The Lonesome Badger

11

The Bulldog and Pussycat was a clubby little place on Sunset Strip that had caught on with the movie crowd a few years ago and did an excellent business. A long, narrow room in front was given over to a long bar that was usually lined three deep during and after the cocktail hour. In the rear was a square room lighted very meagerly with amber-colored lights. It had a semicircle of booths around the sides of the room and a few tables in the center.

Peel arrived at the place a few minutes before seven. He walked through to the dining room and searched the faces of the female patrons, but, not finding Linda Meadows, he retreated and forced his way through to the bar.

“Glass of beer,” he told the bartender.

“Beer chaser,” said the bartender. “What’ll you have with it?”

“Beer!” snapped Peel.

“Just beer?”

“I’m a television sports broadcaster,” Peel said darkly. “I’m not allowed to drink anything but beer.”

The bartender drew a small glass of beer. Peel put a dollar on the bar and the man took it away and brought back a quarter. Peel scowled at the coin, then pocketed it. The bartender gave him a hurt look.

Peel sipped at the beer and thought of Susan Sawyer and Linda Meadows. And Iowa Lee. Mentally he compared the, mmm, the pulchritude of the three. If he hadn’t met the real Linda Meadows he would have been content with the phony one, who was really Susan Sawyer. Linda Meadows... He sighed lightly, but then his thoughts went to Iowa Lee.

Linda Meadows stepped up to him. “Hello,” she said.

A delightful shudder ran through Peel. In the three hours since he’d seen Linda he’d forgotten just how attractive she really was. Or perhaps it was the cocktail dress she was wearing — and the mink stole.

“Hello, baby,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

She noted his eyes on the stole. “I borrowed it. Susan won’t mind.”

“How about a drink?”

“I’d rather not.”

“All right, then let’s eat.”

Peel downed the last of his beer and led the way to the rear of the Bulldog and Pussycat. A waiter seated them at a table. Linda ordered a fruit salad and Peel, noting the prices, contented himself with a breaded veal cutlet.

When the waiter went away, Linda said, “You almost cost me my job this afternoon.”

“What’s the matter with that boss of yours? Never saw a man so jumpy.”

“He said you were trying to blackmail him!”

“You mean he’s done something he can be blackmailed for?”

“I know nothing of Mr. Smallwood’s personal life.” She frowned. “Why did you call on him today?”

“I’ll tell you,” Peel said. “Answer one question and I’ll tell you.”

“What is the question?”

Peel paused for effect, then said deliberately, “Where is Susan Sawyer?”

“But that’s ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “I employed you to tell me that. I paid you good money and—”

“I’ll change the question,” Joe said. “Why did you hire me to find Susan?”

“Because I’m worried about her, that’s why. She’s been gone over a week.”

“How do you know she’s been gone a week?”

“How do I know? Because I haven’t seen her. Her bed hasn’t been slept in.”

“Maybe she’s staying out all night and sleeping during the day.”

Linda Meadows gave Peel a look of contempt. “You’re talking like an imbecile.”

“Maybe,” said Peel, “but the people at the Towers don’t know Susan’s missing.”

She gasped and stared at Peel. “How... how do you know?”

“I telephoned today. I asked for her and the operator said just a moment, she’d see if she was in.”

“And?”

“I hung up. But the very way she said it, casually, automatically, gave me the impression that she assumed Miss Sawyer was still in residence.”

“They wouldn’t know. I haven’t told them.” Linda gave him a sudden, suspicious look. “Have you been at the apartment?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because some queer things are happening there. I... I have a strange feeling that someone searched the place today”

“Anything missing?”

“No.” She hesitated, then added: “Nothing important.”

“Maybe it is important.”

“It’s a trivial thing, a magazine.”

“The maid could have taken that out.”

“I don’t think so. I... I’d hidden it.”

“A magazine?”

The voice of Otis Beagle boomed out. “Joe. Imagine running into you here!”

Peel looked up to see Beagle bearing down on him. In his wake trailed Iowa Lee. Iowa Lee in a beautiful mink wrap and a white evening dress.

Peel pushed back his chair and half rose. “Miss Lee,” he said.

Beagle clapped Peel on the shoulder in boisterous camaraderie. “Join us for dinner, old man.”

Iowa Lee came up. She did not look too pleased to see Joe Peel. And a quick glance at Linda Meadows, on Peel’s part, indicated that Linda did not welcome an addition to the party.

Peel said, “We’ve already ordered.”

