Joe Peel was pretty good at crossword puzzles. A three-letter word meaning rodent hardly ever took five minutes of his time, but his mind wasn’t really on the puzzle just now. Otis Beagle was the cause.

Beagle sat on the other side of the double desk, rocking his squeaking swivel chair back and forth. A big man, six three and crowding two ten with both feet on the scales. A fine figure of a man in a beautifully tailored blue pin-stripe suit, the sleeves of which barely revealed a set of simulated ruby cuff links. He wore a white broadcloth shirt and a gorgeous red necktie in which blazed a horseshoe stickpin with diamonds that you could scarcely tell from the genuine. On the little finger of his smooth left hand sparkled a four-carat diamond ring of matching glass.

Everything about Otis Beagle was big and flashy and phony.

He was reading the “Personal” column of the Sunday newspaper. Beagle had been studying the column for the better part of a half hour, so Joe Peel knew that he had reason to worry. Something was percolating in the big fellow’s brain.

And now it was coming.

Beagle cleared his throat. He lowered his newspaper and cleared his throat a second time, more noisily. But Joe Peel was scowling over his crossword puzzle by that time.

“Joe,” said Otis Beagle, “do you ever read these Personals?”

“Rat,” exclaimed Peel. “A rat’s a rodent and it’s got three letters.”

“All right, Joe,” said Beagle coldly. “Go ahead, work your stupid crossword puzzles. Don’t worry about a thing. And why should you? You’ve got an employer who gives you a pay check every week.”

Joe Peel looked up. “Did you say every week, Otis? This is Wednesday. Paydays on Saturday — and if you gave me my pay last Saturday I must have squandered it without knowing it.”

“I told you I was a little short last week. Don’t keep harping about it, Joe. You’ll get your money. You always have.”

“Sure, Otis, I’ve always gotten my money. A little late sometimes, but better late than never.” Peel crooked his elbow and laughed humorlessly up his sleeve.

“Very funny, Joe, very funny. And I’ll tell you something else that’s funny. You’ll probably laugh yourself sick. There isn’t going to be any pay next Saturday. Unless we get a case between now and then.”

Peel groaned and pushed away the crossword puzzle. “All right, Otis, an idea’s rattling around in your noggin. Spill it, but the answer’s no. I know that already.”

“You know a lot of things,” Beagle snapped. “Except how to bring business into the agency.”

“I’m listening, Otis. You were reading the Personal column in the Sunday paper. Go ahead. Elsie misses Jasper, wants him to come home. Dave Fimberg will write music for your song poem. And the Shark Finance Company will lend you money if you’ve got a nice steady job with a salary that they can garnishee.”

Beagle folded his newspaper and read: “Lonely? Join our friendship club. Introductions. Iowa Lee, Registrar, Box 202, Highland Station, Hollywood, Calif.”

“Why, Otis,” said Peel mockingly. “Have your blondes and brunettes and redheads all gotten wise to you?”

“Goddam you, Joe,” snarled Beagle. “Stop your clowning and pay attention. We need a case, a cash retainer.” Beagle slammed the newspaper on the desk. “These Lonely Hearts Clubs are rackets. Sure, they’re legal. But they’re rackets just the same. Iowa Lee, Registrar! Why, the very name’s a phony.”

“How do you know?”

“Whoever heard of anyone named Iowa? It’s sucker bait. There’re more people from Iowa in Los Angeles than there are in Des Moines. Retired farmers, small-town people. They come out here and they’re lonesome. Widows, widowers, old maids. They read these Personals and they come across the name Iowa. Nostalgia!”

“All right, I follow you, Otis. In fact, I’m ahead of you. So they spend a few bucks and meet a widow, or widower, as the case may be. Or a guy with halitosis meets an old maid. They might even get married. What business is it of ours?”

“Don’t be stupider than you have to be, Joe. You know very well what I’m driving at. These people are doing something that they know deep down they shouldn’t be doing. So they’re suspicious as all hell. They’ve got guilty consciences—”

“Say that again. About guilty consciences.”

Beagle had the good grace to blush a little. “I’m as honest as the next man, you ought to know that by now. But I like to eat good steaks and I prefer a comfortable living...”

“Sure, Otis, you’ve got the tastes of a millionaire and the income of a second-string bookkeeper.”

“A man’s known by the company he keeps,” growled Beagle. “Associate with people who’ve got money and some of it’s bound to rub off on you.”

“Yeah, and stick your nose in other people’s business and someone’s bound to bop it.” Peel held up his hand as Beagle began to show anger. “Okay, Otis, it’ll be my nose that gets bopped. It usually is. But go on — you were talking about these poor lonely people with guilty consciences.”

“People with guilty consciences are liable to... well, do I have to draw you a picture?”

“They’re liable to be in need of a private detective. Is that what you’re driving at?”

“Well?”

Peel regarded Otis Beagle with a fishy eye. “Now look, Otis, I know you well enough to know that you’ve got something more concrete in mind than going down to this Lonely Hearts Club in the bare hope of selling somebody a bill of goods.”

Beagle cleared his throat again. “As a matter of fact, Joe, uh, I’ve already done a little ground work, so to speak.” He pulled open the desk drawer and brought out a sheaf of papers that were suspiciously handy to his reach. He held up a seven by ten pamphlet of about twelve pages. “Exhibit A, a copy of Heart Throbs, the paper put out by Iowa Lee...”

“I’ll be damned!”

Beagle turned a page of the little magazine. “Listen to this: ‘Lonely widow, 65, with affectionate disposition, wishes to meet gentleman of similar tastes. Am considered attractive by my friends and own my own home. Have cash and bonds. HT48.’ ” Beagle snorted. “Two bucks for a listing like that and she’ll get a hundred answers. But here’s a better one.” He turned another page and read: “Attractive young woman, age 25, with $50,000 in cash, wants to correspond with exciting man 30–40. Object matrimony. Box 314.”

Joe Peel exclaimed, “If she’s twenty-five, attractive and has fifty grand, why does she have to advertise for a man?”

“That was the question I asked myself. Here’s the answer.” Beagle put down the Lonely Hearts booklet and picked up a sheet of buff-colored letter paper.

“You answered the ad?” cried Peel.

“Of course. Listen to this: ‘Dear Mr. Peel—’ ”

“Peel! You used my name?”

“Naturally,” said Otis Beagle.

“Naturally, hell!” howled Peel. He slammed back his swivel chair and leaped to his feet. “You got the gall of a starving hyena—”

“Joe,” Beagle said coldly, “listen to this before you blow your cork. ‘Dear Mr. Peel: I don’t mind telling you that I received over 250 replies to my little advertisement but of all of them your letter intrigued me the most...’ ” Beagle lowered the letter. “What do you think of that? She picked my letter out of more than two hundred and fifty.”

“That I believe,” snapped Peel. “And that’s the one thing I give you credit for. You can throw the bull better than anyone I’ve ever met in all my life.”

Beagle tossed the letter to the desk. “Let’s cut out the shilly-shallying. The lady’s name and address is on the bottom of the letter. She’s worth fifty thousand dollars and she says she needs a strong man to lean on.”

“Why doesn’t she lean on the fifty thousand?”

“Forty-nine thousand. We’re going to ease one grand out of her pile. For professional services.”

“What professional services?”

“What kind of business are we in?”

“The sign on the door,” Peel said harshly, “says we’re a detective agency, but from the looks of this we’ve gone into the gigolo business.”

“This is letter number one,” Beagle said carefully. “It was written a week ago.” He picked up a second buff-colored letter. “ ‘Dear Mr. Peel: Since I wrote you before, something has happened — something that has frightened me terribly and I feel more than ever that I need the friendship of a strong man, a friend on whom I can lean — someone like yourself. I know that a girl shouldn’t throw herself at a man like this, but I need advice — and help — and I need them quickly. Please telephone and let me know when you can call. Awaiting your call, I am, affectionately, Linda Meadows. Sunset 3-1127.’ ”

Beagle put the letter aside and Peel noted that there were no more papers immediately in front of Beagle. He looked steadily at the big man.

“What frightened her?”

Beagle shrugged. “How should I know?”

“You don’t know?”

“Of course not!”

“Did you scare her?”

“Don’t be silly.”

Peel drew a deep breath. “What re you holding back?”

“I’m not holding anything back. Don’t be so damn suspicious. The little lady’s got fifty thousand dollars and she’s in trouble. We eliminate her trouble and collect a thousand dollar fee. It’s as simple as that. One, two, three.”

“Then let’s go.”

Beagle pushed the telephone across the desk. “Call Sunset 3-1127.”

“You call. You can throw it better than I can.”

“No, she’d remember my voice. Don’t forget, I’ve got to go in and do the sales job, after you soften her up.”

Peel took the receiver off the hook, hesitated and looked sharply at Beagle. The big man’s face wore a bland expression. Peel dialed the number.

A vibrant feminine voice said: “Yes?”

“Linda?” Peel asked. “This is Joe.”

“Joe who?”

“Joe Peel.”

“Spell it, please.”

“P as in Peel, double ee as in eel, I as in hell.”

“Oh, Peel, as in banana.”

“All right, baby,” Peel said through his teeth, “I can see where we’re going to have fun.”

“Mmm,” was the reply over the phone.

“Mmm, in spades,” retorted Peel. “So what do you say we get down to cases? I got your letter and I’d like to give you my answer — in person.”

There was a short pause at the other end, then the vibrant voice said, “I wrote you a letter?”

“Two,” said Peel. “The first in answer to mine, answering your ad in Heart Throbs. You got two hundred and fifty answers and mine was the best of the lot. Remember?”

“Of course I remember. And I asked you to come around and see me.”

“I’ve already got my hat on.”

“Oh, then you can come right away?”

“Just give me the address.”

“Hillcrest Towers, on Sunset—”

“I know where it is. Take the chain off the door. I’ll be right there.”

Peel hung up. He drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment, before looking at Beagle.

Beagle exploded. “Don’t give me that Thinker routine!”

“My noses itches,” said Peel. “I’m going to get it punched.”

“That’s the chance you take being a detective,” said Beagle. “It’s a dangerous game.”

“You read that in a book.”

“I’ll be glad to spend an evening discussing literature with you,” Beagle said sarcastically. “Sometime. But right now there’s work to be done.”

Peel glowered at Beagle a moment, then, shaking his head, left the office. He descended to the street, walked a half block to Hollywood Boulevard and stopped. He looked moodily up and down the boulevard, then crossed the street and continued on to Sunset. A bus was just pulling to the curb as he approached and he clambered aboard.

At Laurel Canyon Peel dropped off the bus and walked a short distance to the Hillside Towers, one of the tallest buildings on the boulevard, ten stories.

He entered the apartment building lobby and found a woman seated behind a combination switchboard and desk. She looked inquiringly at Peel.

“Miss Linda Meadows.”

“Who is calling?”

“Mr. Peel. She’s expecting me.”

The receptionist smiled, made a connection on the switchboard and after a moment, said into the mouthpiece: “A Mr. Peel is in the lobby... Thank you.” She broke the connection. “You may go up. Seven C.”

Peel stepped into an automatic elevator. A moment later he got off at the seventh floor. A quick glance about told him that there were four apartments to the floor, the doors of all within a few feet of the elevator. He moved to one marked Seven C and pushed the door buzzer.

The door was instantly opened and Peel let out an involuntary whistle. The girl who was looking at him was one of the most gorgeous brunettes he had ever seen. She was tall and slender yet needed no artificial padding where women use such padding. She had finely chiseled features and a skin that Peel would have loved to touch. In fact, he intended to.

“All this and fifty thousand,” Peel breathed.

“I’m Linda Meadows,” the girl said. “Come in.”

She stepped back and Peel entered the apartment, a luxuriously furnished place of apparently four rooms, a large living room, with a dining alcove opening off it, a kitchen beyond and, to the rear, a bedroom.

Peel could scarcely keep from drooling. “I’m willing,” he said.

“You’re willing to what?”

“Your ad, baby. It said: ‘Object matrimony’.”

“And?”

“You’re up to specifications. That is, you are physically. There’s only the fifty thousand. If you’ve really got it, Linda baby, you’ve got yourself a man.”

Linda regarded Peel with smoldering eyes. “Not so fast, Mr. Peel. The ad also said that the man must be exciting.”

“I’m exciting, baby.”

He took a quick step forward and grabbed Linda. He started to pull her toward him, then reeled back as her fist caught him squarely on the jaw.

“You’re a little too exciting, chum,” snapped Linda. “And a little too fast.”

Peel rubbed his jaw. “I was only trying to save time.” He exhaled heavily. “Oh, well, if you want to be old-fashioned, we’ll spar around awhile. But not too long, though. My bankroll won’t hold out and I hate to take money from a girl unless I’m married to her.”

The apartment door buzzer whirred. Peel looked at Linda.

“The switchboard didn’t announce anyone,” he said.

“It must be the maid,” Linda said, then frowned. “She was in here only an hour ago...” She got to her feet, started for the door.

Peel said, “Let ’er ring, she’ll go away.”

A key rattled in the door, the bolt clicked as it was sprung and the door was pushed open.

A man came into the room. A man holding a key in his right hand. A very large man in his middle thirties.

“Dave!” exclaimed Linda.

“Well,” said the man called Dave. “This is very nice.”

“Don’t tell me,” exclaimed Joe Peel, “the boy friend!”

“Worse,” said Dave. “The husband.”

Peel whirled on Linda. “You said Miss Meadows...”

“My maiden name. We... we were divorced.”

“That’s what you say,” Dave retorted. “Only I don’t know a thing about it. Remember? You forgot to tell me. There’s a law against that in this and quite a few other states. The sucker — I mean the husband — has to be told he’s being divorced.”

“By publication, if the plaintiff doesn’t know the whereabouts of the defendant,” said Linda.

“Why, Linda honey,” chided Dave, “I wasn’t lost, was I? Look” — he held up the door key — “I had this all the time, so I couldn’t have been so hard to find, could I?”

“Get out of here,” Linda cried. “Get out!”

“Excuse me,” Peel murmured, “but I think I’ve got to run along.”

He started for the door, but Dave moved a couple of paces to his left and blocked Peel’s passage. “What’s your hurry, laddie boy? We haven’t even introduced ourselves.”

“No point to it,” replied Peel. “I was just standing here, waiting for a streetcar.”

“It’s come. Me.” Dave held out a hand. “Dave Corey’s the name. And you?”

“If you don’t mind...”

“But I do mind, laddie boy. The least you can do is give me your name. It ain’t polite to knock off a stranger’s head.”

“Look, pal,” Peel said, swallowing hard. “There’s no call for the rough stuff. There’s been a mistake. I didn’t know the little lady was married—”

“You know it now.”

“Sure, so I’ll beat it.”

“Okay, laddie. Do that. No hard feelings, huh? You understand these things, don’t you?”

“Sure, sure. No hard feelings.”

Peel took a step forward. And then a trench mortar exploded on his chin. Peel cried out and dropped to his knees. A roaring filled his ears. He tried to look up, saw Dave Corey’s foot coming at his head — and couldn’t move his head aside.

How long he was out, Joe Peel didn’t know. He dreamed of comets and meteors and atomic explosions, and when he awakened there was a vast aching in his head. He groaned aloud and sat up. He shook his head to clear away the cosmic dust, and then his eyes focused on the bloody face of Dave Corey and he forgot all about his pain.

Corey was quite dead.

Peel shot one wild glance around the room. Linda Meadows was gone and...

...and the siren of a police car wailed up the street. Joe Peel waited for no more. He slammed out of the apartment and took the stairs three at a time. All the way down to the basement garage. He darted through the garage and out upon a street at the rear of the Hillcrest Towers. He circled the block and from across the street saw the police car parked in the circular drive in front of the apartment building.

Muttering under his breath, he walked down to Laurel Canyon.

Otis Beagle was pounding the old portable typewriter when Joe Peel entered the office. He grunted, took the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and laid it face down on his desk.

“Well?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Peel. “I got it.” He turned his face sidewards to show Beagle the bruise on his cheekbone.

Beagle exclaimed peevishly, “What’s the matter with you, Joe? You can’t do the simplest little thing any more without running into trouble. It’s that chip you’re carrying on your shoulder—”

“That ain’t all I’m carrying,” Joe Peel retorted. He pointed to the telephone. “You’d better call your friend, Pinky.”

“Why should I call Pinky?”

“You’re going to need him.”

“Why?”

“Murder.”

Beagle kicked back his swivel chair so violently that it crashed to the floor. “What are you talking about, Joe? Mur...” He choked on the word.

“Badger, badger, who’s got the badger?”

“Oh, no!” wailed Beagle.

“Oh, yes, and you walked into it.” Peel cleared his throat. “I mean, I walked into it... Only something happened, the outraged husband wound up with a bullet in his head.”

“Not you, Joe!”

“Where would I get a roscoe?”

Beagle whirled and strode to the steel files across the room. He pulled out the bottom file, reached into the space behind the letter files and brought out a rusty, nickel-plated revolver. He started to wheeze in relief, then caught himself.

“Have you got a gun of your own?”

“On my salary?” Peel shook his head. “I wasn’t awake when he got if.” He touched the bruise on his face. “He hit me when I wasn’t looking and then he gave me the boots.” He paused. “The little lady gave it to him...”

“Linda Meadows?”

“Mrs. Dave Corey. At least that’s what he claimed.” Peel crossed to his swivel chair and sank down into it. “The letters are there, Otis — the letters you signed with my name. And I gave the receptionist my name.”

“Why’d you do that?” Beagle groaned. Then he went to his chair, picked it up and seated himself heavily. “All right, give it to me, the whole thing.”

“That’s it, Otis. I hardly had time to make a, uh, a small pass, when Corey bust in. He had a key. Oh, sure, they went through a routine. She said she’d divorced him and he claimed it wasn’t a legal divorce. And then he popped me. That’s it — except she’d skipped when I came around. But not before calling the cops. I got out about two jumps ahead of them.”

“And Corey was dead, you re sure of that?”

“As dead as a fur coat.”

Beagle’s face showed great anguish. He locked his fat hands across his ample stomach and began to rock back and forth in the squeaking swivel chair. The pain did not erase from his face, but after a few minutes he shook his head. “If it was a badger game, why would she kill him?”

“Maybe because I only had a dollar forty in my pocket,” Joe Peel said, then exclaimed and quickly thrust his hand into his pocket He brought out a crumpled dollar bill and some small change. He sighed with relief. “Guess they figured it wasn’t worth while.”

“I don’t like it,” Otis Beagle said. He scowled, shook his head and got to his feet. Walking to the coat rack he took down his Homburg hat and set it jauntily upon his head. When he reached for his cane, Peel got to his feet.

