The Lonesome Badger

5

When Joe Peel entered the lobby of the Shelby Hotel, Otis Beagle got up from the big leather chair facing the door. “Where’ve you been, Joe?” he cried. “I’ve been waiting here for an hour.”

“I had a hot hand at my club,” Peel retorted. “You expect me to quit just because you were waiting here for me?”

Beagle waved a folded newspaper at Peel. “Let’s go to your room where we can talk.”

Peel stepped to the desk. “My key, please.”

The night manager got the key for Room 302 from the slot, but he kept it in his hand. “Your bill, Mr. Peel,” he said. “It’s two weeks overdue...”

“How much is it?”

“Twenty-seven dollars and fifty cents.”

Peel paid it while Beagle stood behind him, glowering. They entered the elevator, but Beagle did not say a word until Peel unlocked the door of Room 302. Then Beagle closed the door behind him and exploded.

“What was that act this afternoon, about having only a dollar and forty cents between you and starvation?”

“I got some money since then.”

“From who?”

“Whom, Otis.”

“Dammit,” cried Beagle, “don t bandy words with me. We’re in enough trouble now.” He whisked open the newspaper. “Have you seen this?”

“Yep”

“This is the Dave Corey you were talking about. He was killed at the Hillcrest Towers.”

“I told you that this afternoon. Your friend Pinky told you the call to the Hillcrest Towers was a false alarm.”

“It was. Corey was picked up on Mulholland Drive.”

“That’s what the police say. It might be a trap.”

Beagle didn’t like that. He went to the single chair in the room, a threadbare Morris chair, and seated his big body in it. He shook his head.

“Pinky wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Pinky only knows what Homicide tells him.”

“He told me he talked to Lieutenant Becker.”

“You know Becker’s a sharpie. He’d tell Pinky the first thing that came into his mind.”

“And take a chance on getting sent out to Canoga Park to walk a beat?”

“Pinky doesn’t rate that high with the cops.”

“Don’t fool yourself.” Beagle blew on his huge simulated diamond ring and polished the glass on the lapel of his coat.

“Becker’s grilled Linda Meadows by this time. If she talks you’re sunk.”

“Me?”

Beagle shrugged. “The agency. Same thing.”

“Pull yourself together, Otis,” Peel said. “If you think the agency’s in trouble, let me tell you what’s happened since you left the office this afternoon.”

Beagle groaned. “What else?”

“We got a client — Linda Meadows...”

Beagle sat up straight. “What?”

“And it wasn’t the Linda Meadows I saw at the Hillcrest Towers.”

“Make sense.”

Peel took the snapshot out of his pocket. “This is the girl I talked to at the Towers.”

Beagle took the picture and whistled. “Not bad. Maybe I should have gone there.”

“This one’s name is Susan Sawyer. She lives with the real Linda Meadows, the one who came down to the office and hired us, and I’ll tell you what, you take this one, I’ll take the one who came down to the office. Mmm, maybe I’d prefer Iowa Lee.”

“What’s Iowa Lee got to do with this?”

“In time. Linda Meadows hired the agency to find Susan Sawyer, the girl in the picture.”

“What’re you talking about? You just got through saying you saw her this afternoon.”

“That’s right, but Linda says she disappeared a week ago. Just went out and never came back.”

Beagle looked at Peel with narrowed eyes. “Say that again.”

“Linda Meadows hired the agency to find Susan Sawyer, the girl whose picture you’re holding. She’s been missing a week.” Peel held up his hand. “I know I talked to her in the apartment this afternoon.”

“But that’s crazy. If she was there, she isn’t missing. So why should this other girl hire us to look for her?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I phoned you at the club, Otis, remember. You’d just bid five spades and you said for me to drop dead.”

Beagle winced. “I went down four on that hand.” He shook his head unhappily. “And Pinky asked me for the nine fifty.”

“You said you only owed him six hundred.”

“Before we played this afternoon. I dropped another three fifty.” Beagle suddenly looked at Peel sharply. “You got a retainer from the Meadows girl...”