“We’ll catch up,” Beagle boomed. He drew out a chair for Iowa Lee, then took the fourth chair. “I guess we’ve got the two best-looking girls in town here,” he cried.

Joe said, “Linda Meadows, Iowa Lee.”

Beagle chuckled. “And I’m Otis Beagle, Linda, the little fellow’s boss. Or did he tell you he was the boss?”

Linda said stiffly, “I believe he intimated you were merely a figurehead.”

“Dummy,” Peel said sourly.

“When the cat’s away, you know,” Beagle said, heartily indulgent. He signaled the waiter. “Luigi, four Martinis.”

“Yes, Mr. Beagle,” beamed the waiter. “Right away, Mr. Beagle.”

“And you know how I like them, Luigi — dry!”

“Of course, Mr. Beagle. Dry.”

“Linda doesn’t drink,” Peel said.

Linda gave him a look of indignation. “Whatever gave you that idea?” To the waiter, “Make mine dry, too.”

“It looks like we’re going to have a brawl,” put in Iowa Lee. She fixed Linda Meadows with a steady look. “Don’t I know you, Miss Meadows?”

“I hardly think so,” Linda replied tartly. “What was the name again?”

“Iowa Lee. And yours is Linda Meadows? It sounds familiar.” Iowa Lee smiled sweetly. “Aren’t you a member of my club?”

“Iowa,” said Peel, “runs the Iowa Lee Lonely Hearts Club.”

Linda sniffed in disdain. “I’m not that hard up for a man!”

Iowa Lee was all ready for the return thrust, but the waiter came with the drinks at that moment. “Are you ready to order now, Mr. Beagle?” he asked.

“I certainly am. My usual, a two-inch steak, medium rare. How about you, Iowa?”

“The same for me,” Iowa said, with spirit.

“Well,” said Peel, “you might as well change my order, then. I’ll have one of those steaks.” He met Beagle’s scowl. “Okay, boss?”

“I’ll have another Martini,” said Linda.

Peel looked at her with interest. “Me, too.” He downed his drink and held out the glass to the waiter.

“Ha-ha,” said Beagle, without humor. “This may be an interesting evening.”

“Quite,” offered Linda. “You said you run a Lonely Hearts club, Miss Lee? What sort of people join such clubs?”

“Lonely men,” replied Iowa Lee. “And girls — very nice girls. Girls like, well, girls like you.”

“I take it,” Linda said pointedly, glancing at Beagle, “that you date the customers, or do you call them club members?”

“Whoa!” cried Otis Beagle. “You’re even-Steven, right now. This is a good time to quit.” He beamed at the two girls. “We don’t want to have a fight, do we?”

“What’s wrong with a fight?” demanded Linda.

“I don’t mind a little fight now and then,” said Iowa Lee.

“It’s too early in the evening.” Beagle held up both hands, palms outward. “We’re going to have fun tonight. Eh, Joe?”

“Sure,” said Peel. “Good clean fun. Linda’s boss is a member of your club, Miss Lee.”

“Not now, Joe!” exclaimed Beagle.

But the damage was already done. Linda turned on Joe Peel, her eyes blazing. “That’s ridiculous. Mr. Smallwood isn’t the type of man who’d—”

“Smallwood?” cut in Iowa Lee. “Thaddeus Smallwood?”

“That’s the lad,” Peel said.

“It so happens that a Thaddeus Smallwood is a member of the club,” said Iowa. “An elderly man of about fifty-eight or — nine, completely bald, except for a fringe of hair around the sides?”

“Mr. Smallwood is forty-eight,” blazed Linda.

“Oh, is that what he tells you?” Iowa Lee smiled sweetly. “But the description fits him, doesn’t it?” She nodded. “Mr. Smallwood is quite a regular attendant of our little get-togethers... Linda Meadows... Mmm, the name is familiar...”

“I’m not a member of your club!” cried Linda.

“Girls!” chided Beagle. “We agreed not to fight.”

Peel reached into his pocket and brought out a folded copy of Heart Throbs. “What I like about this paper,” he said, “are the matrimonial listings...”

“Put that away, Joe,” said Beagle furiously.

“What’s the matter with this?” Peel asked with feigned innocence. “It’s Iowa’s club paper. Listen to this, ‘Attractive young woman, age 25, with $50,000 in cash, wants to correspond with exciting man, 30–40. Object matrimony.’ That’s for me, Iowa. D’you suppose I could get her address?”

“Mr. Peel,” Iowa Lee said, “I told you last night that I didn’t like you, but you grow on a person. Yes, I think I could learn to positively hate you.”

