The Lonesome Badger

8

When Peel entered the office of the agency, Beagle was leaning back in his chair, the picture of contentment. He was puffing a fat, dollar cigar and enjoying every penny of it.

“Well, Joe,” he said pleasantly, “what are the peasants doing these days?”

“Peasants?” Peel looked sharply at Beagle, then sniffed the air. “Don’t tell me that’s one of those dollar cigars?”

“And a good one. Let’s see, what was that little matter you were harping about? Oh, the balance of your last week’s pay.” He brought out a fistful of bills. “Fifteen dollars, I believe.” He put two bills on the desk.

“Since you’re so flush, add this week’s pay,” Peel said. “It’s due tomorrow.”

Beagle hesitated, then shrugged. “Why not?” He counted out an additional sixty dollars.

“I’ve got a little job for you, my good man,” he went on.

“I thought so. You’ve got a new sucker. Don’t you want to hear how I made out at the Towers?”

“No hurry. The new client has hundred-dollar bills, nice, crisp, brand-new hundred-dollar bills.”

“Does he make them himself?”

“Tut-tut, that’s no way to talk about a client.” Beagle paused while a mental fly dipped into the ointment. “About this young lady, Susan Sawyer...”

“You’ve lost interest in her since you’ve got the big-shot client.”

“On the contrary, my interest in her has been heightened.” Beagle coughed gently. “The new client also wants to find her.”

“What?”

“My observations on your experiences of yesterday, Joe, were very shrewd—”

“Your observations!” exclaimed Peel.

Beagle waved his fat hand. “Hear me through. As I said, you walked into a badger game.” He shook his head and sighed lightly. “Alas, the beauteous Miss Sawyer is an old hand at the game. Now, hear this. Three years ago Miss Sawyer and her partner, Charlton Temple, shook down a man named Seymour Case for the sum of five hundred dollars. We have been retained by one of the principals—”

“Seymour Case, eh?”

“No, Charlton Temple—”

Peel stared at Otis Beagle. “I smell a three-letter word meaning rodent.”

“Mr. Temple,” Beagle proceeded, “says that his conscience bothers him and he wants to give Mr. Case his five hundred dollars back and he is paying us a thousand dollars, five hundred in hand, to locate the said Mr. Case. That is what Mr. Temple told me.”

“And you believed him?”

“Mr. Charlton Temple, Joe, is as phony as a three-dollar bill. The only thing I believed about him was his five hundred dollars. The article was genuine and we will therefore locate Mr. Seymour Case and the beautiful Miss Susan Sawyer.”

“It stinks, Otis!”

Beagle took the dollar cigar from his mouth and sniffed it. “I find it a rather pleasant odor.”

“I’m talking about the case.”

“So am I. Of course it smells, but I haven’t been able to buy a dollar cigar in over two months. And you’ve got money in your pocket. So... let it smell. Now, tell me what you found at the Hillcrest Towers.”

“The place was cleaned out.”

“You didn’t — find the letters?”

Peel took the three letters from his pocket. “I found these behind the mirror in — get this — Dave Corey’s apartment. But — they’re not your letters...”

“Yours,” Beagle reminded.

“Same thing.” Peel took one of the letters out of the envelope. “Get this. ‘Dear Box 314. I am still on the sunny side of forty and I have a fine batch of Chinchilla rabbits and a small fruit orchard. I own a beautiful four-room home, have a television set and radio. My friends call me handsome and I have an affectionate disposition. I need only one thing in life to make my happiness complete, a loving helpmate. I would like to meet you and become acquainted, in the hope that you will be attracted to me as much as I am attracted to you. Signed: Mortimer Brown, Reseda, Calif. P.S. If you are a little on the plump side, I do not mind. I weigh slightly over two hundred pounds myself.’ ”

“If I were Miss Susan Sawyer,” said Otis Beagle sententiously, “I’d get those Chinchilla rabbits from Mr. Brown.”

Peel took out the second letter. “This one’s from a big businessman named Thaddeus Smallwood and Number Three is from a — what’s a sales engineer? — named Elmer Ellsworth.” He handed the letters to Otis Beagle, who tossed them to the desk.

“She said she got two hundred and fifty letters.”