“Where are you going?”

“To the club.”

“Whoa!” Peel cried. “You’re not letting me stay here to face Lieutenant Targ.”

“I’ve got to see Pinky.”

“And I’ve got to see a man about a hole,” retorted Joe Peel. “I’ll need it to hide.”

Beagle hesitated, then strode back to the desk. He scooped up the phone, dialed a number. “Otis Beagle. Is Mr. Devol in the club?... Yes, I’ll hold on.” He covered the mouthpiece. “This is going to cost me something. Pinky’s got an aunt visiting him from St. Louis who’s crazy about opera and...” He uncovered the mouthpiece of the phone. “Pinky, old man? Otis. Certainly, old man, I was just about to leave, but a little matter came up. Mmm, maybe you can help me out and I can get away so much sooner. You know what help’s like these days... cant trust them to do a thing right... That little detective agency... That’s right, more trouble than it’s worth, but I hate to throw these people out of work.” He sighed and shrugged expansively. “That’s the cross we’ve got to bear, Pinky. Can’t let them down... As I was saying, one of my men blundered into something... May not amount to much... damned nuisance, though... That’s right... A little matter down at the Hillcrest Towers... Uh, wonder if you could call Homicide?... Lieutenant Targ down there’s not a bad sort... Yeah, ask him what it’s all about... Call me back at this number, will you? Granite 7-9757... Yes, certainly, the sooner you call me back the sooner I can leave... Good, I’ll hang on...”

He hung up. “He’s getting right on it.”

“Decent of you not to let the help down,” sneered Joe Peel.

“A man’s got to keep up a front.”

“Sure, sure. You owe me a week’s pay right now, but I’ll bet you’ve paid your club dues.”

“If it’s any satisfaction to you, I haven’t. As a matter of fact...” Beagle hesitated, then shrugged. “Pinky’s got my IOU right now for a little matter of six hundred.”

“He trust you for six hundred?”

“He’d trust me for six thousand.” Beagle coughed. “I hope.” Then he drew a deep breath. “But the club won’t. I’ve got to get some money by the end of the week. That thousand dollars—”

“What thousand?”

“The thousand from Linda Meadows. I’d counted on that...”

The phone rang and he scooped it up. “Yes? Pinky, old man... What...?” He listened. “You’re sure...? All right, Pinky, just as I thought Thanks — I’ll leave right now.”

He slammed the receiver back on the hook and looked at Joe Peel angrily. “What’re you trying to pull, Joe? There wasn’t any dead man...”

Joe stared at Beagle. “I know a dead man when I see one.”

“If he was dead he got well awfully quick. They got a call from the Hillcrest Towers all right. Anonymous. But when they got there the apartment was empty. False alarm.”

“That’s screwy, Otis. I tell you Dave Corey was dead when I left — and it couldn’t have been more than a minute before the cops got in.”

“A minute’s long enough for a man to pick himself up and walk out.”

“Dave Corey didn’t pick himself up.”

“All I know is what Pinky told me. A false alarm. That’s good enough for me. Pinky’s waiting for me now. They need a fourth for bridge. I’ve got to run.”

Swinging his cane, Otis Beagle left the office. Joe Peel scowled at the door a moment, then his eyes flitted to the other side of the desk. Beagle had forgotten to take along the sheet of paper on which he’d been typing when Peel had come in. He reached across and scooped up the letter.

He read, aloud:

“Dear Pen Pal: — Your description in Heart Throbs is entrancing. All my life I have dreamed of a girl like you...”

Angrily, Peel crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it into the wastebasket. He got up and headed for the door, but before he reached it the door swung open and a girl came into the office.

A blonde. A honey blonde about five feet four and a figure... Joe Peels mouth fell open and his tongue came out and moistened his lips.

He said weakly, “Hello.”

She smiled, and Joe’s temperature went up about three degrees.

“Hello. This is a detective agency, isn’t it?”

“Just the best detective agency in town,” drooled Joe.

“And you, ah, locate missing persons?”

Joe pointed to the lettering on the door. “Know what a beagle is, miss? A hunting dog, the best hunting dog that ever had four legs and a tail. It can find, uh, anything. That’s us, the Beagle Detective Agency...”

“Oh, is that why you call it the Beagle Agency? I thought Beagle might have been your name.”

“Uh-uh, my name’s Peel, Joe Peel.” Peel swallowed hard. “As a matter of fact, I do have a man here named Beagle, Otis Beagle. I took him into the agency just because of his name. But don’t worry about him, he doesn’t do much around here. I do all the work...”

He stepped quickly around the desk and brought forward Beagle’s swivel chair. He pulled it up near his own chair. “Won’t you have a seat?”

“Thank you.” The girl seated herself, revealing legs that caused Joe Peel to blink. “I really don’t know if I can afford your rates—”

“You can afford it,” Peel said earnestly.

“How much would you charge to find a missing person?”

“That depends. You can find some people in a half hour, some you can’t find in six months. How long has this person been missing?”

“A week.”

“Well, then lets say it’ll take a week to find him.”

“It’s not a him.”

Joe brightened. “That’s better. It’s easier to find females. Mmm, a week at, say fifty dollars a day—”

“Oh, I couldn’t afford that.”

“How much can you afford?”

“A... a hundred dollars, at the most.”

“A hundred...” Joe swallowed hard. “For you, miss, a hundred dollars—”

“And you guarantee to find her? I mean, if you don’t, I get my money back?”

Joe groaned inwardly. He thought of his last week’s pay and he thought of the dollar and forty cents in his pocket. And he also thought of the phrase she’d just said, “Money back.”

“Yes, we find her or your money back.”

“Very well.” The client fished in her alligator skin purse and brought out two twenties and a ten. “Here’s fifty dollars as a... what do you call it, retainer?”

“Retainer.” Peel took the fifty dollars and stowed them away.

“Now, if you’ll give me a receipt...”

Peel grimaced, then reached across the desk and picked up a letterhead. He wrote down the date and added aloud, “Received $50.00 on account from...?” He looked inquiringly at the girl.

“Linda Meadows.”

Peel scribbled the “L” before he reacted. “Linda Meadows!”

She spelled it. “M-e-a-d-o-w-s, Meadows.”

Peel stared at the girl, then at the sheet of paper. Finally he wrote, saying the words aloud, “Linda Meadows.”

The girl who gave her name as Linda Meadows continued, “...for locating Susan Sawyer. An additional $50.00 is to be paid when assignment is completed satisfactorily, but if the Beagle Detective Agency does not locate Susan Sawyer within seven days from date, the $50.00 retainer is to be refunded.”

Joe wrote it all out. “Sure you’re not a lawyer?”

“I once worked in a lawyer’s office,” she replied. “We had a lot of business from people who didn’t write things out. Will you sign that now, please?”

Joe scrawled his name on the document and Linda Meadows took it from him, folded it and put it away in her purse.

“Now,” she said brightly, “you will want the details.”

“Oh, sure,” Joe Peel said. “Tell me all about Linda Meadows.”

“You mean Susan Sawyer. I’m Linda Meadows. Susan was my roommate. That is, we shared an apartment at the Hillcrest Towers.”

The thing to do, of course, was to give her back the fifty dollars. But Peel had worked too long for Otis Beagle. Beagle never gave back anything.

Peel said, “What did this Susan Sawyer do for a living?”

“She received money from home.”

“Where was her home?”

Linda Meadows frowned. “This may sound strange, but I don’t know. Iowa, but the town I couldn’t tell you. Susan was, well, a little on the mysterious side. I suppose she got mail, but I never saw it. The mail came after I went to work. She never talked much about her past.”

“How long did you live together?”

“Six months, almost seven.”

“How did you meet her?”

Linda hesitated. “Do I have to tell you?”

“It might make my job easier.”

“It was at a... a sort of a dance. We had lunch the next day and then she came over to my apartment one evening — if you can call the place where I lived then an apartment. She told me of her place at the Hillcrest Towers and said that the rent was a little high for one person, but for two... well, my share came to about what I was paying for the dump. So I moved in with her. We got along well, but we didn’t double-date or anything like that.”

“She had boy friends?”

“Susan’s a very attractive girl.”

“So she had boy friends. Anyone special?”

“A fellow named Dave came around about as often as anyone. But there were others. Bob, Dan, Pete.”

“Mike, Joe, Fred—”

Linda showed annoyance. “Now, you’re being facetious.”

“No-no. I just meant, I’ve got to have other names than just Bob and Joe and Dave. This Dave — what was his last name?”

“I don’t know. Linda didn’t introduce her friends that way. She’d just say, ‘Meet Bob.’ ”

“And your boy friends?”

“Marshall Tan...” Linda caught herself. “What’s the idea?”

“Marshall Tan... you started to say.”

“Marshall Tanner. But that’s got nothing to do with this. You’re investigating Susan, not me.”

“Well, what else can you tell me about Susan?”

“That’s about all. She went out one evening a week ago and hasn’t returned.”

“Not even for her clothes?”

“Everything’s just as she left it. Except...” She stopped.

“Except what?”

“Her personal things. Her... her letters and things like that.”

“She’s taken them out? When?”

“I don’t know. I really didn’t look until yesterday. Whether she removed them a week ago or has returned since and gotten them, I don’t know.”

“Did it ever strike you that this Susan might just have decided to move out on you?”

“And leave a mink stole?”

“I see what you mean.” Joe nodded thoughtfully. “Now, her description...”

“I can do better than that. Here’s a picture of her.” Linda reached into her purse and brought out a snapshot. “I guess she forgot that I had this.”

Peel took the picture. It was the girl he had met at the Hillcrest Towers, the one who had given him her name as Linda Meadows, the one with whom Otis Beagle had corresponded.

“All right,” he said, “you’ll hear from me tomorrow.”

“You expect results that quickly?”

Peel shrugged. “I’m a fast worker. Oh — one thing more. Where can I get in touch with you during the day? You said you were working.”

She hesitated. “I don’t want you to call me where I’m working. I’ll be at home after six.”

“But in case of an emergency—”

“It can wait until after six.” She got to her feet. “Please try to find Susan as quickly as you can.”

“I will,” Joe promised.

She went out, but left the aroma of her perfume in the little office. Joe sniffed it a moment, then turned and dropped into his chair.

“Goddam Otis Beagle!” he swore.

He reached for the phone and dialed the number of the Sunset Athletic Club. The operator answered in a moment.

“I want to talk to Otis Beagle,” Joe said. “He’s probably in the card room.”

A minute or two later the operator replied, “Mr. Beagle is busy and cannot come to the telephone.”

“Tell him it’s important,” Joe exclaimed. “He’s got to talk to me...”

“One moment, please.”

A long minute went by and then the operator said, “Mr. Beagle says that it can’t be as important as the five spades he has just bid and if this happens to be Joe Peel to... to drop dead!”

Peel slammed down the receiver and swore again. “Goddam Otis Beagle!” He gave it more feeling than the first time.

He shot a quick look around the office, then went to the door and unsnapped the catch lock. Deliberately leaving on the lights, he went out.

Out on the street he walked down to Hollywood Boulevard and looked to the left. His eye caught the marquee of a theater, advertising a double bill he had not seen.

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.

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.

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.

Peel passed the garage entrance of the Hillcrest Towers and saw the denim-coated attendant polishing down a car. He walked a half block, then turned and passed the door again. The man was at a telephone.

Peel went on, heard a car coming out of the garage. The attendant was driving it, apparently taking it around to the front for a guest of the Towers.

Quickly he entered the garage and walked forward until he came to the elevator. The indicator showed that the elevator was on the fourth floor. He pressed the button and waited, shooting nervous glances at the door to the rear.

The elevator finally came and the door opened. Peel stepped in quickly and, as the door closed, pressed the button for six. A moment later he stepped out on the sixth floor. The elevator door closed again and Peel stopped and listened carefully. A vacuum cleaner hum came from one of the rooms.

Nodding in relief, he climbed the stairs quickly to the seventh floor and proceeded to the door of Apartment C. He listened with his ear to the door, then took out Beagles ring of master keys. The first would not even fit into the lock. The second and third went into the slit, but did not spring the lock. The fourth turned it.

He pushed open the door, closed it and stood for a moment with his back to the door, while his heart pounded madly and he cursed Otis Beagle silently.

Then he stepped away from the door and made a quick circuit of the apartment. It consisted of a rather large, beautifully furnished living room, a dining room alcove off the living room, a rather small kitchen beyond the dining room. Circling back he stepped into the fourth room, a square bedroom with twin beds and a huge closet.

On the walnut dresser stood a framed portrait of a somewhat petulant-looking man in his early thirties. Peel studied the picture closely and finally grunted. Except that he was probably a rather large man, Peel did not think much of him.

There were four drawers in the dresser. Two of them contained clothes, unmentionables and the like. A few pieces of costume jewelry. The two lower drawers contained similar clothes, bought from a more moderately priced store. There were also a few letters from a man named Alan Prescott. Peel looked at the portrait on top of the dresser.

“Harya, Prescott,” he said.

He left the dresser and tried the clothes closet. There was a long row of womens clothing, three or four cloth coats, a sheared beaver of knee length and an expensive mink stole. A row of shoes stood on the floor. Four traveling bags, two of them bearing the initials S.S. and two without any initials. Peel opened the bags and found them empty.

He left the closet and tried the nightstand between the two beds. It was filled with knick-knacks and a single letter from Alan Prescott, dated two months previously.

With rising panic, Peel left the bedroom and went into the living room. There was a writing desk near the window. He searched it thoroughly, lifted the blotter. He tried the vases standing over the fireplace mantel.

His search failed to yield Otis Beagle’s — rather, Joe Peel’s — letters. In desperation he ransacked the dining room and even the kitchen.

He returned to the living room, stood in the center of the beautiful deep-piled rug and let his eyes make a complete circle of the room.

Nothing.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror over the fireplace, suddenly darted to the mirror and lifted out the bottom. A pamphlet fell out from behind the mirror.

A copy of Heart Throbs.

He stuffed it into his pocket, took a last quick look in the bedroom, then finally went to the door. He listened carefully for a moment, then opened the door a crack and peered out. The corridor was deserted and he stepped out.

Swiftly he climbed the stairs to the eighth floor and went to the door of Apartment D. He repeated the listening at the door, then unlocked it with the same key he had used on the seventh floor.

A swift survey told him that the apartment had not been cleaned since the day before, probably due to the orders of Lieutenant Becker of Homicide. Evidences of the police were obvious. The mirror had been dusted for fingerprints, as were dishes in the kitchen. Drawers were pulled out in the bedroom, clothes in the drawers merely thrown back.

Peel nevertheless searched the drawers and found them, save for man’s clothing, as barren as the apartment below. There were no letters of any kind. The clothes closet contained a half-dozen tailored suits, seven or eight pairs of shoes, each with a shoe tree, a raincoat, an overcoat and two bathrobes, one a woman’s. Peel blinked. He took out the bathrobe. It was of terry cloth and could have been a man’s except for its size. He whistled softly and wondered if Becker had overlooked that. Suddenly whirling, he went into the living room and raised the bottom of the mirror. Three envelopes fell out, and Peel yipped in relief.

They were addressed to a box number care of Heart Throbs. Two were addressed in longhand, the third typed. Peel whisked out the contents and his relief changed to dismay. None of the three letters bore his name.

He stared at the letters and suddenly his blood pounded through his veins.

The door buzzer whirred.

Peel made a swift silent leap for the door, pressed his ear against it. The door buzzer whirred again and he groaned inwardly.

A key turned in the lock. The maid...!

It was too late to shoot a bolt. Peel put his weight against the door. Pressure was put against his shoulder but Peel leaned desperately against the door.

The key clicked the lock back and forth, pressure was put on the door again and a woman’s voice muttered on the other side of the panel. Then the key was withdrawn from the lock. Perspiration filmed Peel’s face.

He waited a full two minutes, then suddenly opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. The door of Apartment C stood partly open.

His eyes on the stairs, Peel moved swiftly forward. A dark face appeared in the doorway of Apartment C and a frightened voice cried out: “Who you?”

But Peel went down the stairs swiftly, though not in flight. Not until he reached the seventh floor, then he took the stairs three at a time, all the way down to the garage.

The attendant in the garage looked at him in surprise, but Peel merely nodded and left by the rear door.

Out on the street, reaction set in and he found himself shaking like a yucca palm in a Death Valley gale.

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.”

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.

It was twenty minutes to five when Peel got off the bus on Hollywood Boulevard and Ivar. Hardly worth while to go back to the office. But he knew that Beagle liked the give and take of Peel’s reports and, if he didn’t show up, Beagle would sulk all of the next day. So, shaking his head, he walked the short distance to the Monadnock Building.

Otis Beagle was pacing the floor of the small office. “It’s a wonder you bothered to come back at all,” he complained when Peel entered. “How was the movie?”

“Great,” said Peel. “Both pictures. And the newsreel wasn’t bad and the cartoon, boy, that Tom and Jerry!”

“So you’ve got time for three-hour movies while I sit here and wrack my brain and take abuse.” Beagle stabbed a freshly manicured forefinger at the telephone. “What was that Smallwood business about?”

“The man was madder’n a barrel of tomcats, so I thought a little phone call would make him bust a gut.”

“He almost tore my head off.” Beagle slapped his right ear with the palm of his hand. “Smallwood, huh? One of those letters was his.” Beagle nodded thoughtfully. “A man like that may be needing the services of a good private detective. Must have something on his conscience.”

“He looks like money.”

“He wasn’t the rabbit raiser, then?”

Peel grimaced. “That’s Mortimer Brown.”

“And the third one. Ellsworth, was it?”

“A man with five kids!”

“And he’s lonesome?”

“A louse!”

Beagle grunted. “Well, what’s the score?”

“The badger game, what else? The rabbit man went for two fifty. I don’t know about Smallwood, but I think it was higher. He’s bleeding. Bad enough so he yelled for the cops.”

“Do you think he’s mad enough so he’d... he’d kill a man?”

“Mmm,” said Peel. He was on the verge of adding to that, when the phone rang. Beagle scooped it up. “Beagle Detective Agency... I’m the boss... Who...? Oh, Peel... yes, he’s here...” He scowled at Peel as he handed over the phone. “For you — boss!”

“Mr. Peel,” said the voice of Linda Meadows, “I’ve got to see you this evening.”

“Fine,” said Peel. “I’ll drop around to the apartment.”

“No-no, I don’t want you to come there. Could we meet somewhere?”

“I’ll buy you a dinner,” said Peel.

“I’d rather just meet you somewhere and talk.”