“Just a small one.”

Beagle held out his hand. “Let’s have it.”

Peel put his hands in his pocket. “My last week’s pay.”

“You’ll get it Give me the money.”

“The retainer was fifty bucks.”

“All right, hand it over.”

“You just saw me pay my room rent.”

“Twenty-seven fifty.”

“I had dinner and I went out for the evening.”

Beagle let out a howl. “How much have you got left?”

Peel took money out of his pocket. “Eleven seventy-five...”

Beagle lunged for the money, but Peel drew back quickly. “You still owe me on last week’s pay.”

“You’ll get your pay, don’t worry.”

“I’ll keep this and you’ll only owe me ten. Until Saturday, when you’ll owe me another sixty...”

“Joe,” Beagle said earnestly, “I’m down to three dollars. I... I got outfumbled on the bar check and they won’t let me charge things any more. Be reasonable. Give me half of that.”

Peel handed a five-dollar bill to Beagle. “You still owe me fifteen.”

“You’ll get it, Joe, you’ll get it. We’ve got a client and a case. We’ll make...”

He broke off as the thin door panels resounded to the massage of a heavy fist. Peel exclaimed, “What’s the matter with them? I just paid the rent...”

He strode to the door and whipped it open. “See here...” Then he stopped.

Lieutenant Becker and Sergeant Mike Fedderson came into the room. Becker was a lean man in his mid-thirties, with a perpetual sardonic grin. Fedderson was squat and massive, a bulldog.

“Ain’t I the lucky one?” exclaimed Lieutenant Becker. “Finding you both here together.”

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” snorted Otis Beagle.

“The wicked never sleep,” mocked Lieutenant Becker. “Which is why I’m here. You two cooking up your story?”

“I just paid my rent,” snapped Joe Peel. “I’m entitled to a good night’s sleep.” He whirled on Sergeant Fedderson, who was pulling open the drawers of the scarred dresser. “Keep your fingers out of my things...”

Fedderson grunted and, leaving the dresser, moved to the closet. He opened the door and peered inside. “Where’s your other suit?” he asked.

“Any law says a man’s got to have two suits?” snarled Peel.

“Let it go, Mike,” said Lieutenant Becker. Then he nodded to Otis Beagle. “You know why I’m here?”

“I’ve got better things to do than try to figure out what’s in a policeman’s skull,” snapped Otis Beagle. He got to his feet, reached for his cane. “It’s late, I think I’ll go home.”

“Sit down, Otis, sit down,” the Lieutenant said. “Unless you’d rather go down to headquarters and answer my questions there.”

“You’ve got a warrant?”

“Let’s not go into the warrant routine,” glowered Lieutenant Becker. “I can get one if I need it.” He suddenly whirled on Joe Peel. “What were you doing at the Hillcrest Towers this afternoon?”

“I’m working my way through college,” retorted Peel. “Selling subscriptions.”

“A man named Dave Corey was murdered this afternoon,” said Lieutenant Becker. “He lived at the Hillcrest Towers.”

Peel shot a quick look at Otis Beagle. Becker saw the look and his upper lip curled. “Corey did a two-year stretch at the Iowa State Penitentiary seven years ago. The Bunco Squad here picked him up two years ago, on a swindling charge, but he got to the complaining party and the charge was dropped. He was living fancy at the Towers so he was still in the rackets.”

“Crime,” said Otis Beagle, “is rampant.”

“What was your connection with Corey?”

“Never saw the man in my life!”

“You, Peel?”

“Nobody ever introduced us,” replied Joe Peel with tongue in cheek.

“The switchboard operator at the Towers says a man giving the name of Joe Peel called there this afternoon.” Becker paused. “Who is Linda Meadows?”

“Oh, her,” said Peel. He let go an easy sigh. “Just a girl I know. I see her now and then. Why don’t you ask her about me?”

“I will as soon as I can find her.”

“You’ve got her address.”

