The Lonesome Badger

10

It was twenty minutes to five when Peel got off the bus on Hollywood Boulevard and Ivar. Hardly worth while to go back to the office. But he knew that Beagle liked the give and take of Peel’s reports and, if he didn’t show up, Beagle would sulk all of the next day. So, shaking his head, he walked the short distance to the Monadnock Building.

Otis Beagle was pacing the floor of the small office. “It’s a wonder you bothered to come back at all,” he complained when Peel entered. “How was the movie?”

“Great,” said Peel. “Both pictures. And the newsreel wasn’t bad and the cartoon, boy, that Tom and Jerry!”

“So you’ve got time for three-hour movies while I sit here and wrack my brain and take abuse.” Beagle stabbed a freshly manicured forefinger at the telephone. “What was that Smallwood business about?”

“The man was madder’n a barrel of tomcats, so I thought a little phone call would make him bust a gut.”

“He almost tore my head off.” Beagle slapped his right ear with the palm of his hand. “Smallwood, huh? One of those letters was his.” Beagle nodded thoughtfully. “A man like that may be needing the services of a good private detective. Must have something on his conscience.”

“He looks like money.”

“He wasn’t the rabbit raiser, then?”

Peel grimaced. “That’s Mortimer Brown.”

“And the third one. Ellsworth, was it?”

“A man with five kids!”

“And he’s lonesome?”

“A louse!”

Beagle grunted. “Well, what’s the score?”

“The badger game, what else? The rabbit man went for two fifty. I don’t know about Smallwood, but I think it was higher. He’s bleeding. Bad enough so he yelled for the cops.”

“Do you think he’s mad enough so he’d... he’d kill a man?”

“Mmm,” said Peel. He was on the verge of adding to that, when the phone rang. Beagle scooped it up. “Beagle Detective Agency... I’m the boss... Who...? Oh, Peel... yes, he’s here...” He scowled at Peel as he handed over the phone. “For you — boss!”

“Mr. Peel,” said the voice of Linda Meadows, “I’ve got to see you this evening.”

“Fine,” said Peel. “I’ll drop around to the apartment.”

“No-no, I don’t want you to come there. Could we meet somewhere?”

“I’ll buy you a dinner,” said Peel.

“I’d rather just meet you somewhere and talk.”

“You’ve got to eat, baby. It’s all right. I use a knife and fork.”

There was still reluctance in Linda’s tone when she finally accepted. “All right, the... the Bulldog and Pussycat on Sunset Strip. Seven o’clock.”

“I’ll see you, baby,” said Peel.

“You’ll be where?” Beagle demanded when Peel hung up.

“The Bulldog and Pussycat.”

“What time?”

“Seven.”

“Good. I’ll be there.”

Peel grimaced. “I think the little lady’d rather be with me, alone.”

“I’ve got a dinner date,” Beagle said, “with Iowa Lee. That’s what I tried to tell you on the phone this afternoon, when you so rudely hung up. She called me. You didn’t tell me you’d been at her place last night.”

“Oh, didn’t I? I must have forgotten.”

“She’s pretty sore. Wants to know why we’re investigating her.” Beagle looked at Peel sharply. “Are we?”

Peel hesitated. “We’re knee deep in lonely hearts and the name Iowa Lee keeps popping up. Either she’s in it up to her lily white neck, or she’s being used by a bunch of crooks.”

“That’s the trouble with these Lonely Hearts outfits,” Beagle said. “Somebody starts a little club, hoping to make a few bucks and maybe bring a little cheer into the lives of a few lonely people and then, first thing you know, somebody like Harry Powers comes along—”

“Who’s Harry Powers?”

“A fellow in West Virginia who got his neck stretched. A few years ago he joined a Lonely Hearts Club and married himself four or five of the female members. They found one or two of them afterwards. That is, they found what was left of them...” Beagle’s lips formed a great pout, which he worked in and out. “Iowa Lee may be on the up-and-up, but her club’s certainly being used by Linda Meadows—”

“Susan Sawyer, you mean.”

“All right, Susan Sawyer. You ask me, Iowa needs a good private detective to clean up her club for her.”

Peel groaned. “We’ve already got two clients in this case, which is one more than the law allows us.”

Beagle nodded thoughtfully. “How many members would you say Iowa Lee’s got in her club?”

“There were twenty-five or thirty people at the get-together last night. I understand they pay ten dollars a month, plus five dollars initiation fee.”

“And I paid two dollars to join the correspondence club, plus three dollars for the subscription to Heart Throbs. Say she’s got three-four hundred mail members...” Beagle nodded in sudden decision. “Yes, Joe, I think Miss Lee needs a detective.”

“Why don’t you go after Smallwood?” cried Peel.

“I’m ’way ahead of you. I’ve already got him tabbed... Put one of our advertising blotters into an envelope and mail it to him.”

“You do it,” said Peel testily. “I’ve got to get my suit pressed between now and seven o’clock.”