“You’ve got to eat, baby. It’s all right. I use a knife and fork.”

There was still reluctance in Linda’s tone when she finally accepted. “All right, the... the Bulldog and Pussycat on Sunset Strip. Seven o’clock.”

“I’ll see you, baby,” said Peel.

“You’ll be where?” Beagle demanded when Peel hung up.

“The Bulldog and Pussycat.”

“What time?”

“Seven.”

“Good. I’ll be there.”

Peel grimaced. “I think the little lady’d rather be with me, alone.”

“I’ve got a dinner date,” Beagle said, “with Iowa Lee. That’s what I tried to tell you on the phone this afternoon, when you so rudely hung up. She called me. You didn’t tell me you’d been at her place last night.”

“Oh, didn’t I? I must have forgotten.”

“She’s pretty sore. Wants to know why we’re investigating her.” Beagle looked at Peel sharply. “Are we?”

Peel hesitated. “We’re knee deep in lonely hearts and the name Iowa Lee keeps popping up. Either she’s in it up to her lily white neck, or she’s being used by a bunch of crooks.”

“That’s the trouble with these Lonely Hearts outfits,” Beagle said. “Somebody starts a little club, hoping to make a few bucks and maybe bring a little cheer into the lives of a few lonely people and then, first thing you know, somebody like Harry Powers comes along—”

“Who’s Harry Powers?”

“A fellow in West Virginia who got his neck stretched. A few years ago he joined a Lonely Hearts Club and married himself four or five of the female members. They found one or two of them afterwards. That is, they found what was left of them...” Beagle’s lips formed a great pout, which he worked in and out. “Iowa Lee may be on the up-and-up, but her club’s certainly being used by Linda Meadows—”

“Susan Sawyer, you mean.”

“All right, Susan Sawyer. You ask me, Iowa needs a good private detective to clean up her club for her.”

Peel groaned. “We’ve already got two clients in this case, which is one more than the law allows us.”

Beagle nodded thoughtfully. “How many members would you say Iowa Lee’s got in her club?”

“There were twenty-five or thirty people at the get-together last night. I understand they pay ten dollars a month, plus five dollars initiation fee.”

“And I paid two dollars to join the correspondence club, plus three dollars for the subscription to Heart Throbs. Say she’s got three-four hundred mail members...” Beagle nodded in sudden decision. “Yes, Joe, I think Miss Lee needs a detective.”

“Why don’t you go after Smallwood?” cried Peel.

“I’m ’way ahead of you. I’ve already got him tabbed... Put one of our advertising blotters into an envelope and mail it to him.”

“You do it,” said Peel testily. “I’ve got to get my suit pressed between now and seven o’clock.”

The Bulldog and Pussycat was a clubby little place on Sunset Strip that had caught on with the movie crowd a few years ago and did an excellent business. A long, narrow room in front was given over to a long bar that was usually lined three deep during and after the cocktail hour. In the rear was a square room lighted very meagerly with amber-colored lights. It had a semicircle of booths around the sides of the room and a few tables in the center.

Peel arrived at the place a few minutes before seven. He walked through to the dining room and searched the faces of the female patrons, but, not finding Linda Meadows, he retreated and forced his way through to the bar.

“Glass of beer,” he told the bartender.

“Beer chaser,” said the bartender. “What’ll you have with it?”

“Beer!” snapped Peel.

“Just beer?”

“I’m a television sports broadcaster,” Peel said darkly. “I’m not allowed to drink anything but beer.”

The bartender drew a small glass of beer. Peel put a dollar on the bar and the man took it away and brought back a quarter. Peel scowled at the coin, then pocketed it. The bartender gave him a hurt look.

Peel sipped at the beer and thought of Susan Sawyer and Linda Meadows. And Iowa Lee. Mentally he compared the, mmm, the pulchritude of the three. If he hadn’t met the real Linda Meadows he would have been content with the phony one, who was really Susan Sawyer. Linda Meadows... He sighed lightly, but then his thoughts went to Iowa Lee.

Linda Meadows stepped up to him. “Hello,” she said.

A delightful shudder ran through Peel. In the three hours since he’d seen Linda he’d forgotten just how attractive she really was. Or perhaps it was the cocktail dress she was wearing — and the mink stole.

“Hello, baby,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

She noted his eyes on the stole. “I borrowed it. Susan won’t mind.”

“How about a drink?”

“I’d rather not.”

“All right, then let’s eat.”

Peel downed the last of his beer and led the way to the rear of the Bulldog and Pussycat. A waiter seated them at a table. Linda ordered a fruit salad and Peel, noting the prices, contented himself with a breaded veal cutlet.

When the waiter went away, Linda said, “You almost cost me my job this afternoon.”

“What’s the matter with that boss of yours? Never saw a man so jumpy.”

“He said you were trying to blackmail him!”

“You mean he’s done something he can be blackmailed for?”

“I know nothing of Mr. Smallwood’s personal life.” She frowned. “Why did you call on him today?”

“I’ll tell you,” Peel said. “Answer one question and I’ll tell you.”

“What is the question?”

Peel paused for effect, then said deliberately, “Where is Susan Sawyer?”

“But that’s ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “I employed you to tell me that. I paid you good money and—”

“I’ll change the question,” Joe said. “Why did you hire me to find Susan?”

“Because I’m worried about her, that’s why. She’s been gone over a week.”

“How do you know she’s been gone a week?”

“How do I know? Because I haven’t seen her. Her bed hasn’t been slept in.”

“Maybe she’s staying out all night and sleeping during the day.”

Linda Meadows gave Peel a look of contempt. “You’re talking like an imbecile.”

“Maybe,” said Peel, “but the people at the Towers don’t know Susan’s missing.”

She gasped and stared at Peel. “How... how do you know?”

“I telephoned today. I asked for her and the operator said just a moment, she’d see if she was in.”

“And?”

“I hung up. But the very way she said it, casually, automatically, gave me the impression that she assumed Miss Sawyer was still in residence.”

“They wouldn’t know. I haven’t told them.” Linda gave him a sudden, suspicious look. “Have you been at the apartment?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because some queer things are happening there. I... I have a strange feeling that someone searched the place today”

“Anything missing?”

“No.” She hesitated, then added: “Nothing important.”

“Maybe it is important.”

“It’s a trivial thing, a magazine.”

“The maid could have taken that out.”

“I don’t think so. I... I’d hidden it.”

“A magazine?”

The voice of Otis Beagle boomed out. “Joe. Imagine running into you here!”

Peel looked up to see Beagle bearing down on him. In his wake trailed Iowa Lee. Iowa Lee in a beautiful mink wrap and a white evening dress.

Peel pushed back his chair and half rose. “Miss Lee,” he said.

Beagle clapped Peel on the shoulder in boisterous camaraderie. “Join us for dinner, old man.”

Iowa Lee came up. She did not look too pleased to see Joe Peel. And a quick glance at Linda Meadows, on Peel’s part, indicated that Linda did not welcome an addition to the party.

Peel said, “We’ve already ordered.”

“We’ll catch up,” Beagle boomed. He drew out a chair for Iowa Lee, then took the fourth chair. “I guess we’ve got the two best-looking girls in town here,” he cried.

Joe said, “Linda Meadows, Iowa Lee.”

Beagle chuckled. “And I’m Otis Beagle, Linda, the little fellow’s boss. Or did he tell you he was the boss?”

Linda said stiffly, “I believe he intimated you were merely a figurehead.”

“Dummy,” Peel said sourly.

“When the cat’s away, you know,” Beagle said, heartily indulgent. He signaled the waiter. “Luigi, four Martinis.”

“Yes, Mr. Beagle,” beamed the waiter. “Right away, Mr. Beagle.”

“And you know how I like them, Luigi — dry!”

“Of course, Mr. Beagle. Dry.”

“Linda doesn’t drink,” Peel said.

Linda gave him a look of indignation. “Whatever gave you that idea?” To the waiter, “Make mine dry, too.”

“It looks like we’re going to have a brawl,” put in Iowa Lee. She fixed Linda Meadows with a steady look. “Don’t I know you, Miss Meadows?”

“I hardly think so,” Linda replied tartly. “What was the name again?”

“Iowa Lee. And yours is Linda Meadows? It sounds familiar.” Iowa Lee smiled sweetly. “Aren’t you a member of my club?”

“Iowa,” said Peel, “runs the Iowa Lee Lonely Hearts Club.”

Linda sniffed in disdain. “I’m not that hard up for a man!”

Iowa Lee was all ready for the return thrust, but the waiter came with the drinks at that moment. “Are you ready to order now, Mr. Beagle?” he asked.

“I certainly am. My usual, a two-inch steak, medium rare. How about you, Iowa?”

“The same for me,” Iowa said, with spirit.

“Well,” said Peel, “you might as well change my order, then. I’ll have one of those steaks.” He met Beagle’s scowl. “Okay, boss?”

“I’ll have another Martini,” said Linda.

Peel looked at her with interest. “Me, too.” He downed his drink and held out the glass to the waiter.

“Ha-ha,” said Beagle, without humor. “This may be an interesting evening.”

“Quite,” offered Linda. “You said you run a Lonely Hearts club, Miss Lee? What sort of people join such clubs?”

“Lonely men,” replied Iowa Lee. “And girls — very nice girls. Girls like, well, girls like you.”

“I take it,” Linda said pointedly, glancing at Beagle, “that you date the customers, or do you call them club members?”

“Whoa!” cried Otis Beagle. “You’re even-Steven, right now. This is a good time to quit.” He beamed at the two girls. “We don’t want to have a fight, do we?”

“What’s wrong with a fight?” demanded Linda.

“I don’t mind a little fight now and then,” said Iowa Lee.

“It’s too early in the evening.” Beagle held up both hands, palms outward. “We’re going to have fun tonight. Eh, Joe?”

“Sure,” said Peel. “Good clean fun. Linda’s boss is a member of your club, Miss Lee.”

“Not now, Joe!” exclaimed Beagle.

But the damage was already done. Linda turned on Joe Peel, her eyes blazing. “That’s ridiculous. Mr. Smallwood isn’t the type of man who’d—”

“Smallwood?” cut in Iowa Lee. “Thaddeus Smallwood?”

“That’s the lad,” Peel said.

“It so happens that a Thaddeus Smallwood is a member of the club,” said Iowa. “An elderly man of about fifty-eight or — nine, completely bald, except for a fringe of hair around the sides?”

“Mr. Smallwood is forty-eight,” blazed Linda.

“Oh, is that what he tells you?” Iowa Lee smiled sweetly. “But the description fits him, doesn’t it?” She nodded. “Mr. Smallwood is quite a regular attendant of our little get-togethers... Linda Meadows... Mmm, the name is familiar...”

“I’m not a member of your club!” cried Linda.

“Girls!” chided Beagle. “We agreed not to fight.”

Peel reached into his pocket and brought out a folded copy of Heart Throbs. “What I like about this paper,” he said, “are the matrimonial listings...”

“Put that away, Joe,” said Beagle furiously.

“What’s the matter with this?” Peel asked with feigned innocence. “It’s Iowa’s club paper. Listen to this, ‘Attractive young woman, age 25, with $50,000 in cash, wants to correspond with exciting man, 30–40. Object matrimony.’ That’s for me, Iowa. D’you suppose I could get her address?”

“Mr. Peel,” Iowa Lee said, “I told you last night that I didn’t like you, but you grow on a person. Yes, I think I could learn to positively hate you.”

Beagle slammed the table with his open palm. “Ho-ho!” he roared. “Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Joe.”

“Have fun, Otis, have fun,” said Peel. “It’s later than you think.” He looked past Beagle. “Hello, Lieutenant.”

“Lieut...” began Beagle, then whirled.

Lieutenant Becker and Sergeant Fedderson came up to the table.

“Out on the town, Beagle?” asked Becker.

“Is this place on your beat?” Beagle asked thinly.

“Where are you apt to find Pinky this time of the evening?” asked Lieutenant Becker.

“He’s probably having dinner with his friend, the chief of police,” snapped Beagle.

“Oh, then you won’t have any trouble getting him, will you?”

“Another time, Lieutenant, I might find your humor entertaining. But I see the waiter’s bringing my dinner and I don’t want to get indigestion. So, if you don’t mind...”

“Oh, that’s all right, go right ahead and eat. It isn’t you I want. It’s Joey boy!”

“That indigestion stuff goes for me, too,” snapped Peel. “In spades.” He made a flicking gesture. “Go away, Lieutenant, you bother me...”

“Boy, oh boy, oh boy!” chortled Sergeant Fedderson.

Becker tapped Peel on the shoulder. “Come!” He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb.

“You’re carrying this too far,” growled Beagle.

“Maybe Joey’s gone too far,” Becker suggested.

“We covered that last night.”

“This is tonight. You’d better start looking for Pinky, Otis. Come on, Peel.”

Beagle pushed back his chair. “All right, Becker, if you’re looking for trouble...”

Becker gestured to Peel. “Let’s get going.”

“I haven’t had my dinner!” cried Peel.

“Neither has Susan Sawyer,” said Lieutenant Becker. “She’s dead!”

A wail was torn from Linda Meadows. “Oh, no!”

“I’m sorry, Miss Meadows,” said Becker grimly. “Her body was found about two hours ago. I may want to talk to you later. I suggest you go home now.”

Peel ungallantly said, “I’ll go home, too.”

“Uh-uh, not you, Peel. A couple of letters were found in Susan Sawyer’s purse. Letters written by you.”

Peel shot a quick glance at Otis Beagle. The latter got quickly to his feet. “Don’t worry about a thing, Joe, don’t worry about a thing. I’ll get hold of Pinky and you’ll be out of there in a jiffy. And you, Becker, don’t try any of your fancy stuff on Joe.”

“I’d like to have you down at headquarters, Otis,” said Lieutenant Becker, “for just about an hour.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Sergeant Fedderson took Peel’s arm roughly. “On your feet!”

Peel jerked his arm free of Fedderson’s grip. He got to his feet and glowered at Beagle. “Get Pinky!” he said darkly. “Get him quick.”

“Sure, Joe, sure!”

He watched Peel go off with the two detectives, then turned to Iowa Lee and Linda Meadows. The latter, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, pushed back her chair.

“The least I can do,” Beagle offered, “is to take you home.”

“I can find the way myself,” retorted Linda. She turned her back on Beagle and strode off.

Beagle turned back to Iowa Lee with a sigh. “Always something to spoil a man’s dinner.”

Iowa looked at him in surprise. “You’re not going to eat now?”

“Why not? The food’s ordered and I’m hungry.”

“But you promised your assistant that you’d get this Pinky, whoever he is, to do whatever is necessary.”

“That’s right But a half hour more or less isn’t going to make any difference.”

“Mr. Beagle,” Iowa Lee said, “I think you’re a louse!”

Beagle sat down opposite her and grinned...

Forty-five minutes later, Beagle helped Iowa Lee into a taxicab. He started to climb in after her, but she held out a detaining hand.

“Thank you for the dinner, Mr. Beagle.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll take you home—”

“The taxi’ll do that, Mr. Beagle. Thank you — and good night.”

She pulled the door shut in his face. The cab started off, leaving Beagle standing at the curb.

Another taxicab moved into the spot vacated by the first. The driver looked inquiringly at Beagle.

“Cab, mister?”

Beagle got in. “The Sunset Athletic Club.”

But at the Sunset Athletic Club, Beagle learned that Mr. Douglas Devol had not been in that evening. In the lounge, Beagle had a phone brought to him and put in a call to four night clubs, five restaurants and three club members with whom he knew Devol was friendly. None had seen Mr. Devol that evening, none was expecting him.

Finally he put down the phone and stared at a leather armchair opposite him. He knew Lieutenant Becker from old, a fair man, but a policeman. And he knew Joe Peel. The little man was stubborn and hard, but he had a fine temper. And he was too suspicious. In spite of his long term of service with the agency, Joe did not trust Otis. Beagle had never let him down, but Peel was always accusing him of it.

It was only two hours since the police had taken him away. Beagle had spent most of that time in a sincere effort to locate Pinky, but would Peel appreciate that? No, he would...

In desperation Beagle picked up the phone again and dialed Pinky’s unlisted home number. After a moment the voice of Pinky’s man of all work replied, “Mr. Devol’s residence.”

“Justin,” Beagle said, “this is Otis Beagle. It’s a matter of extreme importance that Mr. Devol phone me as soon as he gets in.”

“He can’t do that,” said Justin. “Not when he comes in, ’cause he’s in already.”

“What?” cried Beagle. “It’s only eleven o’clock.”

“Yes, sir, but Mr. Devol spent an evening at home. He’s... he’s sleeping.”

Beagle groaned. “Call him. Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.”

Justin hesitated. “If I wake him it might be my death.”

“You’ve got to call him, Justin,” Otis Beagle said desperately. “Wait. Tell him I’m on the way over. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

He slammed down the phone and rushed out of the club. Outside he got into a cab and gave the driver Pinky Devol’s address. Ten minutes later he entered a luxurious apartment building a block north of Sunset Boulevard. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and pressed the door buzzer.

Justin, a retired middleweight prize fighter, opened the door. He shook his head. “Oh, boy!”

But he let Otis Beagle enter. Beagle strode through a hall into Pinky’s library, a large paneled room filled with books that Pinky had never read.

Pinky Devol, in a handsome dressing gown, came out of a bedroom. He was of middle height, had flaming red hair and a violently pink face which had given him his nickname. He was a tubby, irascible man, who had started out as a lawyer and still had an office somewhere with his name on the doors. But a battery of other attorneys took care of the legal end of things while Pinky spent his full time taking life easy and associating with the “right” people. He was not a politician, but politicians were afraid of him. He held no public office, but he knew all the important officials of the city and county.

He was not in a good mood. “Dammit, Otis,” he cried petulantly. “The first time in four months I spend a night at home, you’ve got to break in.”

“Sorry, old man, you know I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t a matter of the utmost urgency.”

“I’ll bet,” said Pinky skeptically.

“You know that detective agency I run,” began Beagle.

Devol groaned. “License trouble again?”

“Well, no. Not yet. It’s that... that man I’ve got working for me.”

“Peel? Mean-tempered little fellow. What’s he done now?”

“He’s been arrested!”

“Again? Well, teach him a lesson.” Pinky shrugged. “Get yourself a good man next time. Although I can’t for the life of me see why you’ve got to have a detective agency in the first place.”

“Oh, it brings me in a little money now and then. And it’s something to do. A man can’t sit around the club all the time, can he?”

“Get a respectable business then.” Pinky yawned. “I went to bed at nine o’clock. Does a man good once in a while.”

