The Lonesome Badger

22

Iowa Lee stopped the car a block from the Hillcrest Towers. Beagle turned in the seat and looked back at the big apartment building.

“What’re we waiting for?” asked Iowa.

“Temple. He’s got Joe Peel.”

“But he wasn’t at the picnic.”

“He didn’t have to be. He sent those two hoods out. Don’t you get it yet? Three years ago he and Linda worked the badger game on a man in Denver. The sucker went to the police and Temple took the rap. He expected Linda to wait for him. But Linda left Colorado and came out here. She looked up Smallwood — who was Seymour Case three years ago, regardless of what Charlton Temple says. She went to work for him.”

“With Smallwood knowing that it was her husband who had blackmailed him?”

Beagle shrugged. “Temple took the rap, remember? He exonerated his wife.” He chuckled. “Maybe that’s why she took a secretarial job with him — to prove to him that she was on the up and up — and to let love bloom gradually. I suppose she divorced Temple, if she was ever married to him.”

“Very good,” said Iowa Lee. “Very good. Then why did she join my club two months ago?”

“Maybe Smallwood was too cautious. Maybe she wanted some money to buy mink stoles and stuff. To live at the Hillcrest Towers. Don’t forget, Smallwood was also a member of your club. He was still looking. He couldn’t have been altogether satisfied with Linda. Linda had to work at it to sell herself to Smallwood.”

“I see, and then Charlton Temple got out of prison and came looking for her.”

“That’s why he hired me — to find her, not Seymour Case.” Beagle frowned. “That doesn’t explain why he would kill Susan Sawyer and Dave Corey.”

“No, it doesn’t. But — look!”

She was pointing toward the Hillcrest Towers. Beagle saw three people come out, Linda Meadows, Charlton Temple and Mortimer Brown.

“They’re all getting into the same car.”

The car, parked near the Towers, was a convertible. All three got into the front seat, with Temple behind the wheel.

“Duck,” said Beagle.

He dropped down on the seat, pulling Iowa Lee down with him. Her face brushed his and Beagle suddenly decided that he needed a tight grip on her. Iowa did not resist.

Beagle waited a good long minute, then cautiously raised his head. The convertible was already a half block past them.

“Follow them,” he said.

Iowa Lee sat up, touched her hair and started the motor. Beagle, looking sidewards at her, saw that her face was flushed. He grinned.

The convertible turned into Laurel Canyon and Iowa Lee followed. The car screeched up the narrow turns and after a while began dropping down into San Fernando Valley. At Ventura, the convertible turned left and Iowa Lee followed.

They rolled through Studio City and Sherman Oaks. In Encino, Iowa Lee looked at Otis Beagle. “They can’t be going out to the picnic grounds. It’ll be pitch dark by the time we get there.”

“The rabbit raiser lives in Reseda,” Beagle said. “He can cut over to Reseda from Woodland Hills. That’s only three-four miles ahead.”

The convertible, however, did not stop at Woodland Hills. It continued on through Callabasas and into Agoura. But then the tail lights suddenly flashed bright red as the car was braked.

“They’re turning off,” cried Beagle.

Iowa Lee braked the Cadillac. “Do you think we ought to give it up? It’s gotten pretty dark and there’s not much around here.”

“Peel’s here somewhere,” declared Beagle. “I’ll tell you what, let me have the car and you wait over there at that filling station.”

“No,” said Iowa Lee, “I’ll see it through with you.”

The car ahead turned into the cut-off, went a block and suddenly turned left.

“Switch off your lights,” said Beagle. “That’s a country road ahead and they’d know we were following them if they saw our lights.”

Iowa flicked off the lights, slackened speed to give the car ahead a good start. She steered the car along the ruts.

It was now quite dark, but the ruts were easy to follow and ahead a few hundred yards, the lights of the convertible lit up the road ahead of them.

They passed through a gate left open by Willie and Freddie.

Then Beagle cried out, “There’s a car coming behind us!”

Iowa was frightened. “There’s no place to turn off.”

Beagle groaned. “Keep moving. It’s probably just some farmer.”

They went through another gate and the car behind was gaining on them. The car ahead was driving at only a moderate pace. Iowa pressed down on the gas and picked up the speed of the Cadillac.

“They’ll think it strange I’m driving without lights.”

“Put them on,” growled Beagle.

Iowa switched on the lights.

The car ahead climbed a hill and coasted down to a farmyard. Iowa Lee followed and the car behind her closed up to within feet of her bumpers.

Iowa Lee braked her car to a stop and Charlton Temple promptly stepped forward. “Miss Lee I And Mr. Beagle.”

Beagle opened the door on his side, adjusted his Homburg and crooked his cane over his left forearm. Willie jumped out of the car that had followed Iowa Lee’s car. He carried a paper bundle in one hand, a revolver in the other.

“Who’s this, boss?” he cried, indicating Beagle and Iowa Lee.

“Some friends come to pay us a visit.”

Freddie came pounding out of the barn. “He got away!” he cried. “He conked me with a beer bottle and ran off.”

“Joe Peel?” exclaimed Beagle.

