the way down to the basement garage. He darted through the garage and out upon a street at the rear of the Hillcrest Towers. He circled the block and from across the street saw the police car parked in the circular drive in front of the apartment building.
Muttering under his breath, he walked down to Laurel Canyon.
3
Otis Beagle was pounding the old portable typewriter when Joe Peel entered the office. He grunted, took the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and laid it face down on his desk.
“Well?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Peel. “I got it.” He turned his face sidewards to show Beagle the bruise on his cheekbone.
Beagle exclaimed peevishly, “What’s the matter with you, Joe? You can’t do the simplest little thing any more without running into trouble. It’s that chip you’re carrying on your shoulder—”
“That ain’t all I’m carrying,” Joe Peel retorted. He pointed to the telephone. “You’d better call your friend, Pinky.”
“Why should I call Pinky?”
“You’re going to need him.”
“Why?”
“Murder.”
Beagle kicked back his swivel chair so violently that it crashed to the floor. “What are you talking about, Joe? Mur...” He choked on the word.
“Badger, badger, who’s got the badger?”
“Oh, no!” wailed Beagle.
“Oh, yes, and you walked into it.” Peel cleared his throat. “I mean, I walked into it... Only something happened, the outraged husband wound up with a bullet in his head.”
“Not you, Joe!”
“Where would I get a roscoe?”
Beagle whirled and strode to the steel files across the room. He pulled out the bottom file, reached into the space behind the letter files and brought out a rusty, nickel-plated revolver. He started to wheeze in relief, then caught himself.
“Have you got a gun of your own?”
“On my salary?” Peel shook his head. “I wasn’t awake when he got if.” He touched the bruise on his face. “He hit me when I wasn’t looking and then he gave me the boots.” He paused. “The little lady gave it to him...”
“Linda Meadows?”
“Mrs. Dave Corey. At least that’s what he claimed.” Peel crossed to his swivel chair and sank down into it. “The letters are there, Otis — the letters you signed with my name. And I gave the receptionist my name.”
“Why’d you do that?” Beagle groaned. Then he went to his chair, picked it up and seated himself heavily. “All right, give it to me, the whole thing.”
“That’s it, Otis. I hardly had time to make a, uh, a small pass, when Corey bust in. He had a key. Oh, sure, they went through a routine. She said she’d divorced him and he claimed it wasn’t a legal divorce. And then he popped me. That’s it — except she’d skipped when I came around. But not before calling the cops. I got out about two jumps ahead of them.”
“And Corey was dead, you re sure of that?”
“As dead as a fur coat.”
Beagle’s face showed great anguish. He locked his fat hands across his ample stomach and began to rock back and forth in the squeaking swivel chair. The pain did not erase from his face, but after a few minutes he shook his head. “If it was a badger game, why would she kill him?”
“Maybe because I only had a dollar forty in my pocket,” Joe Peel said, then exclaimed and quickly thrust his hand into his pocket He brought out a crumpled dollar bill and some small change. He sighed with relief. “Guess they figured it wasn’t worth while.”
“I don’t like it,” Otis Beagle said. He scowled, shook his head and got to his feet. Walking to the coat rack he took down his Homburg hat and set it jauntily upon his head. When he reached for his cane, Peel got to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
“To the club.”
“Whoa!” Peel cried. “You’re not letting me stay here to face Lieutenant Targ.”
“I’ve got to see Pinky.”
“And I’ve got to see a man about a hole,” retorted Joe Peel. “I’ll need it to hide.”
Beagle hesitated, then strode back to the desk. He scooped up the phone, dialed a number. “Otis Beagle. Is Mr. Devol in the club?... Yes, I’ll hold on.” He covered the mouthpiece. “This is going to cost me something. Pinky’s got an aunt visiting him from St. Louis who’s crazy about opera and...” He uncovered the mouthpiece of the phone. “Pinky, old man? Otis. Certainly, old man, I was just about to leave, but a little matter came up. Mmm, maybe you can help me out and I can get away so much sooner. You know what help’s like these days... cant trust them to do a thing right... That little detective agency... That’s right, more trouble than it’s worth, but I hate to throw these people out of work.” He sighed and shrugged expansively. “That’s the cross we’ve got to bear, Pinky. Can’t let them down... As I was saying, one of my men blundered into something... May not amount to much... damned nuisance, though... That’s right... A little matter down at the Hillcrest Towers... Uh, wonder if you could call Homicide?... Lieutenant Targ down there’s not a bad sort... Yeah, ask him what it’s all about... Call me back at this number, will you? Granite 7-9757... Yes, certainly, the sooner you call me back the sooner I can leave... Good, I’ll hang on...”