“I won’t be able to sleep tonight,” Beagle said. “Can’t, knowing Peel’s down there being third-degreed.”

“That stuff went out with the old iron helmet,” snorted Pinky. “Do Peel good to spend a few days down there. Why’d they pick him up?”

“Murder...”

“Murder!”

“He’s innocent, of course,” Beagle said quickly. “It... it just looks bad. Peel’s got his faults but he wouldn’t really kill anyone. Not a... a woman.”

Pinky whistled. “A woman? What was it, a drunken brawl?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I believe it had something to do with a case the agency was handling. You read yesterday about this chap Dave Corey who was found up on Mulholland?”

“Hoodlum. Probably in the rackets.”

“He was working a badger game,” Beagle said. “This girl who was killed tonight — Susan Sawyer — she was his partner.”

“Serves ’em right. No use for people like that. One of the victims killed them no doubt. But how does your man, Peel, fit into this?”

“The agency had been retained by one of the victims. I believe Peel wrote some letters to these people, trying to get a line on them. Well, Lieutenant Becker found the letters on the woman.”

“Mmm, Becker’s a good man. The chief was telling me about him a few days ago. There’s a captaincy open and Becker’s up for the job.”

“That’s it!” cried Beagle. “He wants the job, so he’s trying to make himself look good. A juicy case and he breaks it, he’s a cinch for the promotion. That’s why he grabbed Joe.”

“Uh-uh,” Pinky shook his head. “If he makes a mistake his goose is cooked. Becker wouldn’t take a chance, not right now. He must have it on Peel.”

“He hasn’t. I give you my word, Pinky.”

“The chief thinks a lot of Becker,” persisted Pinky. “I happen to know that. If you came here to ask me to get Peel sprung, it’s no dice. If it was anyone but Becker...”

“Becker’s a louse!” cried Beagle, then winced. Someone had called him that earlier in the evening.

“No,” Pinky said doggedly. “I won’t interfere. Not this time.” There was a note of finality in his voice and Beagle turned away. “Good night, Pinky,” he said hopelessly.

“Good night?” cried Pinky. “You expect me to go back to sleep now? I’m wide awake. Come on, we’ll play a little gin.”

He went to a card table on which lay cards and a score pad. Beagle followed and drew out a chair.

“The usual?”

“Five cents a point? Mmm, let’s see, you owe me about twelve fifty now.”

“That’s from bridge.”

“Well, you’re always spouting about what a good gin player you are. All right, I’ll give you a chance to get even. Ten cents a point!”

Beagle winced. “Deal.”

Pinky dealt the cards. Beagle drew one and said, “Gin.”

“No!” howled Pinky.

“You dealt them.”

Beagle dealt the next five hands, winning them all. And giving Pinky Devol a triple blitz, which at ten cents a point figured up to two hundred sixty dollars. Pinky’s face was three shades redder.

“Never saw such luck in my life,” he snarled. “And you ask me to get your two-bit shamus out of jail? Fat chance!”

A shudder ran through Beagle. He dealt the cards once more, looked at his hand and blinked. It was a laydown hand, three kings, three sixes, a three-card run and an ace. He could go down with one point and catch Pinky with a fistful.

“Your play,” he said thickly.

Pinky drew a card and discarded a king. A gin. Otis swallowed hard, drew a card from the pack and discarded a king. Pinky drew, discarded a six. Beagle groaned inwardly, drew from the pack and broke his sixes.

After eight or nine more draws, Pinky went down with eight and caught Beagle with forty-two points.

“That’s better,” he said.

Sparbuck was in his middle forties, a youthful-looking man with iron-gray hair. The district attorney gave him the hard ones and, to Sparbuck’s credit, he usually came through with a conviction. He had political ambitions himself and he felt that he could make a good district attorney if his superior decided to run for a higher office.

Sparbuck left nothing to chance. He wanted convictions. He said to Peel, “You haven’t a leg to stand on, Peel. Your fingerprints were all over the apartment...”

“As well as Corey’s apartment,” Lieutenant Becker put in smugly.

“...And the maid identified you as the man she saw coming out of the girl’s apartment. The man down in the garage identified you — and if that isn’t enough, there are these two letters signed by you that were in the girl’s purse.”

“I’m not talking,” Peel said doggedly. “Not until Otis Beagle gets here.”

“He’s had three hours to find Pinky,” sneered Lieutenant Becker.

The assistant district attorney looked sharply at the homicide lieutenant. “This, ah, Pinky, that wouldn’t happen to be Mr. Douglas Devol, would it?”

“He’s a pal of Otis Beagle’s.”

Sparbuck looked as if he’d swallowed a live mouse. “Is there, ah, a likelihood of Mr. Devol’s interesting himself in this case?”

“There is if Beagle can twist his arm hard enough.” Becker moved forward, his face showing concern. “This Beagle’s the worst kind of a private eye, Mr. Sparbuck. He’s been accused of blackmail, he’s represented both sides of a case and I’ve even suspected him of making cases at times.”

“This’ll sound sweet in court, when you’re up for slander,” Peel said.

“No one could slander Otis Beagle,” retorted Becker. “Whatever they’d say about him would be only half of the truth.”

“It’s one o’clock in the morning,” Peel said irritably. “Let’s get this over with once and for all. Pinky’s probably at home by now. Let’s call him.”

Alarm came over Sparbuck’s features. “I wouldn’t want to wake him up if he’s sleeping.”

“He won’t mind,” said Peel. “Not if it’s a favor for Otis.” He sneered at Lieutenant Becker. “As you put it, they wallow in the same hog wallow.”

“I didn’t say that about Pinky.” Becker swallowed hard. “Otis, yes, he’d bottle the mud from a hog wallow and sell it for... for a love potion.” His lip curled. “Otis Beagle, mixed up in a Lonely Hearts racket!”

“The phone,” Peel prodded Sparbuck.

Sparbuck did not look happy. He hesitated, then finally picked up the phone. “Get me the residence of Mr. Douglas Devol,” he said to the operator. He waited for long moments, while Peel, Lieutenant Becker and Sergeant Fedderson watched. The tension built up, but finally Sparbuck’s face lit up. “Mr. Devol? Oh... I know this is an unreasonable hour, but would you mind asking him to come to the phone? It’s Sparbuck of the district attorney’s office... I see... He’s engaged...”

Peel cried out, “Ask if Otis Beagle’s been in touch with him?”

Sparbuck grimaced, but he asked the question. Then he waited for the answer, frowning. “I see. Very well...”

He hung up. “Beagle’s there now. He’s playing gin rummy with Devol. The man said Devol doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s playing cards.”

For a moment Peel’s jaw went slack. Then he exploded. “He’s playing gin rummy, while I’m in jail! The dirty, double-crossing moose. He knows I’m here.” His voice rose to a yell. “He’s thrown me to the wolves. I’ll fix him for this, I’ll get even, so help me!”

Lieutenant Becker moved forward swiftly. “Here’s your chance, Joe. Talk and I’ll hang Beagle so high no one’ll be able to help him. Not even Pinky Devol.”

“It’s his caper,” cried Joe Peel. “He wrote the letters to the Lonely Hearts Club. He used my name, but he wrote the letters.”

Sparbuck and Lieutenant Becker exchanged triumphant looks. “Why did he write the letters?” Becker asked smoothly. “What was the angle — blackmail?”

But a shred of reason still clung to Joe Peel. He gulped, shot quick looks at the predatory faces of Sparbuck and Becker, caught a glimpse of Sergeant Fedderson’s gloating.

“Huh?” he gulped. “Who said anything about blackmail? I... I, uh, I mean we had a client.”

Becker saw his victory melting away. “There was no client, Joe. Beagle was trying to make a case out of thin air. That’s what it was, wasn’t it?” Then, desperately as he saw Peel cooling off, “He’s thrown you to the wolves, Joe. He’s playing cards while you’re in jail. The fire’s got too hot and he’s polishing up Pinky Devol. He and Pinky’ll be playing cards at the plushy club while they’re leading you to the gas chamber.”

But Becker had overdone it. Otis Beagle was Peel’s only hope. He had to trust the big fellow. Without him he was utterly and completely lost. With his assistance, dubious as it was, there was a chance — a slim chance.

He said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Lieutenant Becker groaned. Mike Fedderson stepped forward, his huge right hand doubled into a fist. “Five minutes, Lieutenant, give me just five minutes alone with him and he’ll talk.”

“Give us five minutes alone,” sneered Peel, “and I’ll cut you down to size and make dog meat of you.”

Sergeant Fedderson let swing, but Lieutenant Becker threw out his own arm and averted the blow...

The office door was pushed open and Charlton Temple entered. He beamed at Otis Beagle. “Mr. Beagle, good morning.”

“Good morning to you, Mr. Temple. Mmm, I don’t believe you’ve met Joe Peel. One of my operators, Mr. Temple.”

Temple gave Peel a curt nod. “I was wondering, Mr. Beagle, if I might have a word with you, a private word.”

“Speak freely, Mr. Temple. Mr. Peel is my very best man. As a matter of fact, he’s been working on your case.”

“Ah!” Temple finally deigned to give Peel his attention. “And what have you found out?”

Peel looked at Beagle. The big man shrugged. “She’s dead.” Peel said bluntly.

“Dead?” echoed Temple.

“Don’t you read the papers?”

Temple stared at Peel a moment, then suddenly his face broke and he inhaled sharply. “That girl last night— I... I thought she looked familiar. But the newspaper said her name was — Sawyer, or something like that.”

“Names,” said Beagle.

“And that ain’t all,” Peel added darkly. “Her husband was knocked off, too.”

“Her husband!” cried Temple. “But I... I am her husband.”

“Then your name must be Dave Corey,” said Peel.

“Corey? You mean the... the gangster who was killed the day before yesterday?”

“Corey and Susan were working the badger game together,” Otis Beagle put in blithely. “Tell him what happened, Joe.”

“The badger game happened, that’s what.”

“You mean they tried it on you?” Charlton Temple asked. “How much did they ask you for?”

Joe Peel suddenly frowned. He looked at Otis Beagle, then inhaled lightly. “Five hundred.”

Beagle took it from there. “Which I’m afraid we’ll have to add onto your bill.”

Temple nodded automatically, then caught himself. “One moment. Corey was found dead the day before yesterday, but I did not engage you until yesterday.” Temple regarded Beagle suspiciously. “What are you trying to pull?”

Beagle discovered phlegm in his throat and cleared it noisily. “Excuse me. Now, what were you saying?”

“I asked you what you’re trying to pull?”

Peel said, through his teeth, “The price of pigeons has gone up!”

“What in the world have pigeons got to do with all this?”

Then Beagle took Peel’s cue and his suaveness was gone. He was big and cold and hard. “Joe means that you hired us for suckers, Temple. You’re a good-for-nothing crook and all you want out of us is to finger your victim for you.”

Charlton Temple took a quick step back so he could face both Beagle and Peel. “Now, let’s not get tough about this.”

“You told me yourself that you and your wife were working the badger game,” snapped Beagle. “Your wife ran out on you and you hired us to find her for you so you could give her what she got—”

“That’s a lie!” screamed Temple. “She was already dead when I came here.”

“And you knew it,” Peel snarled. “You knew it because you’re the bird who knocked her off. But you needed a pigeon to take the rap for you. That’s why you came here yesterday with your fistful of hundred-dollar bills.”

“I didn’t know she was dead!” cried Temple. “I read it in the paper this morning. They said she had been dead twenty-four hours when they found her, which would mean—”

“Precisely,” said Beagle savagely. “She was killed sixteen hours before you came in here...”

“She was a no-good, two-timing...” Temple choked and, shuddering, donned his gentleman’s mask once more. “All right, I don’t give a damn about her. She got what she deserved. But I didn’t kill her. Maybe I would have if I’d caught up with her. But” — he shrugged — “I’ll tell you the truth, Beagle.”

“Think you can?” sneered Peel.

Temple indicated Peel with his thumb. “Are you his boss or does he give you the orders?”

Beagle growled and signaled Peel to desist for the moment. He said, “Shoot, Temple.”

“Just find me Seymour Case, that’s all I ask.”

“Have you looked at the body of Dave Corey?”

“Corey isn’t Case. Case is an older man.”

“How old?” asked Peel.

“He’d be in his late fifties now. The last time I saw him he was pretty bald—”

“How bald?”

“Oh, not altogether. He had a little fringe of hair around the side.” Beagle and Peel exchanged glances. Temple went on, “I can tell you this much. He was a promoter of some kind. Bought and sold oil leases, mining properties...”

“Phony?” asked Beagle.

“Oh, no. At least, not that I know of. He was worth a lot of money.” He grimaced. “I... I checked up on him a little.”

“Then how come you only nicked him for five hundred?”

“Did I say five hundred? It might have been a little more than that.”

“How much more?”

“I don’t see what difference that makes...”

Beagle looked at Charlton Temple with hostile eyes. “Just why do you want to find Seymour Case? And don’t give me that crap about your wanting to make restitution.”

“That’s the truth, so help me...”

Peel made a raucous sound with his mouth. “You wouldn’t know the truth if it came up and bit you.”

Temple became indignant. “See here, I don’t have to take this abuse. I gave you five hundred dollars yesterday to do a job and you haven’t done it. Either you give me back my money or—”

“Or what?” Beagle asked truculently.

“Or else.”

“You and who else?”

“I’ll put it this way,” Temple said thinly. “There’s another five hundred the moment you find Seymour Case.”

Beagle’s eyes became slits. “Five hundred — cash?”

Peel cried out, “You can’t, Otis!”

“Why can’t I?”

“You’ve got to draw the line somewhere. That... that would be murder...”

Beagle grunted and turned his piggish eyes back on Temple. “Just why do you want to find Case?”

“I told you. I want to make restitution.”

“Suppose I made the restitution for you?”

“That won’t do. I want to — to give it to him in person.”

“No, Otis!” yelled Peel.

But Beagle had come to a decision. “This is the easiest five hundred dollars I ever made...”

“You mean you know where I can find Case?”

“Yes.”

“The money,” cried Temple eagerly, “it’s yours the minute I lay eyes on him.”

“Let me see the money.”

Temple edged back. “When I see Seymour Case.”

“You’ll see him. I give you my word.”

Temple lost his patience. “Let’s not go through that pukka sahib routine again. I wouldn’t trust you any farther than I could throw you.”

“You’ve got five hundred in cash?”

Temple tapped his right breast where his wallet reposed in his inside pocket. “The moment I lay eyes on Seymour Case.”

“Joe,” said Beagle, “go with him—”

“What’s the matter with you?” snarled Peel.

“I can’t. You know very well that wouldn’t work.”

“But it’s all right for me to finger a pigeon for a gunsel who’s already knocked off two people?”

“Aren’t you being a little ridiculous?” Temple asked. “Do I look like a gunsel?”

“You know what the word means.”

“Who doesn’t? I tell you no harm will come to Seymour Case...”

“Ah, hell!” exclaimed Peel “Come on, let’s get it over with.”

Beagle held up a cautioning finger. “The five hundred, Joe. Get that from him the moment...” He caught up a pencil and scribbled on a pad. “Here’s the address.”

“I know it,” Peel began, then stopped.

Beagle tore off the slip of paper and handed it to Peel. On it was written, “Stick with S. Don’t let him out of your sight afterwards.”

Peel crumpled up the slip and threw it at Beagle. He jerked his head toward the door. Temple followed him.

Down on the street, Peel signaled a taxicab and he and Temple got in. “Wilshire,” Peel told the cabby. “Wilshire and Doheny.”

As the cab started off Temple relaxed and said casually, “What was on that slip of paper he gave you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” sneered Peel.

“I don’t have to talk if you don’t,” said Temple testily.

Peel settled himself back as far from Temple as possible, folded his arms and stared ahead stonily.

Fifteen minutes later the cab pulled up on the comer of Doheny and Wilshire. Peel got out and stood aside deliberately, his hands in his pockets. Temple paid the meter charge and added a half-dollar tip, but he was not pleased about it.

“Now where?” he asked.

“Follow me.”

Peel started swiftly down Wilshire, with Temple hurrying to keep up with him. They walked a block, crossed a street. Ahead was a tall office building. They were fifty feet from it when Peel stopped. He threw out an arm to halt Temple.

“All right,” he said, “give me the five hundred!”

“What?”

“There’s your man,” Peel said.

Thaddeus Smallwood and Linda Meadows were crossing the sidewalk to a Cadillac convertible that stood at the curb.

Peel said, “The man getting in the car.”

Temple’s eyes were focused on Smallwood and Linda. They were threatening to bulge from his forehead. His mouth was slightly open and as Peel watched, his tongue came out and moistened his lips.

“The dough,” Peel said harshly. “Give it to me.”

Temple actually blinked as he pulled his thoughts together. “That,” he said slowly, “is not Seymour Case.”

Peel grabbed his arm. “Don’t give me that!”

Temple jerked his arm free of Peel’s grip. “I know Seymour Case when I see him — and that isn’t Seymour Case.”

“You’re lying,” snarled Peel.

“I’ve had enough of you,” exclaimed Temple. “And you haven’t heard the last of this. Here — taxi!”

A cab was pulling up and Temple hurried toward it. Peel hesitated. He was of half a mind to pile into the cab after Temple and have it out with him. But while he was debating it, Temple got into the cab.

Peel shot a look ahead. Smallwood and Linda were already in the Cadillac convertible and Smallwood was starting the motor. Across the street, a taxi was parked at the curb. Peel suddenly darted out into Wilshire Boulevard, narrowly dodged a speeding Ford and tore up to the curb.

He whipped open the door, jumped in and pointed across the street.

“Follow the Caddy!”

The cabby exclaimed, “They re headed the wrong way.”

“Make a U-turn.”

“I got a ticket for that only yesterday.”

“I’ll pay the fine,” snapped Peel.

The driver shifted, stepped on the gas pedal and made a screeching U-turn. The taxi roared down the street, a block behind the Cadillac convertible.

“Don’t get too close to them,” Peel cautioned.

“I know how to do this,” retorted the cabby. “I see it in the movies all the time,” He grunted. “Your wife?”

“Girl,” replied Peel.

The Cadillac, with the taxi following, turned north on Doheny and cut across to Sunset Boulevard. Near the end of Sunset Strip, the convertible turned into the parking lot of the Denmark Club, a favorite Hollywood restaurant.

Peel paid off his taxicab a half block away, walked down to the Denmark Club. He thought of staying outside while Smallwood and Linda had their lunch inside, but the odor of ham and eggs assailed his nostrils and he went in.