Peel shrugged. “These are all I found and they were hidden in a pretty safe place. So was this.” He took out the copy of Heart Throbs. “Also behind the mirror, but down in Susan Sawyer’s apartment.” He paused. “I forgot to mention there’s a woman’s bathrobe in with Dave Corey’s clothes.”

Beagle frowned. “What do you make of it?”

Joe Peel scooped up the phone directory, looked up the number of the Hillcrest Towers and dialed it. When the operator answered he said, “Miss Susan Sawyer.”

“Who is calling?”

“Elmer Ellsworth,” said Peel quickly.

“One moment, please, I’ll see if Miss Sawyer is in.”

Peel hung up. “The operator doesn’t know she’s missing.” He nodded. “I don’t know why, but my hunch is that when Susan disappeared she merely moved up to Dave Corey’s apartment. Then, during the day when Linda Meadows had gone to work, she went down to her own apartment — where she conducted her little badger business.”

“I was already thinking that,” Beagle said, “but why... why would she want to make Linda Meadows think she was gone?”

“That doesn’t bother me half as much as who knocked off Dave Corey.”

He looked at the three letters on the desk, raked them in. “I’ll need some expense money.”

“What for?”

“I’ve got to find Susan Sawyer, don’t I? One of these fellows lives out in Reseda.”

“You won’t find a girl like Susan Sawyer on a rabbit ranch.”

“I don’t expect to find her there. But these are evidently prime prospects and, since all the letters are dated a week to ten days ago, Susan’s been in touch with them.”

“Well, they’re worth a try,” Beagle said reluctantly. He took out a five-dollar bill. “No taxis. Money doesn’t grow on trees.”

Peel turned left on Sunset and walked a half block to the automobile agency. He stopped outside and looked through the huge plate-glass window at the various models on display. A salesman inside smiled at him invitingly.

Peel entered and the salesman bore down on him. “Yes, sir, what can I do for you, sir?”

“What’re you asking for one of those jobs?”

“Beautiful, aren’t they, sir? A new shipment just came in. They won’t last long, sir, no sir, not these beauties. Look at those lines, the very latest. And look at this magnificent—”

“How much?”

“Uh, which one?”

“The one without the top.”

“The convertible. Yes, sir, I can see you’ve an eye for beauty. This model was the sensation of the automobile show. The throngs that saw it for the first time swooned—”

“How much?” cried Joe Peel.

“Ah, yes, the price. The finest bargain on the market today, the ultimate in beauty... Mmm, only twenty-four fifty. Think of it, sir, for this magnificent power plant—”

“You’ll be sorry,” Peel said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, that’s a lot of money for some rubber, four wheels and a little tin.”

A violent shudder shook the automobile salesman. “Please, sir, you mustn’t joke. This wonderful machine is priced too low, far too low—”

“You mean for twenty-four fifty I could get into that thing and drive it away?”

“Well, not quite, sir. The price is FOB and of course there are a few extras, the radio, the bumpers, the power steering, the special lubricoil tires—”

“All right,” moaned Peel, “how much would it cost to drive it out, as it stands, with the lubricoil FOB and the special bumpers and all the rest of it?”

“Including the sales tax and the license... Mmm, it comes to only, yes sir, only $3399.65.”

“How much down?”

“Ah yes, one third, sir. We might possibly shave that a tiny bit, say thirty per cent. And in how many months would you like to pay the balance?”

“Now, wait a minute,” said Peel. “I don’t know yet whether I want this car. I need a car that’s got a quick pickup, that’s fast, that rides smooth and can take the bumpy pavement of Sunset Boulevard out Brentwood way.”

“Say no more, sir!” cried the auto man. “The proof of the pudding is in the eating. Climb in, sir, climb in. We’ll drive it around the block—”

“A little more than that. I want to let her out a little.”

“And that you shall!”

Peel got into the car and the salesman climbed in behind the wheel. He started the motor and backed the car through the rear of the salesroom into a garage and then out into the street.

“Listen to that motor,” he said enthusiastically. “She purrs like a Persian kitten.”

“Step on her,” said Peel.

The salesman swung the convertible into Cahuenga, crossed Sunset and sent the car roaring up the incline toward Cahuenga Pass.