“She hasn’t been home all day.” Becker frowned at Peel. “It’s just too much of a coincidence, Peel. You call on a girl on the seventh floor on the same day a man who lives on the eighth floor is killed.”

“Now wait a minute,” Peel said carefully. “This Corey was killed up on Mulholland Drive—”

“His body was found there. He was killed somewhere else...” Becker paused, then tried a shot in the dark. “He may have been killed at the Hillcrest Towers.”

“Not by me.”

“We don’t carry guns,” Otis Beagle put in. “That’s an agency rule. Unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“You might have thought this was necessary,” snapped Becker.

“We have no interest in Dave Corey,” Beagle said.

“But you’ve got an interest in the Hillcrest Towers!”

“Not the slightest.”

“In Linda Meadows?”

Beagle shook his head. “I never laid eyes on the girl. Joe, maybe, but not me.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Positively!”

Lieutenant Becker looked from Beagle to Peel, then back to Beagle again. “All right,” he finally said. “I’m not satisfied, but I’ll let it ride for the moment.”

“Sure,” said Beagle, “and the next time you go fishing, get yourself some bait. And a good hook.”

“One of these days, Beagle,” Becker said ominously, “one of these days I’m going to get you on a hook.”

Beagle made a very ungentlemanly moist sound with his mouth. Angrily Becker gestured to Fedderson, and the two policemen took their departure. Beagle watched silently as Peel moved to the door and listened a moment. Then Peel opened the door, peeked out and pulled in his head. He nodded.

“That’s what happened,” Peel said. “They moved his body up to Corey’s apartment on the eighth floor.”

“Whore they?”

Peel shrugged.

“I don’t think the girl had enough muscle for the job, but you never can tell these days. Only...” His forehead creased.

“Why would she call the cops?”

“That’s what I was thinking about” Peel shook his head. “I just had time for a quick look around, when I came to, but I’m pretty sure Linda, I mean, Susan, had scrammed.”

“Try this for size,” Beagle offered. “The girl gave it to Corey while you were out. She called the cops, figuring they’d find you there with him. Then, when she saw you waking up, she got scared and hid in the closet. After you lit out she moved Corey up to his apartment on the eighth floor and later lugged him down to the garage and put him in her car.”

“That’s the simple explanation,” Peel said, “and it could be the right one.”

“But you don’t like it?”

“No.”

Beagle regarded Peel suspiciously. “Are you holding back something?”

“The question is — what are you holding back?”

“What’ve I got to hold back?”

“You were writing letters to the lovelorn, using my name.”

“Just the one letter, Joe, that’s all.”

“That’s a damn lie. You were writing a letter when I came into the office this afternoon.”

Beagle grimaced. “Well, maybe I did write one or two more.”

“How many more?”

“Just a few.”

“Dammit, Otis,” exclaimed Peel. “Nobody can believe a word you say.”

“One of these days, Joe,” Beagle said angrily, “one of these days you’re going to go too far and I’m going to fire you.”

“That’d be the best thing that ever happened to me. I get goddam fed up with pulling your chestnuts out of the fire.”

“Joe,” said Beagle earnestly, “I’m as honest as the next private eye. But I’ve got a deep feeling of responsibility. When I can’t pay you your salary it worries me—”

“Yah!”

“There’s only so much detective work in a town like this,” Beagle went on. “The big agencies skim the cream off the business. You know how it is, you sit in the office sometimes four-five weeks doing nothing but working your silly crossword puzzles. You haven’t got anything to worry about, but me, I’ve got the rent, the light, the telephone and your salary to think of. So... I sometimes go after business. But believe me, it’s only because of my great sense of responsibility.”

“Stop it, Otis, you’ll make me bawl!”

Beagle got his cane. “All right, Joe, all right. Have yourself a nice, sound sleep. I know I won’t. I’ll be thinking... thinking how to earn your next week’s salary—”

“This week’s.”

“This week’s,” said Otis Beagle and went out.