The dining room was amazingly small for such a popular restaurant, containing not more than twelve or fourteen tables in the main room and a half-dozen smaller, two-place tables in an adjoining barroom.

Peel got a glimpse of Smallwood and Linda in the main room as the proprietress accosted him. “You have a reservation, sir?”

“My secretary phoned,” Peel said. “Peel, P-e-e-l...”

The woman consulted a pad. “There’s no Peel here.”

“Well, how do you like that!” exclaimed Peel. “I’ll fire that girl. And I’m meeting an important client here.”

The woman hesitated. “I can give you a small table in the bar.”

“Well, that’ll do.”

He followed her into the bar, from where he could just glimpse Smallwood by craning his neck to the left. A waiter came up. “Will you have a drink while waiting?”

“Ham and eggs,” said Peel.

“And a drink?”

“Just ham and eggs.”

The waiter shrugged at the peculiarity of customers and went off.

By leaning to the right, Peel managed to watch Smallwood. The promoter was leaning across the table, talking earnestly to Linda in a manner that indicated a typical employer-beautiful secretary relationship.

Peel’s ham and eggs came ten minutes later and he did full justice to them. He was just finishing when a man stopped at the table beside him.

“Mr. Peel!” exclaimed Charlton Temple.

Peel looked up. “So he wasn’t Seymour Case, but you followed him.”

“Oh, no,” replied Temple. “This is as much a surprise to me as it is to you. I eat here frequently.” He pulled out the chair opposite Peel. “Mind if I join you? They’re rather crowded.”

“Give me the five hundred and you can sit down.”

Temple didn’t give Peel the five hundred but he seated himself. “Let’s not talk nonsense, Mr. Peel,” he said pleasantly. “After all, you’re still working for me.”

“Wait a minute,” said Peel. He got up and strode to the side of the bar, where there was a telephone booth. From it he could see both Temple and Thaddeus Smallwood. He dropped a dime into the slot and dialed a number.

The voice of Otis Beagle boomed in his car. “Beagle Detective Agency, Otis Beagle talking.”

“Temple welshed,” Peel said angrily. “He claims Smallwood isn’t Case, but he followed him here to the Denmark Club where Smallwood is having lunch with Linda Meadows.”

“Why, the dirty chiseler!” cried Otis Beagle. “I get my hands on him I’ll squeeze the money out of him.”

“Are we still working for Temple?”

“After he reneged?” Then Beagle cried, “Wait, what made you ask that?”

“Because he brought it up. He’s sitting outside the booth now, watching Smallwood and — now he’s looking at me.”

Beagle groaned. “I don’t like it, Joe. We’ve been retained by Smallwood to... to protect him.”

“What do you mean, protect?”

“He’s afraid somebody’s going to do something to him. I guess murder comes under that heading, so you’d better string Temple along. You’ve got to watch Smallwood.”

“I just had a four-dollar lunch watching him,” Peel snapped. “You’ll find it on the expense account.”

He slammed the receiver on the hook and stepped out of the phone booth. Temple looked at him inquiringly.

“I’m to string you along.”

“You have a sense of humor, Mr. Peel. Although it’s a little hard to understand at times.”

“Beagle’s the lad with the sense of humor,” Peel retorted. “He laughed himself silly when I told him you’d welshed on the five hundred. Beagle doesn’t think any more of five hundred dollars than the average person does of sitting on an atom bomb.”

“Droll,” said Temple. “Very droll.”

In the main dining room, Thaddeus Smallwood got to his feet and drew back Linda Meadows’ chair so she could rise. Peel whirled, signaled to his waiter.

“My check — quick!”

“Oh, that’s all right, I’ll take care of it,” said Charlton Temple.

“What?” Peel shot a quick glance into the other room. “Aren’t you going to follow them?”

“I haven’t had my lunch. Run along, Mr. Pee!”

Peel looked sharply at Temple a moment, while Smallwood and Linda left. Then he strode to the door. Through the triangular window he watched the attendant bring out Smallwood’s car. As they climbed in and drove out of the parking lot, Peel whipped open the door and followed.

He darted out to the sidewalk and exclaimed in relief as he saw a taxicab parked only fifty feet away. He ran to it, got in.

“Follow the Cadillac!”

The driver shrugged and started the taxi.

Smallwood’s car rolled easily to Doheny and turned south to Wilshire. Ten minutes later, the Cadillac drew up before the office building on Wilshire. Peel fished out some bills, was about to pay the fare, when he exclaimed. Linda Meadows had got out of the car but Smallwood remained at the wheel. He waved jauntily to Linda, then took off again.

“Keep following,” Peel cried.

The driver muttered, “Keep following.”

Smallwood drove to Highland Avenue, then turned left. As he crossed Hollywood Boulevard, the meter of Peel’s cab clicked to four dollars and the driver shot an uneasy glance at it.

“Keep following,” said Peel.

The man shrugged and closed up to within a half block as Smallwood’s Cadillac picked up speed after crossing Franklin. When it turned into Cahuenga Pass he looked over his shoulder.

“Keep following?”

“I’ll tell you when to stop.”

When they turned into Ventura Boulevard, the meter passed the six-dollar mark. In Encino it read eight dollars and the driver kept shooting sullen glances at it. In Callabasas he suddenly drew up to the side of the road.

“Ten bucks!” he cried. “It’ll cost me two dollars in gas to get back.”

“I’ll pay for the gas,” snapped Peel.

“I’ll take it now,” retorted the cabby. “I’m not running up any twenty-dollar meter then finding out you can’t pay for it.”

Peel whisked out a fistful of bills, sorted out a twenty and thrust it at the driver. “Keep following!”

“Keep following!” cried the cabdriver and sent his cab shooting forward.

They were now on the divided highway without any stops and the Cadillac was almost out of sight. The cabby pressed his foot to the floor and the taxicab vibrated as the motor roared to its limit. They began to gain on the Cadillac again and were within comfortable distance when they zoomed along the outskirts of Agoura.

“Take a look behind you,” the taxicab driver called out suddenly.

Peel twisted in the seat. A hundred yards behind was a green Ford.

“It isn’t a cop.”

“I know it isn’t, but watch...”

The driver took his foot off the gas and the taxi slowed to a mere thirty miles per hour. The green Ford slackened speed. After a moment the cabby gave his car the gas. The Ford behind quickened.

“They been doin’ that since we left Hollywood,” exclaimed the cabdriver. “They stopped when we did. We re following the Caddy, but the Fords following us.”

“Be damned,” Peel said, under his breath. “Close in on the Cadillac.”

And at that moment the Cadillac suddenly braked and swung off the highway onto a narrow paved road. The taxi brakes squealed and tires screeched as the cab followed.

Peel whirled, kept his eyes on the rear window. Behind them the green Ford also turned.

“See what I mean?” cried the cabdriver. “I’m a hackie, remember. I drive the car, that’s all. If there’s a fight, I’m neutral.” Then he began to brake his machine.

Ahead, a hundred yards, the Cadillac had turned left on a dirt road.

“Keep following,” snapped Peel.

“It’s your funeral!”

The cab turned into the dirt road, crested a small rise and coasted to a halt a dozen yards behind the Cadillac. The big convertible had halted at the edge of an open field in which a picnic of some sort was going on.

Smallwood climbed out of his car and started across the field toward a long table that had been set up under a live oak tree. A woman saw him coming and moved forward to meet him.

Peel looked past Smallwood at the woman. It was Iowa Lee.

“I’m a monkey’s uncle!” he muttered.

“What’d you say?” asked the cabdriver.

Peel turned, looked through the rear window. The green Ford was pulling up twenty yards away. Peel opened the cab door and stepped out.

“The meter reads sixteen bucks,” the cabby said.

“Wait and you’ll get another sixteen bucks for taking me back to town.”

The driver hesitated. He looked back toward the green Ford, then at the picnic grove. “It’s a picnic,” Peel said.

“How long you figure on stayin’?”

“Maybe five minutes, maybe an hour.”

“And you’ll pay the meter all the way back?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

The taxicab man sighed. “I’ll wait.”

Peel shot another look at the green Ford. Two men had climbed out, but they stood beside the little car, talking. Peel drew a deep breath and started out across the field.

Iowa Lee saw him coming. She said a word to Smallwood and started toward Peel, but then Smallwood turned. He saw Peel and cried out:

“You... you’re the man who...”

“Harya,” Peel said casually.

“What are you doing here?” Iowa Lee demanded.

In his advance toward Iowa, Peel had looked past her and noted three or four faces that he had seen before. He said, “This is a club picnic, isn’t it?”

“It is, but it’s for members only.”

“But I’m a member,” Peel said. “You’ve had me on the books for quite a while.”

Smallwood was trying desperately to control himself. “Iowa, I must speak to you. About this man...”

“You’ve met him?”

“If you want to call it that. He came to my office yesterday and...” He grimaced and his face darkened two shades. “I must talk to you about him.”

“You got me wrong, mister,” Peel said easily. “I work for Otis Beagle.”

Smallwood took a quick step back. “What’s that you say?”

“Beagle. B-e-a...”

“He’s a private detective,” Iowa Lee offered helpfully.

Smallwood stood suddenly as though he were turning to stone. Then suddenly a violent shudder shook him. “I... I don’t understand. You’re the man who came to my office yesterday and...”

Peel stepped forward and clapped Smallwood on the shoulder. “Don’t try to understand it, pal. That’s the way us detectives work. We’re on the job — always. Relax. You haven’t got a thing to worry about, Smallwood. Not as long as I’m on the job.”

“I think,” Iowa Lee said, “I would like to have a little talk with you, Mr. Peel.”

“Sure, baby.”

He winked at the still flabbergasted Smallwood and followed Iowa Lee about twenty yards to the left. Iowa stopped then and her eyes glinted as she faced Peel.

“Just what are you and that employer of yours up to?”

Peel looked at her innocent-eyed. “We’re doing the job we’re being paid for. You hired the agency this morning and—”

“Now wait a minute,” Iowa said grimly. “I employed your agency to keep it out of my affairs. That was the understanding I had with Mr. Beagle.”

“That isn’t what he told me,” Peel protested. “He said we’d been retained to look after your interests. You were worried about the club getting involved in the murder of—”

“Don’t!” cried Iowa. “Don’t say it. Neither Susan Sawyer nor David Corey was a member of my club.”

Peel grinned. “Not if you say they weren’t.”

“They weren’t!”

“All right, baby, all right. Relax. You haven’t got a thing to worry about.”

“I’m beginning to think that I’ve got a lot to worry about.” Iowa gestured toward Thaddeus Smallwood. “You’re also working for Mr. Smallwood. Why?”

“Uh-uh,” Peel said, shaking his head. “We’re like lawyers, we can’t tell one client another client’s business.”

“I see. And aren’t private detectives — like lawyers — forbidden from representing two clients in the same case?”

Peel grimaced. “Not the same case.”

“Smallwood’s involved in the Susan Sawyer-David Corey mess, isn’t he?”

“But you’re not!” Peel shot at her. Then he chuckled. “See? Your interests don’t conflict, so it’s perfectly all right.”

Iowa Lee hesitated. She was not appeased, but didn’t know how far to press Peel. And while she was debating the matter, a woman’s voice shrieked:

“Joey!”

Peel whirled. “Oh, no!”

Rushing toward him, waving and squealing in delight, was the Lonely Hearts Club member from Minnesota, Miss Ruth Higgins.

She came forward and before Peel could throw up his guard she threw both arms about him. “Joey, boy!” she bleated. “They told me you changed your mind about joining the club, but here you are and am I glad to see you!” She gave Peel another bear hug, then released him.

Peel swallowed hard. “Harya?”

Miss Higgins grabbed Peels hand. “Come on, they’re just choosing up sides for the ball game.”

“Baseball?” exclaimed Peel. He shot a look past Iowa Lee toward the center of the field where the picnickers had gathered in a solid clump. “Aren’t some of these people a little old for games?”

“Silly,” cackled Ruth Higgins. “No Lonely Hearts Club member is old. You’re only as old as you feel, isn’t that right, Iowa darling?”

“Of course it is.” Iowa Lee smiled maliciously at Peel. “It’s only softball, Mr. Peel. Of course, if the game’s too strenuous for you...”

Ruth Higgins grabbed Peel’s biceps. “Too strenuous for Joey? With that muscle. Come on...”

She tugged at Peel’s arm. Peel followed.

They joined the excited knot of club members. An oldster of about sixty and a hefty lass in her mid-fifties were apparently the self-appointed captains. Ruth Higgins screamed at the female captain.

“Pick Joey for our side!”

“Look,” said Peel indignantly, “I wear pants.”

“So what?” retorted Ruth Higgins. “We need a good man or two on our team.”

“Aren’t the men playing the women?”

“Don’t be silly. It’s more fun with a mixed team. How about it, Dorothy, is Joey boy on our team?”

The stout feminine captain sized up Peel. “Can you play first base?”

“I’d rather pitch,” said Peel sourly.

“I’m the pitcher.” Dorothy tapped Peel on the chest with a meaty palm. “You play first base.” She waved to the crowd. “Let’s start the old ball game.”

A coin was tossed and Dorothy, the self-appointed captain, decided that her team would take the field.

Peel, trotting to first base, looked around at the players in their positions. The catcher was a decrepit-looking man of about sixty, who was going to catch the softball with his bare hands.

Ruth Higgins was playing second. Another woman of about forty was at shortstop and at third was a man almost completely bald. The fielders consisted of one old man and two women who could barely waddle around.

He looked toward home plate where the opposing team had congregated. If anything, they looked even worse than the team on which Peel was going to play.

It was now discovered that there was no umpire. Iowa Lee promptly volunteered her services for the job, but someone who had once seen a baseball game declared that an umpire was required for the bases.

There was a big hassle over this for a few minutes, then Peel, blinking, saw a man trotting out to first base. It was one of the two men who had followed his taxicab in the green Ford. The other man was walking toward third base.

The man came up to Peel, grinning wickedly. “Some fun!”

“You a member of this club?” Peel asked.

The man put his tongue in his cheek. “Mmm,” he said. He was thirty, a chunky man about five feet ten in height, who looked as if he could tear telephone directories to shreds.

“Play ball!” someone yelled.

Dorothy wound up the softball, pitched it underhanded in the direction of home plate. It missed by about twelve feet. She pitched the ball three times more and Iowa Lee gestured toward first base. The batter, a man of fifty or so, came trotting toward first base, which was a block of wood.

The next player, a woman, actually hit the ball. It bobbled toward second base, bumped against Ruth Higgins’ shins and rolled off toward first base. Peel rushed out, got the ball, but was too late to put out the batter. He threw the ball to Ruth, who missed it and both players advanced on the bases.

“Boy, oh, boy!” chuckled the umpire. “What is this, the old folks’ home having a picnic?”

Peel gave him a dirty look. “It’s the Iowa Lee Lonely Hearts Club.”

“Lonely hearts? These old bags!” Then the umpire looked toward home plate. “But I could go for the dish behind home plate.”

“She’s mine,” retorted Peel.

“Oh, yeah?”

The third player was walked on four pitched balls and the bases were loaded. Joe Peel looked at the man on first base. “Take a good lead off,” he suggested. “I see a hit coming.”

The baseman obediently took a twenty-foot lead toward second base and Peel suddenly waved to the pitcher. “Let’s have it!”

Dorothy threw the ball, missing first base by twenty feet. Peel had to chase the ball more than fifty feet. When he got it the player on third base had gone home, the second base player was wobbling toward third, but the player on first, with the big lead-off, was standing, uncertain as to what to do, between first and second base.

Peel threw the ball directly at Ruth Higgins. It hit her outstretched hands, bounced over her head and went out toward center field.

When the ball was finally retrieved, the bases were cleared, the umpires having allowed the base runner to “steal” home from first base.

Then Dorothy, surprisingly, struck out the next two batters. Her throws were all wild, but the batters foolishly swung on them.

The next player stepped up to the plate. He was an enormously fat man. Peel looked at him and shook his head. It was Mortimer Brown, the rabbit raiser of Sherman Way, who had been a victim of the badger game.

Dorothy pitched. Brown swung and the ball wobbled toward first base. Peel ran forward, scooped up the ball and waited for Brown to come toward him. He tagged him with the ball.

“Thought you were through with the Lonely Hearts?” Peel exclaimed.

Brown grimaced. “What’re you doing here?”

“Playing first and you’re out.”

“Think you’re smart, don’t you?”

“Nope,” said Peel. “Just curious. Thought you’d learned your lesson.”

“A man’s got to have some fun. Can’t be with rabbits all the time.”

“Mmm,” said Peel.

Brown waddled away from him, toward third base, which position he was apparently going to play for his team.

As captain, Dorothy elected to be the first at bat. She was walked by the pitcher, the captain of the opposing team, who pitched as badly as did Dorothy.

Ruth Higgins grabbed up a bat and took her turn at the plate. She was struck by a pitched ball and went to first, advancing Dorothy to second.

Peel caught up the bat, but it was snatched from his hand by a woman in her forties, who weighed about one eighty, although she stood only about five feet two in high-heeled shoes. She took a mighty swing at the first pitched ball, hit it and the ball flew at the pitcher and struck him in the face. By the time he recovered and picked up the ball the plump batter had wobbled to first base.

And no one disputed Peel’s possession of the bat.

The pitcher tossed the ball and it struck the earth ten feet in front of Peel. It bounced and Peel, letting the bail go, realized he should have struck at it on the bounce.

“Str-ike!” called out Iowa Lee.

Peel turned. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“The ball hit the ground ten feet in front of me.”

“The bounce was right across the plate.”

“You can’t call a bouncing ball a strike.”

“Who says I cant? I’m the umpire.”

The pitcher, with Peel’s back turned to him, threw the ball. It grazed Peel’s ankle on the second bounce.

“Strike two!” cried Iowa Lee.

“What the hell!” howled Peel.

“Mr. Peel,” Iowa Lee said severely, “profanity is one thing this club does not permit. Our members are ladies and gentlemen, at all times.”

“Since when is ‘hell’ profanity?” demanded Peel.

“Use that word once more and I’ll expel you from the club.”

Peel glowered at her, then turned back to face the pitcher — just in time, for that worthy was attempting to sneak a third strike past Peel. Peel swung at the bouncing ball and connected. It flew over the first baseman’s head, bounced toward a clump of trees beyond.

Peel ran toward first base, intending to round it to second. He found the base umpire blocking him.

“No, you don’t!” he said. “Rule of the game is you got to find the ball if you knock it into the woods.”

“Cut it out!” snarled Peel. He tried to duck past the man, but the umpire ducked with him.

“Find it or I call you out!”