“A rolling power plant,” he cried. “One hundred and twenty horsepower and every horse pulling its weight. Forty-two miles per hour and you wouldn’t even think we were moving. And please notice this steering wheel. I’m barely touching it, yet I have complete control. Power steering. You can drive ten hours, twelve, with less body fatigue than you’d get in four hours of driving with a nonpower steering car... Would you like to try her for yourself?”

“Too much traffic here,” said Peel. “You can’t let her out. Why don’t you turn off at Lankershim?”

“Right. We’ll get out of this traffic and I’ll show you what this baby can really do.”

He steered the car off Cahuenga onto Lankershim to Riverside. On Riverside he turned left and sent the car whipping along.

“Too many stops here,” said Peel after a few minutes. “Why don’t you try Van Owen, or Sherman Way? Yes, Sherman Way’s a good street.”

“Isn’t that a little far?”

“Nah, you’ve really got to try out these babies to know bow they operate.”

The salesman looked at the speedometer and the mileage indicator. He frowned a little, but he was game. He took the car over to Van Owen.

“Now, sir, would you like to try the wheel?”

He brought the car to a stop and Peel got out and ran around to the driver’s side. He climbed in and started the car. In a block or so he had it past fifty.

“Handles like a toy, doesn’t she?” chortled the salesman.

On Balboa, Peel turned right. The salesman exclaimed, “Don’t you think we ought to turn back?”

“In a minute!”

Peel drove to Sherman Way, turned left and looked at the house numbers. He stepped heavily on the accelerator and raced for a mile or so. Then he slowed up the car.

“Let’s see how she idles, now.”

“Like a kitten, sir, like a—”

“I know, a Persian kitten. Say...! Whaddya know, there’s old Morty Brown’s place. Mind if I stop and run in and say hello to him? We were roommates at college.”

Peel whipped the car to the curb and braked it. “I won’t be more’n a minute!” He got out, grinned crookedly at the sign, “Brown’s Babbitry,” in front of a weathered shack. He crossed an unkempt, weed-grown little yard.

Peel knocked on the front door and a grossly fat man wearing a dirty shirt, torn trousers and shabby carpet slippers opened the door. He was partly bald and had egg yolk on his chin.

“You’re Mortimer Brown?” Peel asked.

“That’s right and if you’re looking for some nice frying rabbits, I got a pair on ice that I killed only yesterday. Tastiest eating you ever et.”

“I only eat Easter bunnies,” Peel replied. He took a letter from his pocket and began to read it, “...I weigh slightly over two hundred pounds—”

Mortimer Brown scowled. “What’s the idea?”

“How much over two hundred?” asked Peel. “A hundred and ten?”

Brown’s eyes fell on the letter and he suddenly cried out, “Where’d you get that?”

“Linda Meadows.”

“Linda!” cried Brown. A sudden palsy shook him and he reeled back into the house. Peel followed him, looked around the dirtiest living room he had ever seen in his entire life. Rabbit food stood around in partly opened sacks. A half bale of hay was scattered over the floor and beyond, in the kitchen, dishes were stacked high in a sink and littered about on an oilcloth-covered table.

“Mister,” Peel said bluntly, “you need a wife.”

“Sure, sure,” babbled Mortimer Brown, “but... but...” He gulped. “Did — Linda send you here?”

Peel put his foot on a chair and rested his elbow on his knee. He studied the frightened mass of human flesh before him.

“How much did she take you for?”

“I... I don’t know what you mean...”

“Look,” said Peel, “you answered her ad in Heart Throbs. She answered it and you went to see her. Her husband broke in on you and — how much did you pay him?”

“No!” howled Mortimer Brown. “I didn’t pay him a cent. I... I don’t know anyone named Linda Meadows. I never saw her in my life.”

Peel held up the letter and read, “ ‘Dear Box 314. I am still on the sunny side of forty and I have a fine batch of Chinchilla rabbits and a small fruit orchard. I own a beautiful four-room home...’ ” Peel stopped and looked about the dirty room. “Want more?”

“Where did you get that letter?” cried Brown.

“I found it in Dave Corey’s apartment.” He paused. “You know he’s dead?”

“I didn’t do it, I had nothing to do with it. I don’t know him.” Then Brown made a desperate attempt to pull himself together, his flesh quivering in the process. “You’re a policeman?”

Peel didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no. He looked steadily at the rabbit raiser. “How much did you pay Corey?”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars. He wanted five hundred dollars, but I don’t have that kind of money. I... I had to sell half of my rabbits to raise the two hundred and fifty.”