Beagle slammed the table with his open palm. “Ho-ho!” he roared. “Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Joe.”

“Have fun, Otis, have fun,” said Peel. “It’s later than you think.” He looked past Beagle. “Hello, Lieutenant.”

“Lieut...” began Beagle, then whirled.

Lieutenant Becker and Sergeant Fedderson came up to the table.

“Out on the town, Beagle?” asked Becker.

“Is this place on your beat?” Beagle asked thinly.

“Where are you apt to find Pinky this time of the evening?” asked Lieutenant Becker.

“He’s probably having dinner with his friend, the chief of police,” snapped Beagle.

“Oh, then you won’t have any trouble getting him, will you?”

“Another time, Lieutenant, I might find your humor entertaining. But I see the waiter’s bringing my dinner and I don’t want to get indigestion. So, if you don’t mind...”

“Oh, that’s all right, go right ahead and eat. It isn’t you I want. It’s Joey boy!”

“That indigestion stuff goes for me, too,” snapped Peel. “In spades.” He made a flicking gesture. “Go away, Lieutenant, you bother me...”

“Boy, oh boy, oh boy!” chortled Sergeant Fedderson.

Becker tapped Peel on the shoulder. “Come!” He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb.

“You’re carrying this too far,” growled Beagle.

“Maybe Joey’s gone too far,” Becker suggested.

“We covered that last night.”

“This is tonight. You’d better start looking for Pinky, Otis. Come on, Peel.”

Beagle pushed back his chair. “All right, Becker, if you’re looking for trouble...”

Becker gestured to Peel. “Let’s get going.”

“I haven’t had my dinner!” cried Peel.

“Neither has Susan Sawyer,” said Lieutenant Becker. “She’s dead!”

A wail was torn from Linda Meadows. “Oh, no!”

“I’m sorry, Miss Meadows,” said Becker grimly. “Her body was found about two hours ago. I may want to talk to you later. I suggest you go home now.”

Peel ungallantly said, “I’ll go home, too.”

“Uh-uh, not you, Peel. A couple of letters were found in Susan Sawyer’s purse. Letters written by you.”

Peel shot a quick glance at Otis Beagle. The latter got quickly to his feet. “Don’t worry about a thing, Joe, don’t worry about a thing. I’ll get hold of Pinky and you’ll be out of there in a jiffy. And you, Becker, don’t try any of your fancy stuff on Joe.”

“I’d like to have you down at headquarters, Otis,” said Lieutenant Becker, “for just about an hour.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Sergeant Fedderson took Peel’s arm roughly. “On your feet!”

Peel jerked his arm free of Fedderson’s grip. He got to his feet and glowered at Beagle. “Get Pinky!” he said darkly. “Get him quick.”

“Sure, Joe, sure!”

He watched Peel go off with the two detectives, then turned to Iowa Lee and Linda Meadows. The latter, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, pushed back her chair.

“The least I can do,” Beagle offered, “is to take you home.”

“I can find the way myself,” retorted Linda. She turned her back on Beagle and strode off.

Beagle turned back to Iowa Lee with a sigh. “Always something to spoil a man’s dinner.”

Iowa looked at him in surprise. “You’re not going to eat now?”

“Why not? The food’s ordered and I’m hungry.”

“But you promised your assistant that you’d get this Pinky, whoever he is, to do whatever is necessary.”

“That’s right But a half hour more or less isn’t going to make any difference.”

“Mr. Beagle,” Iowa Lee said, “I think you’re a louse!”

Beagle sat down opposite her and grinned...

Forty-five minutes later, Beagle helped Iowa Lee into a taxicab. He started to climb in after her, but she held out a detaining hand.

“Thank you for the dinner, Mr. Beagle.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll take you home—”

“The taxi’ll do that, Mr. Beagle. Thank you — and good night.”

She pulled the door shut in his face. The cab started off, leaving Beagle standing at the curb.

Another taxicab moved into the spot vacated by the first. The driver looked inquiringly at Beagle.

“Cab, mister?”

Beagle got in. “The Sunset Athletic Club.”

But at the Sunset Athletic Club, Beagle learned that Mr. Douglas Devol had not been in that evening. In the lounge, Beagle had a phone brought to him and put in a call to four night clubs, five restaurants and three club members with whom he knew Devol was friendly. None had seen Mr. Devol that evening, none was expecting him.