Peel stopped. The umpire reached into his pocket, showed Peel the butt of a revolver. “And by out, I mean this,” he said.

“Be damned.”

The umpire pointed toward the little grove. “The ball!”

The first baseman stood watching Peel and the umpire, making no move to search for the ball. Muttering under his breath, Peel trotted toward the woods, the umpire following closely.

Peel entered the woods and the gun-toting umpire closed in on him. “Never mind the damn ball,” he said. “Keep moving.” He brought out his revolver and gestured with it. Peel continued on through the woods, the gun-toter crowding him. “Faster!” Peel started running. He broke out of the woods, found that he was heading toward the road where the cars were parked.

Off to the right, the ball game had come to a halt. The players were evidently waiting for him and the umpire to find the ball. No one seemed to have seen them come out of the woods. No on, but the third-base umpire who was also trotting toward the road.

They reached the green Ford. “In you go!” cried the gunman.

The taxicab driver, seeing the second umpire run past him, craned his neck and saw Peel climbing into the green Ford. He piled out of his car.

“Hey, you told me to wait!” he yelled.

The second umpire pounded up to the green Ford, piled into the rear compartment beside Peel, also producing a gun. The first man was already starting the motor in front The cabdriver bounced up.

“You told me to wait!” he howled.

“Sucker!” sneered Joe Peel.

“Get moving, Willie,” snapped the man beside Peel. The motor came to life, the car made a quick U-turn in the narrow road and bounced off. It turned into the secondary paved road beyond the hill.

Willie, the driver of the car, shot a look over his shoulder. “Wonder if they found the ball?”

The man beside Peel, who was even bigger than Willie, chuckled. “The fellas’ll never believe this.”

“You mean the boys up at San Quentin?” asked Peel.

The man beside him gave him a dirty look. “A wise guy, huh?”

“Just a dumb cluck,” replied Peel in disgust. “I should have known when Temple was in no hurry to leave the Denmark that he had somebody ready to pick me up.”

“Temple? Who’s Temple?”

“The lad who hired you boys for this caper.”

“Oh, him,” said Willie.

He swung the car out onto Highway 101, turning back toward the city.

“Look, mister,” said the man beside Peel, “this is a job of work, that’s all. We get paid for a job and we do it. There’s nothing personal to it. You got your job and we got ours.”

“What’s the price these days for knocking off a guy?”

“Huh?” The man beside Peel looked toward his buddy in front. “Get a load of this guy, he thinks we’re hoods.”

“Relax, chum,” said the thug in front. “We ain’t goin’ to knock you off. That’s murder and we ain’t getting paid that kinda dough.”

“What are you getting paid for?”

“You’ll find out. Now shut up, I gotta watch the road.”

They were clearing Agoura and the driver slackened his speed. Suddenly he swung across the road to the left, onto a paved road, which seemed to lead into the residential section of the tiny hamlet.

But after one block he made a left turn. The pavement expired in front of a gate. The road, two ruts in the earth, continued beyond the gate, running over the crest of a low hill. Willie stopped the car, got out and opened the gate. He returned, drove through the gate and stopped the car once more.

“They don’t like you to leave the gates open,” he explained.

He got out, closed the gate, then climbed back into the car.

The car continued on for a mile or so, the road winding and twisting as it followed the paths of least resistance. They came then to a second gate and again Willie went through the opening and closing procedure. The road continued now through a mile or more of a barley field, ran for another half mile along the side of a dry wash, then cut through a second barley field and came up to a third gate.

After passing the third gate, the road led up a rather steep hill, then dipped into a small valley. In the center of it stood a huge, unpainted barn and what Peel thought at first was a stately farmhouse. But as they neared he saw that the house was a mere front.

“The movie people use this,” the man beside Peel exclaimed. “The house is a phony, but the barn’s real — what there is of it.”

Willie stopped the car under a huge live oak. “End of the fine.”

They got out of the car. Willie looked at Peel and chuckled. “You can yell all you like. The main highway’s over there, behind the hills, but it’s two miles away and you couldn’t hear a cannon fired over here. There ain’t a house in three miles.” He paused. “How long before he’ll be here?”

The second man shook his head. “Ought to be here any minute.” He nodded toward the barn. “It’s cooler in there.”

“I like it better out here,” Peel said promptly.

The two men looked at him in disgust. Willie pointed his revolver at Peel. “You misunderstood us, chum. We don’t kill people, but that don’t mean we don’t put a slug into them now and then, like in the kneecap, maybe.”

Peel started quickly toward the barn. Willie chuckled. “A softie, Freddie.”

“Oh, well,” said Freddie, “we get the same money, soft or tough.”

Peel entered the barn. A pile of moldering hay was at the far side, but outside of that the barn was completely empty. It smelled, however, of horses which had apparently been stabled here in the recent past.

“To the right, laddie,” called out Willie.

Peel turned to the right and stopped before an open door that led into a room.

“In you go!”

He entered the little room. Willie and Freddie crowded in after him. The room was furnished with a cot on which was spread a khaki blanket, a chair and a small rough table. Burlap sacking hung over a window.

The door had oiled hinges and a bolt on the inside. A lock hung from a hasp on the outside.

“Sit down,” Freddie invited, pointing to the cot.

“No, wait a minute,” said Willie. He put away his gun and stepped up to Peel. “This is extra.”

He thrust his hand into Peels right trouser pocket. Brought out a couple of keys and a laundry bill. He threw them to the floor, tried the left pocket and came out with a fistful of bills and small change.

“Jeez!” he cried. “Look at this!”

“Hundreds!” yelped Freddie.

They counted out Peel’s money. “Two hundred and fourteen bucks and seventy-five cents,” exulted Willie.

“A hundred and seven for each of us.”

“That’s more’n we’re getting for the job. Mister, you a banker?”

“I work for that money,” snarled Peel.

“So do we,” snapped Willie. “You think our line is easy?” He turned to Freddie. “Let’s toss for the odd seventy-five cents.”

“I got a better idea,” said Freddie. He brought out a pair of dice. “High roll gets it.”

He handed the dice to Willie. Willie shook them up, then rolled them out on the floor. They came up eight. Freddie rolled a ten and took the seventy-five cents. Then he looked at Willie. “We got some time to kill. How about it?”

Willie dropped two dollars from the roll he had taken as his share of Peel’s loot. “Fade that.”

Freddie dropped two bills and handed the dice to Willie. The latter rolled them up.

“Snake eyes.” cried Freddie.

Willie swore roundly. “Shoot a fin.” He threw down a five-dollar bill. It was faded and Willie rolled out an ace-deuce. He let out a howl. “What’s the matter with these dice of yours?” He threw down the hundred-dollar bill. “Shoot ten of this!”

“Roll ’em out,” said Freddie.

Willie made a ten, then sevened out and kicked the dice across the little room. Freddie retrieved them. “Shoot out the ten?”

“Go ahead,” snarled Willie.

“You fellows are having a lot of fun with my money,” said Peel. “The least you could do is let me in on the game.”

“With what?” sneered Freddie. “We already got your money.” He threw out the dice and they came up seven. “Shoot the twenty?” he asked Willie.

“Shoot and be damned!”

Freddie rattled the dice in his fist and threw them out. Six-five. Willie let out a scream. “That’s forty in the bill. Shake them up this time and roll them out.”

Peel looked thoughtfully at Willie’s right coat pocket. It was sagging from the weight of the gun. He edged a step closer.

“Coming for the eighty,” Freddie sang out. He gave the dice a mighty rattle, rolled them out. Four-three.

Willie screamed and Peel lunged forward and thrust his hand into Willie’s coat pocket. He got his hand on the gun, had it half out, when Willie caught his wrist, jerked out Peel’s hand from his pocket and, stooping, threw Peel over his shoulder.

Peel landed heavily on his back, the breath knocked out of him. Willie stooped, grabbed a handful of coat front and pulled Peel to his feet. He smashed his fist into Peel’s face.

“Try to pull a fast one, will you, you weasel?”

Peel crashed against the wall on the far side of the room, slid to a sitting position. Willie started across the room to Peel, but Freddie stopped him. “I’m eighty in the piece. Shoot out the other twenty?”

Willie stopped, glared at Peel, then down at the hundred-dollar bill on the floor. “Shoot!”

Freddie grinned wickedly, threw a four. “You want to lay the odds?” he asked.

Willie cursed roundly, then reached into his pocket. “I got seven bucks of my own money. I’ll lay it against five.”

“You’re on,” said Freddie and promptly threw a pair of deuces.

Willie let out a wail, then recovered. “I’m getting a hundred for this job.”

“Uh-uh, cash, no credit.”

“We get the money as soon as the boss gets here.”

“Then we’ll play.”

Willie was about to argue further, but the humming of an automobile motor came over. He sprang to the window. “He’s here now.”

“You wait here,” said Freddie and left the room. Peel picked himself up from the floor. Willie looked at him impassively. “Sorry I lost my temper,” he said. “We got a job to do and it makes me mad when somebody tries to make it tough.”

Peel made no reply. He crossed to the cot, sat down, took out a handkerchief, and dabbed at his face. Then he heard steps out in the barn and Freddie reentered. He was followed by Charlton Temple.

“Mr. Peel,” said Temple smoothly, “how are you?”

“Lousy,” snapped Peel.

“Still irascible, eh?” Temple shook his head. “All this could have been avoided if you’d played ball with me this morning.”

He crossed to the chair and seated himself, crossed his legs. “Well, shall we get on with it?”

“The man I pointed out to you is Seymour Case,” Peel said sullenly.

“Of course he is,” declared Temple. “But that isn’t the point I want to discuss right now.” He sighed lightly. “Shall we begin at the beginning?”

“What beginning?”

“This morning you said that the girl who called herself Susan Sawyer and her accomplice, one David Corey, shook you down for five hundred dollars. That wasn’t the truth, was it?”

“Who says it wasn’t?”

“Please, Mr. Peel, I trust you won’t be unreasonable. You work for a private detective agency. If you did call on the beautiful Miss Sawyer it wasn’t because of romantic reasons. Was it, Mr. Peel?”

“I’m only an employee,” snapped Peel. “Ask Otis Beagle. He’s the man I work for.”

“A scoundrel, Mr. Peel, an unmitigated scoundrel. You cannot believe a word he says. That’s why I’m asking you.” He hesitated. “I’m asking you nice.”

“I’m not in a nice mood,” Peel said. “Your strong-arm boys robbed me of every nickel I had in the world.”

Temple looked at Willie and Freddie. “Is that true?”

“What’s wrong with that?” demanded Freddie.

“Is it customary?”

“It is,” replied Willie firmly. “And before we go any further, you haven’t paid us yet. We’ve done the job and we want our money.”

Temple shook his head. “I’ll pay you when we get through with the job.”

“We done the job,” said Willie. “We snatched the guy for you and here he is. He’s your responsibility now.”

Temple looked from Willie to Freddie. “I see.” He reached into his breast pocket and took out his wallet. Holding it high he extracted two hundred-dollar bills. He handed one each to Willie and Freddie.

“Okay, mister,” said Willie, “he’s all yours.”

Temple rose in alarm. “You’re not going to leave me here with him alone?”

“The deal was to snatch him for you, that’s all,” said Willie. “Anything else we do is extra.”

“Mannie will hear of this,” Temple said bitterly.

“Mannie’s a businessman,” retorted Freddie. “He said it was a small, easy snatch job, nothing else. That’s what we agreed to do and we done it.”

“But you can’t quit now. I... I don’t carry a revolver. Besides” — Temple frowned — “I... I think I may need you to make him talk.”

“Now, that,” said Willie, “is a horse with other feathers. A snatch job is one thing, rough stuff is another. Fifty bucks extra apiece, and we make him talk. We make him say anything you want him to say.”

“You work too cheap,” cried Peel.

Temple extracted two fifty-dollar bills and paid them out to Willie and Freddie. Freddie promptly slapped Peel with the palm of his hand, not a savage blow, but hard enough to sting.

“Tell the man what he wants to know,” Freddie said.

Willie brushed Freddie aside and hit Peel a hard blow in the stomach with his fist. “Just a sample,” he said.

Peel, gasping in agony, cried, “Ask the questions.”

Temple nodded pleasantly. “That’s better. Now — why did you call on Susan Sawyer in the first place?”

“Beagle’s idea,” Peel said quickly. “He joined the Lonely Hearts Club and answered Susan’s ad in the club paper.”

“I don’t believe that,” said Temple, frowning. “Beagle’s not the type of man who would have to join a Lonely Hearts Club...”

“But he did!” exclaimed Peel.

Temple gestured to the two thugs. Peel leaped back. “Wait a minute,” he cried desperately. “I’ll tell you the whole thing. Beagle joined the club, but not to... to meet women. The agency hadn’t had a client in a month and Beagle... well, Beagle joined the club for that reason. He... he thought he could get a client.”

“How? How could he get a client just by joining a club? He’d have to know that someone wanted a detective.”

“No, he wouldn’t. You don’t know Beagle. He... he makes clients. He figured that people who joined outfits like the Lonely Hearts Club had guilty consciences, then he’d begin to work on them — make anonymous phone calls, shadow them and let them see that they were being shadowed. Stuff like that.”

“Hey,” exclaimed Willie, “that’s interesting. This Beagle must be quite a lad.”

“He is,” said Charlton Temple. But he still frowned. “But that still doesn’t explain how he happened to stumble onto Susan Sawyer. There are hundreds of ads in that club paper, Heart Throbs. Unless he wrote to every single advertiser he’d hardly stumble onto Susan’s ad—”

“Have you read her ad?” asked Peel. “ ‘Beautiful girl, worth $50,000, wants to meet exciting man.’ An ad like that was a natural for Beagle. It sounded phony to him and Beagle was looking for a phony.”

“Mmm,” said Temple. “You have something there.” He nodded. “Susan answered his letter and then you went to see her. Why you?”

“That’s the way Beagle operates. He does the scheming and I do the dirty work. I was supposed to soften up Susan and then Beagle would follow through and sell her a bill of goods. Only... well, it didn’t work. I’d hardly got in to see Susan when Dave Corey broke in. He clipped me one and when I came to, well, he was on the floor, dead.”

“His body was found on Mulholland Drive!”

“Sure, after I left, the... the murderer took him out there and dumped him.” Peel looked steadily at Charlton Temple. “Isn’t that what you did?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” cried Temple. “I did not kill him. Would I be here asking you questions if I had?”

“Would you have gone to Beagles office, if you hadn’t?” Peel shot at him. “In fact, how would you ever have heard of Otis Beagle?”

Temple was suddenly disconcerted. “I... I found his name in the phone directory.”

“There are twenty detectives listed in the phone directory. You didn’t pick Beagle by accident...”

“Now, wait a minute,” exclaimed Temple. “I’m asking the questions, not you.”

“All right, I’ll give you the answers. Otis Beagle didn’t get an answer from Susan Sawyer. He got it from Linda Meadows.”

Temple crossed to the cot and seated himself. For a moment he looked steadily at Peel, then he nodded slowly.

“Go ahead.”

“That’s all. Susan Sawyer was using her roommate’s name in her little racket.” He paused. “Or was she?”

“This David Corey,” said Temple. “He had an apartment on the floor above that of the two girls?”

“Sure,” said Peel. “He had to be handy... Isn’t that the way you used to work it?”

Temple smiled thinly. “Something like that. Since you brought up the name of Linda Meadows, what do you know about her?”

“I know she was Susan’s roommate and I know she’s the secretary of Seymour Case, who uses the name of Thaddeus Smallwood.”

“And that’s all you know about her?”

Peel hesitated. “Yeah.”

Temple frowned. “We decided that you would talk freely, didn’t we?”

“I’m talking.”

“But not enough.” Temple looked pointedly at Willie.

Peel said irascibly, “Linda came to the agency. She wanted us to find Susan Sawyer. Said Susan disappeared a week ago and she hadn’t seen her since.”

Temple cocked his head to one side and looked skeptically at Joe Peel. “But you said you’d talked to Susan at the apartment only the day before yesterday.”

“I’m just telling you what Linda said to me. Susan was never missing.”

“Then why should Linda employ your agency — I take it she did that — to find her?”

Peel shrugged. “Clients never tell us the truth. Like you. You handed Beagle a lot of pap, too, about wanting to make restitution to Seymour Case.” He grunted. “What you probably want to do is shake him down all over again.”

“We won’t go into that. You said this Linda Meadows hired you to find Susan. Yet you say Susan was never missing. Why, then, did Linda come to you?”

“I told you she lied to me. I don’t know her real reason.”

“What is her connection with the man who calls himself Smallwood?”

“You saw them together today. Draw your own conclusions.”

“I have. I wondered what yours were.”

“They’re clients. I don’t—”

“They?” Temple said sharply. “They are clients?”

Peel swore under his breath. “Linda hired the agency—”

“You said They!”

Peel shot a quick look at Willie. “A slip of the tongue.”

“No, it wasn’t. There was that business between you and Beagle this morning, when he wanted you to point out Smallwood to me and you didn’t want to. Then he wrote a note to you.” He made a shrewd guess. “Asking you to act as Smallwood’s bodyguard?”

Peel exhaled heavily. “Smallwood hired the agency yesterday. He was afraid someone was going to do something to him.”

“That’s better.” Temple nodded thoughtfully, then suddenly exclaimed, “You said your employer, Beagle, has a penchant for making cases. I take it, then, he told Smallwood about me.”

“No,” Peel said promptly. “I’m sure he didn’t. Beagle’s as honest as the next guy — when he isn’t hard up. But he wasn’t hard up today. He already had a client — two of them, in fact You and Linda.”

Temple was becoming unhappier by the moment He sighed and said, “We keep coming back to Linda Meadows. Has it occurred to you that there are too many coincidences in your story? Linda Meadows’ roommate is advertising in the Lonely Hearts newspaper. Linda Meadows is employed by a member of the Lonely Hearts Club. Linda Meadows’ roommate is working the badger game. Linda Meadows is your client Linda Meadows’ employer is your client.” He stopped. “You’re a private detective? Those coincidences must have occurred to you.”

“They have.”

“And?”

“Linda Meadows is also wearing Susan Sawyer’s mink stole.”

“And Linda Meadows is also my former wife.”

“What? Beagle said you showed him a picture of Susan Sawyer.”

“I was pretty sure if you’d find Susan you’d find Linda and at the moment I didn’t want to reveal my interest in Linda.”

Peel stared at Temple. “You said you hadn’t seen your wife in three years. Then how were you able to get the picture of Susan Sawyer? They’d never even met each other then.”

