The Lonesome Badger

4

It was twenty minutes to seven when Peel came out of the theater and the morning papers were just being put out on the newsstand. He bought a Times and Examiner and went into the coffee shop on the corner.

He ordered a T-bone steak, then opened the newspapers. The Times carried the headline: “MAN FOUND SLAIN ON MULHOLLAND.” The Examiner worded it: “HOLLYWOOD HILLS SLAYING.”

The Examiner subhead read: “Prominent Sportsman’s Body Found on Mulholland Drive in Mystery Slaying.” The account was sketchy, the information apparently having been received just before the paper went to press. It merely told that a man identified as David Corey had been found on Mulholland Drive near Laurel Canyon in the late afternoon. The police stated that Corey was a habitué of night clubs and seemed to know many sporting figures. Death was due to a bullet wound in the forehead.

The story in the Times was similarly skimpy. Peel refolded the papers, ate his steak and after paying the check, stepped into the phone booth. But with a coin ready to drop into the slot he exclaimed and put the money back into his pocket.

He returned to the counter, scooped up his papers and left the coffee shop.

The lettering on the ground glass door read: Iowa Lee, Registrar, Hours 2–6 7-11. Nicely vague to all but the initiate.

Peel pushed open the door and the strains of “When You and I Were Young, Maggie” assailed his ears. He found himself in a plainly furnished reception room. Two other doors opened off the room, one leading straight to the rear and another to the left. The music came from the rear door.

A girl, who accentuated her plainness by wearing elongated horn-rim glasses and hair pulled straight back and knotted on the nape of her neck, sat behind a scarred desk in the reception room. She looked up from a pamphlet she was reading.

“Yes?”

“I’m lonely,” Peel said.

“Who isn’t?” the girl retorted.

Peel reached into his pocket and brought out a scrap of newspaper print. He held it up and read, “Lonely? Join our Social Club. All ages. Iowa Lee, Registrar, Macaulay Bldg. 2–6, 7-11. This is the place, isn’t it?”

“It is, but...” The girl frowned a little. “You don’t look like the type.”

“What is a lonely man supposed to look like?” Peel demanded. “I’m a stranger in town and I’m too bashful to go to dance halls and pick up girls.”

“Our gentlemen members,” the receptionist said, “don’t pick up girls. They are properly introduced to the female members of the club. We have little get-togethers.”

“Like now?” asked Peel, nodding toward the door from which the music came. “It’s between seven and eleven.”

The girl picked up a phone, pressed a buzzer. “Just a moment.” Then she spoke into the phone. “Could you come out, Miss Lee?” She replaced the phone on the prongs. The door at the side of the room opened immediately and Joe Peel could scarcely restrain a low whistle of admiration.

Iowa Lee came into the reception room; she brought with her the breath of spring, the whiff of flowers — orchids. She was a fairly tall girl, with golden hair and a complexion that almost matched. She had a figure like, well, like every girl would like to have and almost never has.

She could have been twenty-five and might have been thirty, but if she’d told you she was only twenty-one you’d have believed her. In the proper background you’d have believed anything she told you.

“Miss Lee,” the receptionist said, “this gentleman is inquiring about the club.”

Iowa Lee gave Joe Peel the full power of her eyes; they were blue, with just a tinge of green. She held out her hand. Joe grabbed it.

“I’m Iowa Lee,” she said. “Welcome to our little club.”

“Uh, sure,” said Peel. “Sure.”

Iowa Lee disengaged her hand smoothly from Peel’s grip. “If you’ll give Miss Anderson your name and a few statistics I’ll introduce you to some of the members.”

“Uh, sure,” said Peel. “Sure.”

She gave him another dazzling smile and stepped to the door leading to her office. She went through, closing the door behind her. Peel continued to stare at the door.

“Your name, please,” Miss Anderson said severely. She had a card in front of her and poised an underwater fountain pen over it.

“Peel. Joseph Peel.”

“Peel, like in banana?”

Peel took his eyes off the door and looked sourly at Miss Anderson. “Like in banana,” he said.

“Address?”

“Hotel Shelby. Ivan near Fountain.”

“Your home address?” Miss Anderson looked up. “You said you were a stranger in town.”

“Yes, that’s right. I, uh, I’m from Minnesota. Elmer, Minnesota.” Peel essayed a little grin. “That’s right next door to Iowa, you know.”

“Your age?”

“Thirty-two. More or less.”

“What do you mean, more or less? Is it thirty-two or isn’t it?”

“It’s thirty-two.”