“Yeah! The little squirt. It was gettin’ dark and I couldn’t follow him.”

“I got the candles here,” said Willie. “That’s where I was, up in the little town back here, getting them.” Then he sneered at Freddie. “So you let him get away, Hot-shot?”

Mortimer Brown came into the light of the headlights. He gestured to Charlton Temple. “Get rid of your bums. We won’t be needing them any more.”

Temple shook his head. “On the contrary, I’d like them to stay.”

“I said, get rid of them.”

Temple hesitated. “Freddie, Willie — I’d like to have a little talk with you.” He signaled to the two thugs to follow him aside. But the fat rabbit raiser stepped in front of him, put his hand on Temple’s chest and shoved him. It was a light shove, but there was so much weight behind Brown’s hand that Temple was slammed back against the Cadillac.

“There’s been enough double-crossing,” Brown said. He turned to Willie and Freddie. “Get in your car and beat it.”

“There’s a matter of a hundred bucks apiece coming to us,” growled Willie. “We want our dough.”

“Pay them,” said Brown.

Temple took out his wallet and counted the money into Willie’s hand. The two thugs put away the money and got into their car. They turned it around and headed for the rutted road through the barley field.

“As soon as they get over the hill, we’ll finish this little business,” said Brown, grinning wickedly at Beagle.

“So you’re Number One!”

“I,” said Brown, “am Seymour Case.” He reached out and, taking Linda Meadows’ arm, pulled her forward. “And this is my wife. We were married after Temple went to jail.” He shook his head. “But the little lady ran out on me, after she got her little fingers on what was left of my bankroll. I had to join eight different Lonely Hearts Clubs and write about two hundred letters before I finally caught up with her.”

He squeezed Linda’s arm. “You should have known when I sent Temple to jail that I didn’t like being a sucker.”

Linda tried to pull herself away from the fat man, but Brown clung to her. “And you were all set to marry a millionaire?”

Beagle cleared his throat. “This is a family matter. You don’t want me here...”

“A character,” guffawed Brown. “Why do you think I brought you out here? Oh, did you think I didn’t know you were following? I saw you park down the street from the window of the Hillcrest Towers. I knew you’d follow us.” He released Linda and jabbed a powerful thumb into Beagle’s midriff.

“Everything would have been nice and quiet if you hadn’t stuck your nose into this business. You got Smallwood’s wind up, you scared the hell out of little Linda and you got Temple on my neck.”

“Oh,” said Beagle, “I’m willing to forget the whole thing.”

“Until you can get to a police station, eh? Nope, big boy, you’re not walking away from this one.”

“Now, wait a minute,” said Beagle. “Don’t forget Joe Peel, who’s been working on this with me. Joe’s the best private eye in the entire United States and he knows all about you. He knows you killed Susan Sawyer and David Corey.”

“Otis!” called the voice of Joe Peel. “Is that you?”

Beagle cried out, “Run, Joe...!”

Joe Peel came trotting out of the shadows. Brown bore down on him swiftly, his automatic thrust out. “Ah, Mr. Peel, join us, will you?”

Peel came into the circle of light, blinking. “What’s this — a lonely hearts meeting?”

Beagle groaned. “Browns the man who killed Susan Sawyer and David Corey.”

“Sure,” said Peel. “I heard. He came in while I was knocked out and Susan recognized him as Linda’s husband. I guess she went for the phone to call Linda and warn her.” He looked at Otis Beagle. “Temple doesn’t carry a gun.”

“But I’ve got one,” sneered Mortimer Brown. “Now, get over here beside your boss and—”

“I like it over here,” said Peel.

Brown took a step toward Peel. Peel cried out, “All right, Otis!”

The forward step that Brown took half turned him away from Otis Beagle. And then Beagle whisked the sword cane out of the sheath and lunged forward. The sharp blade touched Mortimer Brown’s gun arm, went clear through.

Brown screamed. At the same instant Peel lunged for his knees.

He carried the fat man over backwards. The gun flew from his hand and Otis Beagle promptly scooped it up.

Peel rolled away from Brown, got to his feet.

“Mr. Temple,” he said, “you owe us five hundred dollars.”

The phone on Otis Beagle’s desk rang. He scooped it up. “Beagle Detective Agency... Oh, hello, Pinky. How are you, old man? What? What does the man want? I hand him a three-time murderer and he’s still griping... That’s nonsense, Pinky. He can’t prove a thing. They were crooks, the whole lot of them. You can’t believe a word they say. That’s the trouble with Becker; he’s bucking for promotion... Mmm, the money? Why, uh, I was just on my way down to the club to see you.” He hung up.

“You’re going to pay Pinky?” Peel asked.

Beagle grimaced. “Fat chance. I’m going to play him some more gin, that’s what I’m going to do.”

He got his Homburg, put it carefully on his head and then picked up his cane.

“And I,” said Joe Peel, “am going to call Iowa Lee for a date.”

He reached for the phone. Beagle cocked his head to one side. “Don’t waste your time, Joe, You’re not her style.”

“Want to bet?”

“Five dollars, Joe. Five, she turns you down.”

Beagle lost.