Temple smiled. “They’ve known each other all their lives. They grew up together in the same small Iowa town. They were living together when I... I married Linda. During the brief period of our married life they were separated, but I was pretty sure they’d get together again.”

“That just proves what I said,” Peel said bitterly, “that you can’t believe a word a client tells you.” He suddenly winced. “Then it was Linda who worked the badger game with you, not Susan.”

“Correct.”

“And Susan?”

Temple shrugged. “I don’t know. She had an odd streak of morality. I may be wrong, she may have gone along with Linda recently, but I have a feeling that she knew nothing about it.”

“Oh, yes, she did!” exclaimed Peel. Then he frowned. “She let me call her Linda, led me along — to a point. Yet...” He paused. “On the other hand, that would account for some things...”

“You think perhaps she just found out what Linda was doing?”

“I’ve got a funny feeling that she was playing it straight with Dave Corey.”

A gleam came into Charleton Temple’s eyes. “I see.” He looked at both Willie and Freddie. “Gentlemen, I have a little proposition to make to you. If you will step out with me a moment...”

“Sure,” said Freddie.

The three men left Peel alone in the little room. But he could hear the murmur of their voices in the main part of the barn and since that was the only exit, he knew that he could not go past them. He looked at the little window. There was a possibility...

He stepped to it, saw that the frame was nailed down to the sill. It could be broken, of course, but that would make noise.

Then Willie and Freddie returned.

“Sorry, laddie,” said Willie. “We just made a new deal. Oh, don’t worry, we ain’t going to knock you off. We’re just going to stay here and keep you company.”

“How long?”

Willie shrugged. “Until.”

“Until when?”

“Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. Until we get the word. Now, just take it easy and we won’t have no trouble.”

“Of course,” added Freddie, “we don’t mind a certain amount of trouble. We’re gettin’ paid for it and it helps to kill time.”

It was four-thirty when the phone rang in the office of the Beagle Detective Agency. Beagle scooped it up.

“Beagle Detective Agency, Otis Beagle talking.”

“This is Iowa Lee,” a melodious voice said. “Has Mr. Peel returned to the office?”

“Not yet, Beautiful. But I expect him to call in at any minute.”

“I’m afraid he won’t. You see, he came out to the picnic early this afternoon and something, well, something happened that made me suspicious.”

“Picnic?” exclaimed Beagle. “What’s he doing at a picnic?”

“It’s the Lonely Hearts Club picnic. He came out in a taxi. It’s rather involved. You see, we were playing baseball and Mr. Peel went into the woods to find the ball. The two umpires went with him, and well, they haven’t returned. The taxicab driver said they went off in a green Ford.”

Alarm flooded Beagle. “Where are you calling from?”

“A phone booth in Agoura. The... the picnic’s still going on, but I couldn’t get it out of my head that Mr. Peel, had been, well, forcibly taken away.”

“Who were these umpires? Club members?”

“No, of course not. They came in the green Ford. The cabdriver said they’d followed Mr. Peel all the way out from Hollywood.”

“What was Peel doing out at your picnic? He had orders to... to do something else.”

“I guess that’s what he was doing, following Mr. Smallwood. At least that’s what the taxicab driver told me.”

“How long are you going to stay at that picnic?” cried Beagle.

“Why, I’ve already left it. I’m on my way back to town.”

“Come to my office, Iowa.”

She hesitated. “Very well. I’ll be there in a half hour.”

Beagle hung up and stared at the phone. Peel was an amazingly self-sufficient man. He could usually take pretty good care of himself. But Beagle had felt uneasy ever since he had gone into the matter of the lonely hearts. Only financial desperation had made him do it.

He reached for the phone and jerked his hand away as it rang under his fingers. He took off the receiver. “Yes?”

A click sounded in Beagle’s ear and the phone went dead.

“Damn!” exclaimed Beagle.

He got up and going to the file pulled out the top drawer and took out the revolver. He looked at it in aversion, then put it back again.

The door opened and Lieutenant Becker and Sergeant Fedderson came in. Beagle sighed in relief. This was just what he needed, a good workout.

“Well, Otis,” said the Lieutenant. “Shall we talk a little?”

Beagle chuckled wolfishly.

“Name the subject, Lieutenant.”

“How about anonymous telephone calls?”

Beagle shot a quick, guilty look at the phone, but there hadn’t been time for Becker to ring him from across the street, then come up. He shrugged. “It’s your nickel.”

“Ten cents these days. As a rule, I pay no attention to anonymous phone calls.”

“But this time you did, eh?”

“It sort of fit in with my thinking.”

“Let’s see,” said Beagle, “it was about Oswald P. Ketterling?”

“Who’s Oswald P. Ketterling?”

“A client of mine.” Beagle shook his head. “Ketterling doesn’t ring a bell with you? Then, how about Lester Littlefield? No...?”

Becker scowled. “Try Susan Sawyer. Or David Corey.”

“Oh, are you still interested in them?”

“Aren’t you?” snapped Becker. He looked around the office, although it was obvious that there was no place where a man could hide. “Where’s Joe Peel?”

“Working on the Morgan Cotswold case,” Beagle said sarcastically. “You see, I don’t mind telling the police about the various cases we’re handling.”

“Then tell me what you’re doing for Thaddeus Smallwood. And Linda Meadows. And Charlton Temple.”

Beagle held up a well-manicured index finger. “One moment.” He stepped to the desk and reached for the card file. “Smallwood? Do you spell that with two L’s?”

Becker bared his teeth in a snarl. “The razzle-dazzle won’t work with me, Otis. The only people I’m interested in are those that are connected with the murders of Susan Sawyer and Dave Corey. And those are the only ones you’re interested in — Smallwood, Meadows and Temple.” He lashed out suddenly, “And you’re representing all three!”

Beagle had laid his foundation nicely. He had anticipated the homicide lieutenant and now he smiled indulgently. “Oh, now, Lieutenant!”

“It’s true. Here—” Becker dug out a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Joe Peel made out this receipt to Linda Meadows — fifty dollars, on account, for finding Susan Sawyer.”

“Now show me the receipt I gave, what was that name — Smallwood?”

“I just came from talking to Linda Meadows,” gritted Becker. He pointed to the phone. “Call her, ask her if she told me you were also representing her employer.”

Beagle held up both palms, facing up. “She’s mad at us. Can’t say that I blame her either. Here she was, on a date last night, the dinner ordered, then you walk in and pinch her date! Stand up a little lady, Lieutenant, and she’ll say anything to get even with you. Or don t you know about little ladies?”

Becker’s eyes smoldered. “Who is Charlton Temple?”

Beagle whirled on Mike Fedderson who had opened the top drawer of the big steel filing cabinet and was glancing at the files inside. “Get your fingers out of those files!”

Fedderson slammed shut the files. “I wasn’t doin’ anything.”

“You just can’t help snooping,” snapped Beagle. He turned back to Becker. “What was that name?”

“You heard it, Beagle. You know damn well a private eye can’t handle more than one client in a case. You’re representing not one, not two, but three.”

“Your anonymous telephone caller told you that?” Beagle smiled mockingly. “The little lady I had with me last night, Iowa Lee, runs a Lonely Hearts Club. How come you’re not accusing me of representing her also; that would make four clients in the same case.”

“I was just coming to her.”

“Oh, you were.” Beagle pointed derisively at Fedderson. “Ask your stooge there how it sounds? Look at the expression on his face.”

“What’s the matter with my expression?” growled Fedderson.

“Talking to you, Beagle,” said Lieutenant Becker, “is just a waste of time.”

“It is, unless you’ve got the answers before you come here.”

Then Beagle’s triumphant expression disappeared. The door was slammed open and Iowa Lee came in swiftly. “Mr. Beagle,” she began, then stopped as she recognized Lieutenant Becker.

Beagle swore under his breath. Aloud, he said, “I’ll be with you in a moment, Miss Lee. The lieutenant was just leaving.”

Iowa Lee shook her head. “He may as well hear this.”

“The agency’s business doesn’t concern the police,” Beagle said quickly.

“What I’ve got to say does concern the police. I... I told you about the picnic, Mr. Beagle. But I didn’t tell you everything.” She bit her lip, then faced Lieutenant Becker squarely. “A murder was committed at my picnic, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, no!” wailed Beagle.

“Oh, not Mr. Peel,” said Iowa Lee quickly. “It... it happened after he disappeared.”

“Who was killed?” Becker asked curtly.

“A man named Smallwood, Thaddeus Smallwood!”

Beagle reeled back. Lieutenant Becker’s eyes glinted. “Has this been reported to the police?”

Iowa Lee nodded. “The Ventura County sheriff came out.”

“Ventura County?” cried Becker.

Beagle snatched at the straw. “The picnic was in Ventura County?”

“Yes. I... I wasn’t even aware of that, but when one of the... the people at the picnic went to the nearest phone, a roadstand on Ventura Boulevard, he put in a call to the police and they connected him with the Ventura County sheriff. He came out in a little while, and” — Iowa Lee shuddered — “there wasn’t anything anyone could tell him. Everybody was searching around in the woods and, when this shot was fixed, nobody would admit they’d fired it. All we knew was that Mr. Smallwood was dead.”

“What time was this murder committed?” asked Becker.

“Around two o’clock, just a few minutes after lunch. We’d started the baseball game and—”

“It’s a few minutes to five now.” Becker frowned. “How come the sheriff turned everyone loose so quickly?”

“He questioned everyone, but no one — no one knew anything.”

Becker crossed, reached for Beagle’s phone. “Get me the sheriff in Ventura County.”

Beagle exclaimed, “That’s a long distance call!”

“Send your bill to the city,” snapped Becker. He gave the operator the number of Beagle’s phone and waited a moment or two. Then:

“Hello, Sheriff? This is Lieutenant Becker of Los Angeles Homicide. I’m interested in the murder of that man out at the Lonely Hearts Club picnic. Yes...?” He listened, nodding. “It ties in with a couple of killings we’ve had here in town.” He listened again. “That’s right. We want to work with you on it. By the way, how come you let all the people go?”

He listened, looking at Iowa Lee. A frown grew on his face. “Yes, I know about him. As a matter of fact, I’m calling from his employer’s office... A couple of chiselers.”

“I resent that,” howled Otis Beagle.

Becker clapped his hand over the mouthpiece. “I wasn’t talking about you.”

“The devil you weren’t...”

“Shut up!” snarled Sergeant Fedderson. “You’re interrupting the lieutenant.”

“I’ll do more than interrupt him,” cried Beagle. “That’s my phone and this is my office.”

Fedderson smacked his right fist into the palm of his left hand and advanced on Otis Beagle. The big private detective picked up his cane which had been lying across the desk.

Fedderson stopped. “You wouldn’t dare...”

“Try me,” challenged Beagle.

Becker snarled. “Will you two shut up so I can hear?” He barked into the phone, “All right, Sheriff, I’ll come up there and talk to you.” He slammed the receiver on but before he reached it he turned.

“I almost forgot. Miss Lee, what was that you said about Joe Peel disappearing?”

“I tried to tell you. Two men came out to the picnic-complete strangers. They volunteered their services as umpires and then when Mr. Peel hit the ball into the woods, they followed him. That’s the last we saw of any of them.”

“And it was then the whole bunch went into the woods to look for the ball?”

“Yes. When they didn’t return with the ball—”

“Just a minute — was this Smallwood one of those who went into the woods with the others?”

“Why, yes, he must have been.”

“No,” said Becker bluntly, “he didn’t have to be. He could have been in the woods already, when Peel went in—”

“That’s a lie!” cried Beagle. “You can’t pin that on Joe Peel.”

“I can sure try. It seems to me Peel’s either been present or just walked out before three different murders were committed. I don’t like such coincidences.” He suddenly pointed at Iowa Lee. “Miss Lee, are you a client of Otis Beagle’s...?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” cried Beagle. “You’re not under arrest.”

“Answer it, Miss Lee,” said Becker ominously.

Iowa Lee looked at Beagle, then at Becker, then back at Beagle.

“I have nothing to conceal,” she said with dignity. “I’m running a legitimate business. Yes, Lieutenant, I employed Mr. Beagle only this morning to... to look after my interests in this affair.”

“Four!” cried Becker. “Four clients in one case. You’ve overstepped yourself at last, Otis, and I’ve got you.”

Beagle raised his left arm and laughed up his coat sleeve. “Ha-ha.”

Becker pointed at him. “Don’t go taking any sudden trips, Otis. I’ll get back to you when I return from Ventura.”

“You do that, Lieutenant.”

Fedderson sneered at Beagle as he passed him and again smacked his fist into his other palm, a promise of things to come.

When the door closed on the two policemen, Beagle whirled on Iowa Lee.

“Now tell me the real story.”

“That was it, Mr. Beagle. Smallwood was shot by a... a thirty-eight-calibre bullet, according to the sheriff.”

“Let’s skip Smallwood for the moment. It’s Joe Peel I want to know about.”

“I told you. He came out in a taxicab and had the driver wait. It was the driver who said he’d gone off with those two men in the green Ford. It seems they’d followed Him out from Hollywood.” She hesitated, “And Mr. Peel followed Thaddeus Smallwood.”

“That was his job.” Beagle pursed up his lips. “Now, about Smallwood, was he in the woods before or after Peel left with the men in the Ford?”

“I can’t tell for certain. He was not one of the ballplayers. I know that. And I was watching the players from behind home plate.” She added, “I was the plate umpire. About Mr. Smallwood — why was Mr. Peel following him?”

Beagle made a brushing gesture, dismissing the matter. “How many people were out at this picnic?”

“Thirty-one people bought tickets, but then Mr. Smallwood showed up unexpectedly and Mr. Peel and the two strangers. Thirty-four altogether. Not counting myself. Mr. Beagle” — Iowa Lee hesitated, her forehead creased — “what did the Lieutenant mean when he said you had four clients in the one case?”

“Just some of his sarcasm. Lieutenant Becker doesn’t like me. I solved a case once that he’d bungled and he’s never forgiven me for it. Forget him. He’s talking through his hat.”

“But you were following Mr. Smallwood, or rather, Mr. Peel was.”

“On behalf of a client in another case. Mr. Smallwood’s involved in some business deals.”

“What kind of business deals?”

“As a matter of fact, we’re representing an employee of Smallwood’s — the girl you met last night, Linda Meadows.”

Iowa Lee’s eyes lit up. “Linda Meadows — yes. I knew her name was familiar last night, but she denied that she was a member of my club. Well, I looked her up this morning. And she is a member. So... so you are representing another person who is a member of the club.”

Beagle looked at his watch. “Iowa, my dear, I’m worried about Joe Peel. I’ve got to go out and look for him.”

“Where can you look for him?”

“I don’t know,” said Beagle. “I think maybe I’ll begin with Linda Meadows.”

“Can I go with you?”

Beagle grimaced. “You and Linda don’t get along.”

“If she’s been using my club for — illegal purposes, I have a right to know it.”

Beagle shook his head. “Don’t worry about a thing, Iowa. Just go home and take it easy. I’m looking out for your interests.” He got his Homburg hat, put it on and picked up his cane. At the door he stood aside for Iowa to go out before him.

Down the street, Beagle looked for a taxicab. Iowa moved to a Cadillac parked at the curb. “You... you’ll let me hear from you, Mr. Beagle?”

Beagle looked at the Cadillac. “That’s yours?”

“Yes. Could I give you a lift?”

“Mmm,” said Beagle. “I’ve been thinking things over. Perhaps it might be a good idea, after all, if you went with me to see Linda Meadows.”

Willie was more cautious with the money he had received from Charlton Temple than the loot from Joe Peel, so he didn’t lose his last dollar until shortly after six o’clock.

He stepped to the cot where Peel was lying watching a spider spin a web on the ceiling.

“Get up!”

Peel sat up and Willie grabbed him by the shoulder and propelled him halfway across the little bunk room. Then he threw himself to the couch.

Peel looked at Freddie, who was counting his money. “A good day’s work,” he observed.

“Oh, fair.” Freddie put away his money and patted his stomach. “It’s chowtime. My stomach’s grumbling.”

“We forgot about grub,” said Willie. “It’s a cinch we can’t stay here all night without eating.”

“I think there’s a lunch stand or something down at Agoura,” Freddie said. “Guess I’ll run down and grab myself a bite.”

“What about me?” cried Willie.

“I’ll bring you a sandwich.”

“I want more than a sandwich. I’m hungry. And a couple of bottles of beer wouldn’t go bad.”

“How about me?” asked Peel. “I’m hungry, too.”

“You got any money?” asked Freddie.

“I’ve got two hundred and fourteen bucks — in your pocket.”

Freddie grinned. “I’ll think about it.”

He left the little room. Willie got up and took out his revolver. He crossed to the door and sat down on the floor, with his back to it. “Now, don’t go getting any ideas,” he said warningly to Peel.

“Look,” said Peel, “you got your money from Temple. He isn’t coming back here again.”

“Oh, yes he is.” Willie grinned wickedly. “He said he was going to bring somebody back with him.”

“That’s a lot of pap. I suppose he said he’d pay you some more money, too.”

“Yep.”

“Which you’ll lose to Freddie’s crooked dice...”

“Huh?”

“You’re a sucker, Willie. The dice were loaded.”

“I know loaded dice when I see them.”

“There are all kinds of loaded dice. Those dice were shaved so they’d throw mostly low points.”

“Then they’d throw them for me, too.”

“Yeah — if you used the same dice he did all the time. Only he switched the bones on you about half the time.”

Willie’s eyes narrowed. “Freddie ain’t that smart.”

“No? Well, he’s got the money and you’ve got nothing. All the work you did today and what’ve you got to show for it? He didn’t even want to bring you anything to eat.”

“Cut it out!” yelled Willie angrily.

Peel shrugged. “If you want to be a sucker...”

Willie sprang to his feet and took a step toward Peel. But then he stopped. “Wise guy, huh?”

He sat down again with his back to the door. Peel crossed to the bunk and sprawled out on it. Ten minutes later he said: “Agoura ain’t that far away. He ought to be back now.”

“He’ll be back,” snapped Willie.

“After he has himself a big feed maybe...”

A few minutes later Peel looked at his watch again. “I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” screamed Willie. “Will you shut up about it?”

He got to his feet and stepped to the window. “He’s got to open and close all those gates.”

“I know. That’ll take him two-three minutes extra. Mmm, he’s probably having himself a nice thick steak. Well done.”

Willie stepped to the bed and threatened Peel with the gun in his fist. “One more yip out of you...”

Peel remained silent for a full five minutes, during which time Willie stepped twice to the window. Then he said, “I hope he doesn’t forget the mustard.”

Willie exclaimed, “Here he comes!”