Finally he put down the phone and stared at a leather armchair opposite him. He knew Lieutenant Becker from old, a fair man, but a policeman. And he knew Joe Peel. The little man was stubborn and hard, but he had a fine temper. And he was too suspicious. In spite of his long term of service with the agency, Joe did not trust Otis. Beagle had never let him down, but Peel was always accusing him of it.

It was only two hours since the police had taken him away. Beagle had spent most of that time in a sincere effort to locate Pinky, but would Peel appreciate that? No, he would...

In desperation Beagle picked up the phone again and dialed Pinky’s unlisted home number. After a moment the voice of Pinky’s man of all work replied, “Mr. Devol’s residence.”

“Justin,” Beagle said, “this is Otis Beagle. It’s a matter of extreme importance that Mr. Devol phone me as soon as he gets in.”

“He can’t do that,” said Justin. “Not when he comes in, ’cause he’s in already.”

“What?” cried Beagle. “It’s only eleven o’clock.”

“Yes, sir, but Mr. Devol spent an evening at home. He’s... he’s sleeping.”

Beagle groaned. “Call him. Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.”

Justin hesitated. “If I wake him it might be my death.”

“You’ve got to call him, Justin,” Otis Beagle said desperately. “Wait. Tell him I’m on the way over. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

He slammed down the phone and rushed out of the club. Outside he got into a cab and gave the driver Pinky Devol’s address. Ten minutes later he entered a luxurious apartment building a block north of Sunset Boulevard. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and pressed the door buzzer.

Justin, a retired middleweight prize fighter, opened the door. He shook his head. “Oh, boy!”

But he let Otis Beagle enter. Beagle strode through a hall into Pinky’s library, a large paneled room filled with books that Pinky had never read.

Pinky Devol, in a handsome dressing gown, came out of a bedroom. He was of middle height, had flaming red hair and a violently pink face which had given him his nickname. He was a tubby, irascible man, who had started out as a lawyer and still had an office somewhere with his name on the doors. But a battery of other attorneys took care of the legal end of things while Pinky spent his full time taking life easy and associating with the “right” people. He was not a politician, but politicians were afraid of him. He held no public office, but he knew all the important officials of the city and county.

He was not in a good mood. “Dammit, Otis,” he cried petulantly. “The first time in four months I spend a night at home, you’ve got to break in.”

“Sorry, old man, you know I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t a matter of the utmost urgency.”

“I’ll bet,” said Pinky skeptically.

“You know that detective agency I run,” began Beagle.

Devol groaned. “License trouble again?”

“Well, no. Not yet. It’s that... that man I’ve got working for me.”

“Peel? Mean-tempered little fellow. What’s he done now?”

“He’s been arrested!”

“Again? Well, teach him a lesson.” Pinky shrugged. “Get yourself a good man next time. Although I can’t for the life of me see why you’ve got to have a detective agency in the first place.”

“Oh, it brings me in a little money now and then. And it’s something to do. A man can’t sit around the club all the time, can he?”

“Get a respectable business then.” Pinky yawned. “I went to bed at nine o’clock. Does a man good once in a while.”

“I won’t be able to sleep tonight,” Beagle said. “Can’t, knowing Peel’s down there being third-degreed.”

“That stuff went out with the old iron helmet,” snorted Pinky. “Do Peel good to spend a few days down there. Why’d they pick him up?”

“Murder...”

“Murder!”

“He’s innocent, of course,” Beagle said quickly. “It... it just looks bad. Peel’s got his faults but he wouldn’t really kill anyone. Not a... a woman.”

Pinky whistled. “A woman? What was it, a drunken brawl?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I believe it had something to do with a case the agency was handling. You read yesterday about this chap Dave Corey who was found up on Mulholland?”

“Hoodlum. Probably in the rackets.”

“He was working a badger game,” Beagle said. “This girl who was killed tonight — Susan Sawyer — she was his partner.”

“Serves ’em right. No use for people like that. One of the victims killed them no doubt. But how does your man, Peel, fit into this?”

“The agency had been retained by one of the victims. I believe Peel wrote some letters to these people, trying to get a line on them. Well, Lieutenant Becker found the letters on the woman.”

“Mmm, Becker’s a good man. The chief was telling me about him a few days ago. There’s a captaincy open and Becker’s up for the job.”

“That’s it!” cried Beagle. “He wants the job, so he’s trying to make himself look good. A juicy case and he breaks it, he’s a cinch for the promotion. That’s why he grabbed Joe.”

“Uh-uh,” Pinky shook his head. “If he makes a mistake his goose is cooked. Becker wouldn’t take a chance, not right now. He must have it on Peel.”