“When did you pay him the money?”

“The day before yesterday.”

“When did you have your little scene with the beautiful Linda — who by the way, wasn’t really Linda Meadows—”

“What?”

“Never mind. I won’t confuse it. When did you meet this beautiful creature?”

“A couple of days before I paid Corey the money.”

“Saturday?”

“That’s right. I... I mean he threatened to sue me for alienation of affections and... uh... he said, if I didn’t pay him, he... he’d shoot me and no court would convict him. The sanctity of the home, he said — or... or something like that.”

“Think carefully now. Where did you go to meet Linda?”

“Why, I went to her apartment. A beautiful place on Sunset Boulevard — the Hillcrest Towers. When I saw the place I almost didn’t go in, but then I thought, what the heck, she was hard up for a man, otherwise she wouldn’t have advertised.”

“You went up to Apartment Seven C?”

“I think that’s what it was. I remember it was on the seventh floor...”

Peel nodded thoughtfully. “How often do you attend the get-togethers at Iowa Lee’s place?”

“I don’t go there any more.” Brown wrinkled his nose. “There’re mostly old dames go there and they just want to dance all the time. My feet hurt me and I don’t care for dancing.”

“But you did go there a few times?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I went pretty regularly for a couple of months, but then I got to writing to some of the women who were listed in Heart Throbs — and, well, I need a wife. I didn’t care if she was too good-looking, as long as she... well, as long as she had a little money.” He suddenly sighed. “Ah, she’s a beautiful girl...”

“Iowa Lee?”

“No, I mean Linda Meadows. Iowa...” Brown stopped and his eyes lit up.

“Yeah,” said Peel. “I know what you mean.”

Brown groaned. “If I could only lose a little weight!”

“Did you ever meet Linda Meadows at Iowa Lee’s place?”

“Oh, no! Like I told you, the better type don’t go down to the club. They... they advertise, then they get a chance to sort out the answers. Usually, they ask you to send your picture...”

“Did Linda?”

“Mmm, no. That... that’s why I had such high hopes about her. She was worth fifty thousand and didn’t even want to see what I looked like beforehand.”

“Mr. Brown,” Peel said, “ever hear of the old badger game?”

“I don’t know anything about badgers. Rabbits are my business.”

Peel grimaced. “A badger game is a shakedown racket, Brown. A beautiful girl gets you to her apartment, then at the crucial moment her husband breaks in and... and you pay. Catch on?”

Brown thought about that for a long moment. Then his face showed indignation, indignation mixed with dismay.

“You mean — Linda was in on it? I don’t believe that!”

“You shelled out two fifty.”

“To her husband. And she’d divorced him, but he claimed the divorce wasn’t legal.”

“Mr. Brown,” said Peel. “I want to give you some advice. Stick to rabbits.” He nodded, turned and stepped to the door.

Brown shuffled after him. “You’re going? Wouldn’t you like to see my rabbits? They’re out in back.”

“I saw a rabbit last night,” Peel retorted. “At the movies. He’s got your rabbits beat a mile. Bugs Bunny...”

The automobile salesman was red-faced and perspiring when Peel climbed back into the car. “Really, you said a minute...”

“I know,” said Peel. “But you know how it is when college chums get together.”

“I must get back to the salesroom,” the salesman said irritably. “Do you know that we’ve driven twenty-one miles?”

“And twenty-one back will make it forty-two,” said Peel. “That’s a fair workout.”

The salesman brightened a little. “A fine trial, sir. A beautiful machine, a wonderful power plant—”

“D’you mind?” Peel asked. “I’ve got a little headache. Let’s be quiet on the way back.” Then he added, “I want to listen to the power plant.”

The salesman choked, but subsided into silence. Peel drove the car back to Hollywood, up to the curb in front of the agency.

Then the salesman came to life again. “Well, sir, let’s step in now and make out the papers.”

“Unh-uh,” said Peel. “I’m not going to buy the car.”

“But why, sir?” wailed the salesman. “Isn’t she everything that your heart desires?”

“Nope,” said Peel. “The ashtrays are too small. I smoke a lot and I need a good big ashtray. Sorry, old boy, but that’s the way it is. Thanks for the ride.”

He gave the salesman a half-salute and strode off.