The Lonesome Badger

9

The lettering on the ground-glass door read: Thaddeus Smallwood Enterprises, Thaddeus Smallwood, President. Peel pushed open the door and found himself in a nicely furnished reception room. Behind a desk sat Linda Meadows.

Linda Meadows, the client of the Beagle Agency.

She exclaimed in astonishment. “How did you know where to find me?”

Peel said, “I told you what a beagle was — the best hunter in the world.”

“But I didn’t want you to come here.” She shot an apprehensive glance over her shoulder at a door marked Private. “My employer—”

“Mr. Thaddeus Smallwood?”

“Yes.”

Peel hesitated. “As a matter of fact, Linda, I didn’t come here to see you. I came to see Mr. Smallwood.”

“You mustn’t!” Her voice rose in alarm. “You mustn’t talk to him.”

“Relax, baby, relax. I didn’t come here to see Smallwood because of you. The Beagle Agency has other clients. All right, I’ll admit it, I didn’t even know you were here. I’m working on another case and that’s why I want to see Smallwood.”

“But I paid you fifty dollars yesterday. Aren’t you... aren’t you trying to find Susan?”

“Of course I am. But we always work on more than one case at a time.”

She didn’t like it. Her forehead showed worry lines. “But why should Mr. Smallwood want a... a detective?”

“He doesn’t. We’re representing someone else.”

“Who?”

Peel chuckled. “A client.” He looked toward the door marked Private. “Do you suppose I could see Smallwood now?”

She hesitated. “He never sees anyone without an appointment.”

“Pretend I’ve got one.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Well, then just go in and tell him that someone wants to see him on an important personal matter.”

Her even white teeth worried her lower lip. “I...” she began, then shook her head and got up. She entered the private office and closed the door, carefully.

Peel stepped to the door and put his ear to it. It was a good thick door, virtually soundproof. He could hear no more than a murmur of voices. But when the murmur stopped he moved quickly away.

Linda came out. “Mr. Smallwood would like to know the nature of your business.”

“Tell him it concerns Iowa—”

“Iowa! But Susan was from Iowa!”

“It’s a big state. It has ninety-nine counties and Des Moines is the capital.”

Her face twitched in sudden anger, but, controlling it, she reentered Smallwoods office. She came out promptly.

“You may go in.”

Peel entered Smallwood’s office and closed the door behind him.

Smallwood rose from behind a fine mahogany desk. He was fifty, with a shiny pate that was fringed by iron-gray hair. He was running a little to flesh. He wore a huge onyx ring on the little finger of his left hand, with a nice diamond in one corner of the onyx.

A quick glance about the office did not reveal the nature of his “enterprises.”

“My secretary tells me you’re from Iowa,” he said. He did not offer to shake hands, nor did he gesture to the leather-covered straight-backed chair that stood beside his desk.

Peel, however, walked to the desk and seated himself.

“Yes,” he said, “I’ve been to Iowa.”

Smallwood seemed disconcerted. He seated himself and regarded Peel, with a small frown on his face.

“What part of Iowa?”

Peel counted slowly to five, then said, “Iowa Lee.”

Smallwood could not quite conceal a wince. “Did you say Iowa Lee?”

Peel silently counted to five. “Yes.”

“Who is Iowa Lee?” exclaimed Smallwood.

Peel gave him the long, slow count. “The Iowa Lee Lonely Hearts Club.”

Smallwood had by now steeled himself. He exclaimed peevishly, “What is this, a gag or something?”

Peel took a letter from his pocket, unfolded it. He glanced at the letter for about three seconds, looked at Smallwood, then studied the letter again for a full five count. Finally, he read, “Dear Lonely Girl. I, too, have felt the pangs of loneliness. I, too, yearn for the friendship and love of a woman. I am amply provided for in worldly wealth, but in love and companionship, I am a pauper—”

Smallwood let Peel get that far, then he let out a roar. “This is blackmail!”

Peel lowered the letter and regarded Smallwood impassively.

Smallwood banged his fist on his desk. “Not another cent, not a single, red copper penny more.”

“How much?” asked Peel quietly. “How much have you paid?”

Smallwood grabbed up his phone. “The police,” he cried into it, “get me the police department.”

Peel got to his feet. “I just remembered I’ve got an appointment,” he said.

“Don’t you dare leave!” yelled Smallwood. “We’ll settle this once and for all. Here...!”

He dropped the phone and lunged for Peel, but the latter was already whipping open the door.

In the outer office, Linda Meadows stood behind her desk, with her jaw slack in astonishment. Peel passed her in high gear, tore open the door and leaped out into the corridor.

Thaddeus Smallwood did not pursue beyond the outer confines of his office, but Peel took to the stairs and did not slacken his speed until he was out on Wilshire Boulevard.

At a nearby corner Peel stopped to wait for a bus. None was in sight. His eyes lit on the drugstore before which he was standing and, grinning crookedly, he suddenly entered.

In a telephone booth he looked up a number, then dropped a coin in the slot and dialed the number of the Beagle Detective Agency.

“Beagle Detective Agency,” said the smooth voice of Otis Beagle.

“Joe Peel, Otis. Take down this number. Crestview 7-9757. Got it...?”

“Yes, but where are you, Joe? Something’s come up—”

“This has come up, too. Call the number right away. Ask for Mr. Smallwood and when you get him, tell him you’re calling about Iowa Lee—”

“Iowa Lee!” cried Otis Beagle. “That’s what I want to talk to you about...”

“Later,” said Peel. “Just do what I told you — do it right away. ’Bye...”

Beagle yelled again into the phone, but Peel had hung up.

A westbound bus was coming along when Peel came out of the drugstore and he boarded it. Ten minutes later he got out on 24th Street, in Santa Monica; and walked a couple of blocks to a neatly painted white frame house in the twelve- to fourteen-thousand-dollar bracket.

Two small boys of about six and eight were playing in front of the house. On the porch a girl of ten or eleven was putting a doll into a play carriage.

Peel rang the doorbell and looked at the children again. A woman, holding an infant in her arms, opened the door. A toddler of about two years clung to her skirt.

“Does Mr. Ellsworth live here?” Peel inquired.

“Why, yes, but he isn’t home just now.” The woman smiled wanly. “I’m Mrs. Ellsworth.”

“I’m afraid I have the wrong Ellsworth,” Peel said. “The man I’m looking for is Mr., uh, Edward Ellsworth—”

“He’s sometimes called that, although it’s his middle name,” said Mrs. Ellsworth. “His first name is Elmer.”

“Mmm,” said Peel, “the man I want is named Edward Ellsworth, all right, but he... he runs a meat market over in Westwood.”

“Then I’m afraid you do have the wrong Ellsworth,” said Mrs. Ellsworth. “My husband is a salesman for the Tobey-Crawford Furniture Company.”

“I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Ellsworth,” Peel said politely. Nodding pleasantly he turned away.

“A man with five kids,” he muttered under his breath as he walked back to Wilshire Boulevard.