She wrote that down, added a word or two of her own, then shot the next question. “Married?”

“No, I play the stock market and you know what that’s been like lately.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Bad,” said Joe. “I dropped twenty thousand in two months. Had to sell a couple of farms.”

“Five dollars,” said Miss Anderson.

“Huh?”

“Initiation fee. And the dues are ten dollars a month. One month payable in advance.”

“You mean I’ve got to shell out fifteen bucks before I can go in and make chitchat with Iowa?”

“Fifteen dollars,” said Miss Anderson, “and Miss Lee will introduce you to the various members who are present. We hope you will find among them one or more congenial companions of the opposite sex—”

“Oh, I’ve already found her. Mmm, Iowa Lee.”

“Miss Lee is the registrar. She does not mingle with the guests.”

Peel looked petulantly at the door leading to the rear. “I don’t know what kind of merchandise you’ve got back there, but I’m willing to settle for Iowa, right now.”

Miss Anderson picked up Peel’s newly filled-out card. “Mr. Peel,” she said, “I am beginning to wonder if you are the compatible type we like in our little club. It is our policy to restrict membership to gentlemen and—”

“All right,” said Peel. “I’m a gentleman. I can prove it.” He took some crumpled bills from his pocket, sorted them out and laid a ten dollar bill and a five on the receptionist’s desk. “Here’s the evidence.”

Miss Anderson hesitated a brief moment, then picked up the underwater pen and wrote another word on Peel’s application card. She also put his fifteen dollars into the center drawer of the desk. Then she pushed back her chair and stepped to the door of Miss Iowa Lee’s private office. She opened it and stuck her head inside.

“Miss Lee,” she said into the room. “Mr. Peel has fulfilled the membership requirements.”

Iowa Lee came out, and Peel’s temperature again went up a couple of notches. She took the application card from the receptionist, smiled at Peel, then looked down at the card.

“Ah, Minnesota,” she murmured. “I believe we have a member or two from your home state. If you’ll come with me...”

She crossed to the rear door and opened it. Peel crowded her heels as she went through.

The club room turned out to be about twenty by thirty, furnished with rows of folding chairs down two sides of the room and a table at the far end on which stood a combination radio and record player.

Eight or ten couples were dancing to the strains of “Silver Threads Among the Gold” and another half dozen or so sat on the folding chairs, conversing. A quick look around at the club members, the female ones, caused Peel to grimace.

Most of them were over the fifty mark and even the younger ones seemed to be on the shady side of forty. Perhaps one or two were in their thirties, but the reasons for their being members of the club were apparent in buck teeth, noses too long or too short, chins too prominent or not prominent enough.

The entry of Iowa Lee stopped whatever dancing was going on. The dancers and those sitting on the sidelines all converged upon her. Cries of “Miss Lee” and “Iowa” and “darling” went up on all sides.

“Having a good time, boys and girls?” Iowa called cheerily.

“You bet,” enthused a little miss of some fifty summers, who apparently had a pillow stuffed in her blouse and another in the back of her skirt.

“That’s great,” replied Iowa. “I want to introduce a new member.” She consulted her card. “Mr. Joseph Peel!”

Applause and cheers went up. And greetings of “Hi, Joe,” “Hello, Joseph,” and “Welcome, Joseph.”

Peel looked sourly around the ring of eager faces. “Harya,” he responded.

“He’s thirty-two, girls,” Iowa went on. “Rich and... from Minnesota!”

“Minnesota!” A woman in the crowd whizzed forward and grabbed Peel’s hand. “Shake, brother. I’m from Winona myself.”

“Minneapolis,” said Peel and regarded the woman who still clung to his hand. She was one of the younger ones present, about, well, let’s say thirty-five. She wasn’t too tall and didn’t weigh too much, but she was solid. Her face wouldn’t have stopped a clock, but it would certainly have slowed it down.

“Ruth Higgins is my name,” she said, “but you can call me Ruthie. And I’ll call you Joey. Do you want to dance?”

“No,” Peel said promptly. “I don’t know how.”

“You’re kiddin’,” cried Ruthie. “Everybody knows how to dance. You’re just bashful, that’s all. Come on...”

She shifted her grip to an armlock and pulled Peel away from the ring of lonely people. Peel stepped brutally on her foot, but that didn’t deter Ruthie. “S’all right, I can take it. Now, let’s talk about Minneapolis. I been there lots of times.”

Peel hopped awkwardly about as the muscular Ruthie steered him here and there. “I’d rather talk about this place,” he said, in between jumps.

“All right, let’s. You’re going to like it. It’s great, simply great.”

