The Lonesome Badger

6

Peel put his key in the lock and was surprised to find it already unlocked. He pushed open the door and saw Otis Beagle sitting behind the desk.

“It’s ten after nine,” Beagle said pointedly.

“My watch is in hock,” Peel replied sourly. “This is the earliest you’ve ever been here.”

“I couldn’t sleep. I told you last night that I have a sense of responsibility.”

“I thought you’d sleep that off.” Then Peel’s eyes fell on a ring of keys at Beagle’s elbow. “What’ve you got up your sleeve?”

“I’m not in the mood for cracks this morning, Joe,” Beagle said pompously. “When there’s a job to be done, I do it.”

“If there’s a dirty job I’m the one who does it. What’re those keys for?”

“These?” Beagle picked them up. “Routine, that’s all.”

“What routine?”

“I should think that would be obvious to you. Or have you forgotten about certain letters, bearing your name, that are in the apartment of Miss Linda Meadows?”

For a moment Peel stared at Beagle wide-eyed. Then he let out a howl. “No, Otis, no!”

“Do you know what’ll happen if Lieutenant Becker lays his hands on those letters?”

“Not burglary, Otis!”

“It’s your name on the letters.”

“But you signed them and you wrote them.”

“I disguised the handwriting. Nobody could prove I wrote them. I’m only trying to keep you out of trouble. These are master keys. One of them is bound to fit. Those apartment house keys come in series. You get the master key for the series and it’ll unlock any lock in that series. You’ve been at the Towers — you know the layout.”

Peel groaned. “If I get caught Becker’ll throw the book at me.”

“An inducement for you not to get caught.”

Peel regarded Beagle bitterly. “I know I can’t expect you to send me a carton of cigarettes every week while I’m in jail, but promise, Otis, the makings, at least.”

“A package of Bull Durham every week, Joe,” Beagle said thinly. He tossed the ring of keys to Peel. “And while you’re there, you may as well look in Dave Corey’s apartment.”

“What for?”

“For whatever’s interesting.”

Peel drew a deep breath, exhaled heavily and gave Beagle another dirty look. Then he hurried and left the office.

The elevator was just opening as Peel approached. “Down,” he called.

A man stepped out of the elevator and Peel brushed past him. As he turned inside the cage, he saw the man leading for the office of the Beagle Detective Agency.

He was a neat-looking man wearing a gray double-breasted pin-stripe suit and a fine gray Homburg hat. He was in his forties and was either a very successful businessman or a gigolo. He smiled thinly as he read the legend on the ground-glass door, then cleared his throat and entered.

“Mr. Beagle?” he asked smoothly.

Beagle nodded. “What can I do for you, sir?”

The man took a finely embossed calling card from his pocket and tendered it to Beagle. Beagle felt the texture of the card and the embossing. Then he read the name aloud.

“Mr. Charlton Temple.”

Temple nodded and looked around. “From your advertisement in the phone directory I somehow got the impression that this was a larger agency.”

“We don’t carry any merchandise,” Beagle said. “We have nothing to sell except service. My operators are all out on cases right now. And for your information, sir, we have correspondents in San Francisco, Chicago and New York.”

“Very interesting, although I hardly believe they’ll be needed in this matter.”

“Ah, sir, you have a little matter that needs, ah, investigating?”

“Adjustment would perhaps be a better word. May I?” He pulled out Joe Peel’s chair and seated himself.

Beagle leaned back in his chair, made a pup tent of his fingers over his ample stomach and prepared to treat the prospective client as an equal.

“Proceed, sir. An adjustment, sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Beagle, an adjustment. But let me ask you a question first. Is it true that the confidence of a client is inviolate?”

“That is correct, sir,” Beagle replied loftily. “It is true that there are cheap private detectives who would violate a confidence, who might, in fact, even stoop so low as to, ah, take advantage of a client. But, sir, we consider such men cads of the lowest order.”

“They can lose their licenses for such conduct, can they not?”

“True, sir, true. A man who would do a thing like that is no better than a thief—”

“Or a blackmailer,” suggested Charlton Temple.

“Precisely.” Beagle smiled indulgently. “Now, sir, this little matter.”

Temple reached into his breast pocket and brought out a brand-new pigskin wallet He skinned out a beautiful crisp new hundred-dollar bill. Beagle watched him as closely as a mongoose watches a coiling cobra. Temple worked out a second crisp new hundred-dollar bill, then a third. He paused, looked keenly at Beagle, then brought out two more bills.

He sighed, put the wallet away and riffled the five hundred-dollar bills into a neat stack. Beagle’s eyes remained on them.

“A retainer,” he suggested.

“Five hundred more when you make retribution.”

“Retribution?”

“Do you accept the case?”

“I’d have to know what it is, first.”

“You mean there are certain kinds of cases you do not handle?”

Beagle could restrain himself no longer. There was perspiration on his face as he leaned across the desk and held out his hand. Temple put the money in his hand.

Beagle did not put the money away. The feel of the crisp new bills was delicious and he wanted to savor the pleasure for as long as he could.

“As one gentleman to another, you have my word.”

“Good.” Temple looked at Beagle steadily. “You know what a badger game is?”

Beagle exclaimed, “Ha! A beautiful woman led you on. Being a normal man you responded — and then the outraged husband burst in upon you and—”

“Not exactly,” said Temple. “I was the outraged husband...”

“Eh?”

“I caught my wife with another man and forced him to pay me money.”

Beagle looked at the five hundred dollars in his hand and swallowed hard. “I don’t think I understand...”

“My wife and I worked the badger game on a man. I want to make restitution.”

“But you said retribution!”

“Retribution for me.”

“But...” Beagle floundered, “but you’re the crook in this.”

“That’s right.” Temple pointed at the money in Beagle’s hand. “That’s five hundred dollars — and there’s another five hundred when you find the — the victim and I give him back his money.”

“How much money?”

Temple shrugged. “Five hundred.”

“You’re willing to spend a thousand dollars just to pay back five hundred to a man?”

“It’s not the money, Beagle, it’s my conscience. This thing has been preying on my mind for years. I want to make restitution.”

Beagle looked at Charlton Temple. The words he spoke were the right words, but the tone was wrong. And so was Temple’s appearance. In fact, everything about Charlton Temple was wrong.

Except his money. The hundred-dollar bills were real.

Beagle said, “What’s the man’s name?”

“Seymour Case.”

“And his address?”

“If I knew that I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

“I meant, what was his address at the time you, ah, perpetrated this crime?”

“Los Angeles.”

Beagle winced. “It’s a big town. Let me put it this way, what was your address at the time?”

Temple pursed up his lips. “The Masterson Hotel.”

“How did your wife happen to meet this man, Seymour Case?”

For the first time Temple’s face began to show concern, slight, but still concern. “Excuse me,” he said, sighing. “The affair brings back such... such dismal memories. My wife was a very beautiful woman—”

“Was?”

“I haven’t seen her in over three years — since this affair.”

Beagle hesitated. “How did you separate?”

“How do any man and woman separate? We quarreled. As a matter of fact, we quarreled over the affair.”

“Your wife didn’t like it?”

“I mean my wife thought I should have gotten a thousand dollars, instead of a measly five hundred. One word led to another and the next day she was missing. And so was the five hundred dollars.” Temple took out his wallet again, reached into a compartment and brought out a snapshot. “This is a picture of my wife...!”

Otis Beagle took the snapshot, glanced at it and half rose from his chair.

It was a picture of Susan Sawyer.