Beagle Scented Murder

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Otis Beagle rocked back and forth in his swivel chair, oblivious of the frightful squeak the chair made with every rock. His fat fingers made a pup tent across his well-fed stomach and he was frowning in intense concentration.

On the other side of the double desk Joe Peel looked up furtively from his last week’s ‘Racing Form.’ He didn’t like that concentration on the part of Beagle.

The rocking — and the squeaking — stopped. Joe Peel groaned. This was it.

Otis Beagle blew on the huge stone in his ring. The ring was just like Beagle — big, flashy — and phoney.

“Joe!” said Otis Beagle. “Do you remember the Jolliffe case?”

“No,” replied Peel, promptly.

Beagle scowled. “It was only four-five months ago.”

“My memory doesn’t function on an empty stomach,” Peel snapped. “It’s lunch time and I haven’t even had breakfast.”

“You got to watch out for that, Joe,” said Beagle. “You keep going without breakfast and after a while you get so—”

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