“Meet a lot of interesting people here?”

“You’re here,” Ruthie said, “and I’m here.”

“Yeah,” said Peel, “but suppose a fellow doesn’t want to dance all the time?”

“Then we sit and — and talk.” Ruthie grabbed his hand and led him to a pair of chairs off to one side. “How’s this?”

Joe seated himself. “Are the members, uh, allowed to meet outside?”

“This is an introduction club. A couple of people find out they... they have things to talk about, they can go anywhere they like. I’ve got a little apartment on McCadden where I make the best fried chicken in the State of California. And I make hot biscuits that’ll melt in your mouth.”

“Sounds great,” said Peel, “but I just had a thick steak.”

“Tomorrow maybe?”

“Maybe. Any of these people ever get married?”

“Are you kidding? Two members got married only the day before yesterday. And there was a wedding last week.” Ruth looked at him shrewdly. “You looking for a wife?”

“I’m looking,” Peel said, “just looking.” He nodded toward the door. “How about Iowa? Is she, ah, single?”

“She’s wonderful,” cried Ruthie Higgins. “Just wonderful.”

“Yeah, but is she married?”

“She could be, if she wanted; there isn’t a man here who wouldn’t grab her. Why, I remember, just a few weeks ago, when this good-looking fellow Dave from Nebraska joined the club. He made a big play for Iowa. All of us could see that he was head over heels in love with her, but of course she turned him down.”

“Why of course?”

“What else could she do? She runs the club. In fact, without her there wouldn’t be any club. If she went and got married...” Ruthie shuddered.

“Mr. Peel,” said the voice of Iowa Lee.

Peel looked up. Iowa Lee stood just inside the door, beckoning to him. “I’d like to see you for a moment, Mr. Peel.”

Peel got up. “Excuse me.”

“Hurry back,” cried Ruthie. “Don’t keep him too long, Iowa darling.”

Peel followed Iowa Lee into her private office. It was nicely furnished, in sharp contrast to the plain reception office. Iowa went behind her desk and picked up a file card.

“I’ve just been looking at your application card, Mr. Peel. The name sounded familiar, so...” She picked up a second card. “So I looked in the files. I find that you enrolled in our correspondence club only two weeks ago.”

Peel thought some dirty things about Otis Beagle. “That’s right, I did join, but I thought I’d like to come down and meet some of the girls in person.”

“Mmm,” said Iowa Lee, frowning lightly. “You just gave your address as the Hotel Shelby, but on your other card you gave it as the Monadnock Building.”

“I live at the Hotel Shelby, but my business is at the Monadnock Building.”

“Just what is your business, Mr. Peel?”

“Oh, it’s just a little business. Don’t amount to much.”

“It wouldn’t be the — detective business, would it?”

“Detective!” cried Joe Peel.

“Your signature on these cards — it isn’t the same. Naturally, I became suspicious. I phoned the Hotel Shelby and when they told me you were out, I asked where you could be reached. They told me at the Beagle Detective Agency in the Monadnock Building.”

“All right,” said Peel, “but a private eye gets lonesome, too.”

“And your handwriting is different every time you sign your name?”

“Otis Beagle filled out the first card.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Peel, I operate a legitimate social club here. The membership is restricted to compatible people and I do not feel that they would like it if they knew that a detective was present at their meetings.”

“Do I get the fifteen bucks back?”

Iowa Lee hesitated. “Just why are you here, Mr. Peel?”

“I told you. I’m lonesome.”

“I doubt it — with your line...”

Peel suddenly grinned. “You’re just about my size, baby.”

“But you’re not mine. Who... who employed you to investigate this club?”

“I’m not investigating the club. My evenings are my own.”

“All right, you’re not investigating the club. But what about the members. Are you investigating one of them?”

“I don’t know who your members are.”

“And you’re not going to know.” Iowa Lee looked at Peel steadily. “I think you’d better leave now.”

“The fifteen bucks...!”

Tossing her head in annoyance, Iowa Lee turned and stepped to an open safe. She took out a tin cashbox and from a thick stack of bills skimmed off a ten and a five. She tossed them to her desk. Peel picked them up.

“I still say you’re my size, honey,” he said. “If you get a lonesome evening...”

“I won’t.”

“The Hotel Shelby...”

He grinned at her and walked out into the reception room.

“Miss Anderson,” Peel said, “I live at the Hotel Shelby—”

“Good-bye, Mr. Peel,” Miss Anderson said coldly.

Peel sighed. “Ah, well!”

He walked out.