“He hasn’t. I give you my word, Pinky.”

“The chief thinks a lot of Becker,” persisted Pinky. “I happen to know that. If you came here to ask me to get Peel sprung, it’s no dice. If it was anyone but Becker...”

“Becker’s a louse!” cried Beagle, then winced. Someone had called him that earlier in the evening.

“No,” Pinky said doggedly. “I won’t interfere. Not this time.” There was a note of finality in his voice and Beagle turned away. “Good night, Pinky,” he said hopelessly.

“Good night?” cried Pinky. “You expect me to go back to sleep now? I’m wide awake. Come on, we’ll play a little gin.”

He went to a card table on which lay cards and a score pad. Beagle followed and drew out a chair.

“The usual?”

“Five cents a point? Mmm, let’s see, you owe me about twelve fifty now.”

“That’s from bridge.”

“Well, you’re always spouting about what a good gin player you are. All right, I’ll give you a chance to get even. Ten cents a point!”

Beagle winced. “Deal.”

Pinky dealt the cards. Beagle drew one and said, “Gin.”

“No!” howled Pinky.

“You dealt them.”

Beagle dealt the next five hands, winning them all. And giving Pinky Devol a triple blitz, which at ten cents a point figured up to two hundred sixty dollars. Pinky’s face was three shades redder.

“Never saw such luck in my life,” he snarled. “And you ask me to get your two-bit shamus out of jail? Fat chance!”

A shudder ran through Beagle. He dealt the cards once more, looked at his hand and blinked. It was a laydown hand, three kings, three sixes, a three-card run and an ace. He could go down with one point and catch Pinky with a fistful.

“Your play,” he said thickly.

Pinky drew a card and discarded a king. A gin. Otis swallowed hard, drew a card from the pack and discarded a king. Pinky drew, discarded a six. Beagle groaned inwardly, drew from the pack and broke his sixes.

After eight or nine more draws, Pinky went down with eight and caught Beagle with forty-two points.

“That’s better,” he said.

At three thirty in the morning, Pinky Devol added up the score. “You lose sixteen hundred and ten. With what you already owe me that’s twenty-eight sixty. Call it twenty-eight fifty.”

“That much?” asked Beagle.

“Maybe you’ll win the next time,” Pinky said cheerfully. “And now, if you don’t mind, write me out a check.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a while, Pinky,” Beagle said. “I’m a little short at the moment.”

“So am I. The stock market took a header last week. If I sell my Consolidated Ball Bearings now, I stand to lose thirty thousand. But it’s bound to go up again in the next month or two. A couple of thousand would help out a bit.”

“I haven’t got it right now.”

“What about a grand?”

Beagle shook his head. “I overreached myself. But I’ve got a big case on the fire now that’ll bring in a fat fee in a few days.”

“How many days?”

“Three or four. That is, if Joe Peel can help me out...”

“The hell with Peel!”

“I can’t say that, Pinky. Unfortunately, Peel’s the only one who can help me break this case. He’s been working on it a great deal and unless he tells me what he knows, the case may run on and on.”

“Well, can’t you go down to wherever he is and pump him?”

“You don’t know Peel. He’s stubborn. If I don’t spring him he’ll sulk.”

Pinky glowered at Otis Beagle. “In other words, if I don’t help you, I don’t get my money?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t put it as crudely as that, Pinky. Only... well, the sooner Peel’s free, the sooner we clean up the case and get the fat fee.”

Pinky strode to his desk and scooped up the phone. He dialed a number. After a long wait he snapped into the phone: “Chief, this is Douglas Devol. Yes, I know it’s late... Friend of mine down at the club runs a little detective agency on the side... That’s right, Otis Beagle. Good man. It seems your Lieutenant Becker made a little mistake. Oh, sure he’s a good man, I’m not denying that, but Beagles disturbed about the thing. That’s the sort of a man Otis is, always thinking of his employees, day and night. That’s why I’m calling you in the middle of the night. Yep, just like a doctor — a policeman’s time is never his own. I sympathize with you, Chief, but if you’ll take care of this little matter, I’d appreciate it a lot... Mmm, let’s see, this fellow’s name is Peel. Becker picked him up... Oh, tomorrow’s all right. He’s probably asleep now, anyway. No, don’t bother about the bail. Beagle’s good for it. Thanks, Chief. Return the favor sometime. Go back to sleep. Night!”

He hung up. “Satisfied?”

Beagle nodded. “See you at the club tomorrow.”

“And don’t forget the check.”

“In a day or two, Pinky. My word...”