Peel had already heard the humming of an automobile. A moment later it stopped. Willie threw open the door leading into the main part of the barn. As Freddie finally came in, he snarled, “Took you long enough!”

“I made it as quick as I could,” retorted Freddie. “I didn’t even have my own supper there. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t find a lunchroom. I got these groceries at a kind of a grocery store that’s with a gas station.”

He set two big paper bags down on the floor, reached into one. “Chicken, tongue, salmon, cookies. I spent over four bucks for grub.”

“Why didn’t you shoot them for it?” asked Peel. “Double or nothing.”

Willie grabbed Freddie’s shoulder. “Lemme see them dice of yours.”

“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Freddie.

“I had time to think about things. Lemme see the dominoes.”

“Have you gone off your rocker?”

Willie gestured to Peel. “He says he saw you changing dice.”

Freddie smiled icily. He got to his feet, brought a pair of red dice from his pocket. “Look ’em over, sport, look ’em over.” He handed the dice to Willie, then stepped across and, putting out his foot, suddenly shoved it violently against Peel’s chest as he sat on the cot Peel was slammed back against the wall.

“And just for that you don’t eat!”

Willie was examining the dice suspiciously. “These all you got?”

Freddie held up his arms. “Search me.”

Willie did exactly that. He felt every pocket of Freddie’s. When he finished he gave Peel a dirty look.

“He could have thrown them away,” said Peel defensively.

“Mister,” said Freddie, “you’re really asking for it. As soon as I get some food under my belt...”

He turned back to the groceries. “I even remembered to buy a can opener.” He exhibited it.

The two thugs ate a. hearty meal, washing it down with two bottles of beer apiece.

Then Peel sat up. “It’s getting dark.”

“It always gets dark around seven-thirty,” said Freddie sarcastically.

“Yeah, but there aren’t any electric lights here.”

“What do you need lights for?”

Peel shrugged. “I don’t.”

Willie and Freddie exchanged looks. Willie said, “He’s right. I don’t feel like sitting around here in the dark.”

“We can tear up that blanket and tie him,” suggested Freddie.

“Just the same, I’d like some light. They have any candles down at that store?”

“I guess they’ve got about everything from peanuts to thrashing machines.”

“Then give me some money and I’ll run down this time.”

“I’ll go.”

“You had your trip. It’s my turn now.”

With ill grace Freddie drew some money from his pocket. “Here’s a dollar...”

“We’ll need some more beer.”

Willie grabbed a ten-dollar bill from his hand. “You’ll get your change,” he snapped.

He stormed out. A moment later the lights of the car flashed on the burlap window curtain.

Freddie opened a bottle of beer and putting it to his mouth gurgled down about half of it. He lowered the bottle and smacked his lips.

“That hit the spot.”

“Eastern beer,” said Peel. “My favorite.”

“You’re not getting any of this,” retorted Freddie. “There’s only one more bottle left until Willie gets back.”

“Well, how about some food? There’s a half can of chicken left.”

Freddie shrugged. “Go ahead, eat it.”

Peel scooped up the half can of chicken, sat himself on the cot, and wolfed it down, using his fingers to scrape it out of the can.

He looked at one of the beer bottles on the floor. “Willie left a little beer in a bottle. Can I have it to wash this down?” Without waiting for a reply, he stooped forward and picked up the bottle. He drained the dregs, exhaled heavily in satisfaction.

He looked up to find Freddie scowling at him. “It’s getting dark,” the thug said. “I’m not going to sit around here with you in the dark.” He pointed the gun at Peel. “Start tearing that blanket into strips.”

Peel drew a deep breath. He got up and stripped the blanket from the cot. He shook it out with his left hand, concealing the empty beer bottle in his right.

“Grab hold of the end,” he said, flicking the blanket toward Freddie.

Freddie reached instinctively for the blanket and then Peel made his move. He lunged forward with the empty beer bottle and brought it down on the thug’s head with a crash, smashing the bottle.

Freddie cried out and reeled back. With his left hand Peel threw the blanket over Freddie’s head. Freddie went down. He was not entirely unconscious, floundering around under the blanket.

Peel waited no more. He might get the gun from Freddie and he might not. This was his chance. He jerked open the door and plunged through it into the darkened barn.

He ran out, headed across the barnyard for the false-fronted house. He reached it safely and stopped behind it. He strained his ears.

A muffled yell came from the barn. A tiny light flickered as Freddie struck a match. Peel crouched low and took off from behind the false-front.

He ran fifty yards, dropped headlong into the barley field.

Behind him he heard Freddie yell as he came out of the barn.

“Come on!” Freddie called out. “Come out or I’ll let you have it.”

Peel was sure that Freddie had not seen him. He lay still.

Freddie called out again. Then suddenly he fired. The bullet came nowhere close to Peel. He lay still in the barley field. It was already semidark and in ten minutes Freddie wouldn’t be able to see a dozen feet.

He listened, as Freddie roamed the barnyard, swearing and yelling.

Iowa Lee stopped the Cadillac in the circular driveway in front of the Hillcrest Towers. Beagle helped her out of the car and they entered the lobby.

The receptionist, behind the little switchboard, looked inquiringly at Beagle.

“Miss Linda Meadows.”

“Seven-C, but I’ll have to announce you.”

Beagle winked. “Surprise party.”

“It’s a rule that...” The receptionist stopped. Beagle was already leading Iowa Lee to the elevator. As the door closed he saw the operator plugging a connection into the switchboard.

The elevator stopped at the seventh floor and they got out. Beagle pressed the door buzzer of Apartment C.

There was a long period of silence and Beagle pressed the buzzer again impatiently. A chain rattled on the inside and Linda Meadows’s hostile eyes looked at Beagle.

“I can’t see you,” she snapped.

Beagle put his cane against the door panel and pushed. Linda was compelled to step back. Inside the apartment Charlton Temple got up from the sofa.

“Mr. Beagle!”

Beagle stepped into the apartment. Iowa Lee followed.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Temple,” said Beagle pleasantly. “I’m glad to see. In fact, you’re just the person I want to see. Where’s Joe Peel?”

“That ruffian you call a detective?” Temple shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since this noon.”

“You’re sure you haven’t?” Beagle turned to Iowa. “Iowa, my dear, was this man at the picnic this afternoon?”

Iowa looked at Temple closely, then shook her head.

“Have you ever seen him?”

Iowa hesitated. “No, I don’t believe I have.”

“His name is Charlton Temple. Does that register with you?”

“Should it?”

“You’ve a good memory as far as your members are concerned. For instance, you recalled the name of Linda Meadows...”

Linda Meadows exclaimed, “I had enough of that last night. You’re not welcome here, Mr. Beagle. Nor you,” she snapped at Iowa Lee.

“From your attitude, Miss Meadows,” said Beagle smoothly, “you haven’t heard the news.”

“Nothing you could tell me would interest me.”

“My friend, Lieutenant Becker of the police department, hasn’t been around? He didn’t phone you?”

“There’s no reason he should.”

“Perhaps not. But I suggest you buy the morning paper when it comes out at six-thirty.” He paused, then said casually, “You’re out of a job, Linda, my dear.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your employer, Mr. Thaddeus Smallwood...” Beagle sighed. “He’s dead!”

Linda stared at Beagle a moment, then threw her hand up to her mouth. “Oh, no!”

“You really haven’t heard, have you?”

“This is news,” exclaimed Temple.

“Oh, that reminds me, you owe me five hundred dollars, Temple. Joe said you welshed on that deal.”

“Smallwood wasn’t the man,” retorted Temple testily.

Beagle’s eyes were on Linda. She was backing to the couch and sat down heavily, letting her hands fall into her lap. She stared wide-eyed across the room.

“It’s no good,” Beagle said suddenly. “You knew he was dead before I came in.”

She looked up, blinking. “What?”

“You’re overdoing it. He was only your employer.”

“We — were going to be married.”

“The Mile High Friendship Club,” Iowa Lee said suddenly. “Three years ago.”

Linda Meadows looked sharply at Iowa Lee.

Iowa Lee nodded positively. “In Denver, my dear. Remember? I was Miss Whitman’s assistant at the time. You came to several of the meetings.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Linda Meadows roughly. “And I’ve had just about enough for one evening...”

“Go ahead, Iowa,” Beagle prodded.

“Miss Meadows — although that wasn’t her name at the time — got rather well acquainted with one of the male club members. She had an accomplice—”

“Get out of here!” cried Linda.

“Oh, let her finish,” said Charlton Temple easily.

“The victim went to the police and your husband was arrested. He did the noble thing and swore that you knew nothing about it. He had acted entirely on his own.”

“Decent of me, wasn’t it?” purred Temple.

“You?” Beagle exclaimed.

“But I told you the story yesterday. That’s why I hired you. I wanted to make restitution. I had three years at Canon City to think things over.”

“That picture you showed me wasn’t Linda.”

“A slight mistake. But Linda was my wife. Weren’t you, my dear?”

“Oh, what difference does it make now?” burst out Linda. “It’s all over.”

“Quite. I served my time and I want to make restitution.” Temple looked at Beagle. “As soon as you find, Seymour Case.”

“You described Smallwood.”

“Smallwood isn’t — wasn’t — Case.” Temple sighed. “The reason I’m here this evening, Linda, ah, thinks she might be able to help me find him.”

“Are you going to believe this?” Iowa Lee asked Beagle, skeptically. “She joined my club only two months ago.”

“I did not!”

“Your name is on the roster.”

“Then Susan Sawyer used my name.” Linda appealed to Beagle. “It was Susan that Peel talked to.”

“True.” Beagle’s eyes narrowed. “That reminds me, Peel found some letters here.” He looked at Linda Meadows. “Answers to Box 314, care of Heart Throbs.”

“Susan’s letters.”

“Mind if I see them?” asked Temple, holding out his hand.

Beagle shook his head. “Sorry, old man. Peels got them.”

Across the room the phone whirred. Linda whirled, looked at it.

“The phone,” Beagle said.

“I’m in no mood to talk to anyone else!”

“I’ll get it,” said Beagle. He started for the phone, but Linda sprang up and blocked his passage.

“Let it alone!”

“It might be the police...”

“I don’t care who it is. I’ve had enough for one day. Get out of here. All of you.”

Iowa Lee signed to Beagle. “You won’t get anything from her.”

“You won’t get anything from me,” screamed Linda, “because there’s nothing to get. I’m fed up with the lot of you. Get out or I’ll call the manager and have you thrown out.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Beagle loftily. He stepped to the door and pulled it open.

An enormously fat man, about to press the door buzzer, looked at him in surprise. “Hello,” he said, “there wasn’t any answer but they told me there was a party going on and to come upstairs.” He took a step forward. “Am I interrupting something?”

“We were just leaving,” said Beagle.

Iowa Lee looked at the fat man and exclaimed, “Mr. Brown!”

“Oh, Miss Lee. I didn’t expect to see you here. I... I came to tell Miss Meadows what happened at the picnic.”

“You were out there?” Beagle cried.

The fat man smirked. “I’m a member of the Iowa Lee Lonely Hearts Club.”

“Brown,” said Beagle, nodding. “Mortimer Brown, the rabbit raiser. Joe Peel talked to you yesterday.”

“Ah, yes, the little man who played first base. He’s the one who went to look for the ball with the two base umpires and never did come back.”

“Mr. Brown,” said Beagle, “I’m a private detective. Mr. Peel, the man you’re talking about, it in my employ. When he called on you yesterday, you told him you’d been a victim of the badger game.”

“Badger game? What’s that?”

Beagle made an impatient gesture. “You answered an ad in Heart Throbs. Then you came to see a beautiful young lady, and her husband broke in on you...”

“Oh, yeah!”

“You paid the husband two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“I sure did. He said he’d have me arrested for... for breaking up his home, if I didn’t pay.”

“All right. And the woman with whom you were caught — was it...?” Beagle pointed at Linda Meadows.

Brown’s face registered surprise. “Her? Oh, no, it was Susan Sawyer, the girl who was killed. I saw her picture in the paper.”

“Then,” said Beagle, “how do you happen to know Miss Meadows?”

“Why, she was here the first time I came to call on Susan. She and... uh, Mr. Smallwood. That’s how I knew they were friends.”

“Satisfied, Mr. Beagle?” asked Linda Meadows icily.

“No,” Beagle said bluntly. “I won’t be satisfied until I find Joe Peel.”

“You won’t find him here.”

“I hardly expect to.” Beagle hesitated. “A good evening to you all.” He nodded to Iowa Lee and then stepped to the door. “Can we give you a lift, Mr. Brown?”

“If Miss Meadows doesn’t mind, I’d like to stay a minute.”

“All right, stay,” snapped Linda.

Beagle and Iowa Lee left. On the way down in the elevator, Beagle pursed up his lips. “It’s phony,” he said, “the whole thing.”

“Exactly,” agreed Iowa Lee.

Outside, they got into Iowa Lee’s car. She started up the motor. “Now where?”

“Drive a block up the street,” said Beagle, “then stop.”

Iowa Lee stopped the car a block from the Hillcrest Towers. Beagle turned in the seat and looked back at the big apartment building.

“What’re we waiting for?” asked Iowa.

“Temple. He’s got Joe Peel.”

“But he wasn’t at the picnic.”

“He didn’t have to be. He sent those two hoods out. Don’t you get it yet? Three years ago he and Linda worked the badger game on a man in Denver. The sucker went to the police and Temple took the rap. He expected Linda to wait for him. But Linda left Colorado and came out here. She looked up Smallwood — who was Seymour Case three years ago, regardless of what Charlton Temple says. She went to work for him.”

“With Smallwood knowing that it was her husband who had blackmailed him?”

Beagle shrugged. “Temple took the rap, remember? He exonerated his wife.” He chuckled. “Maybe that’s why she took a secretarial job with him — to prove to him that she was on the up and up — and to let love bloom gradually. I suppose she divorced Temple, if she was ever married to him.”

“Very good,” said Iowa Lee. “Very good. Then why did she join my club two months ago?”

“Maybe Smallwood was too cautious. Maybe she wanted some money to buy mink stoles and stuff. To live at the Hillcrest Towers. Don’t forget, Smallwood was also a member of your club. He was still looking. He couldn’t have been altogether satisfied with Linda. Linda had to work at it to sell herself to Smallwood.”

“I see, and then Charlton Temple got out of prison and came looking for her.”

“That’s why he hired me — to find her, not Seymour Case.” Beagle frowned. “That doesn’t explain why he would kill Susan Sawyer and Dave Corey.”

“No, it doesn’t. But — look!”

She was pointing toward the Hillcrest Towers. Beagle saw three people come out, Linda Meadows, Charlton Temple and Mortimer Brown.

“They’re all getting into the same car.”

The car, parked near the Towers, was a convertible. All three got into the front seat, with Temple behind the wheel.

“Duck,” said Beagle.

He dropped down on the seat, pulling Iowa Lee down with him. Her face brushed his and Beagle suddenly decided that he needed a tight grip on her. Iowa did not resist.

Beagle waited a good long minute, then cautiously raised his head. The convertible was already a half block past them.

“Follow them,” he said.

Iowa Lee sat up, touched her hair and started the motor. Beagle, looking sidewards at her, saw that her face was flushed. He grinned.

The convertible turned into Laurel Canyon and Iowa Lee followed. The car screeched up the narrow turns and after a while began dropping down into San Fernando Valley. At Ventura, the convertible turned left and Iowa Lee followed.

They rolled through Studio City and Sherman Oaks. In Encino, Iowa Lee looked at Otis Beagle. “They can’t be going out to the picnic grounds. It’ll be pitch dark by the time we get there.”

“The rabbit raiser lives in Reseda,” Beagle said. “He can cut over to Reseda from Woodland Hills. That’s only three-four miles ahead.”

The convertible, however, did not stop at Woodland Hills. It continued on through Callabasas and into Agoura. But then the tail lights suddenly flashed bright red as the car was braked.

“They’re turning off,” cried Beagle.

Iowa Lee braked the Cadillac. “Do you think we ought to give it up? It’s gotten pretty dark and there’s not much around here.”

“Peel’s here somewhere,” declared Beagle. “I’ll tell you what, let me have the car and you wait over there at that filling station.”

“No,” said Iowa Lee, “I’ll see it through with you.”

The car ahead turned into the cut-off, went a block and suddenly turned left.

“Switch off your lights,” said Beagle. “That’s a country road ahead and they’d know we were following them if they saw our lights.”

Iowa flicked off the lights, slackened speed to give the car ahead a good start. She steered the car along the ruts.

It was now quite dark, but the ruts were easy to follow and ahead a few hundred yards, the lights of the convertible lit up the road ahead of them.

They passed through a gate left open by Willie and Freddie.

Then Beagle cried out, “There’s a car coming behind us!”

Iowa was frightened. “There’s no place to turn off.”

Beagle groaned. “Keep moving. It’s probably just some farmer.”

They went through another gate and the car behind was gaining on them. The car ahead was driving at only a moderate pace. Iowa pressed down on the gas and picked up the speed of the Cadillac.

“They’ll think it strange I’m driving without lights.”

“Put them on,” growled Beagle.

Iowa switched on the lights.

The car ahead climbed a hill and coasted down to a farmyard. Iowa Lee followed and the car behind her closed up to within feet of her bumpers.

Iowa Lee braked her car to a stop and Charlton Temple promptly stepped forward. “Miss Lee I And Mr. Beagle.”

Beagle opened the door on his side, adjusted his Homburg and crooked his cane over his left forearm. Willie jumped out of the car that had followed Iowa Lee’s car. He carried a paper bundle in one hand, a revolver in the other.

“Who’s this, boss?” he cried, indicating Beagle and Iowa Lee.

“Some friends come to pay us a visit.”

Freddie came pounding out of the barn. “He got away!” he cried. “He conked me with a beer bottle and ran off.”

“Joe Peel?” exclaimed Beagle.

“Yeah! The little squirt. It was gettin’ dark and I couldn’t follow him.”

“I got the candles here,” said Willie. “That’s where I was, up in the little town back here, getting them.” Then he sneered at Freddie. “So you let him get away, Hot-shot?”

Mortimer Brown came into the light of the headlights. He gestured to Charlton Temple. “Get rid of your bums. We won’t be needing them any more.”

Temple shook his head. “On the contrary, I’d like them to stay.”

“I said, get rid of them.”

Temple hesitated. “Freddie, Willie — I’d like to have a little talk with you.” He signaled to the two thugs to follow him aside. But the fat rabbit raiser stepped in front of him, put his hand on Temple’s chest and shoved him. It was a light shove, but there was so much weight behind Brown’s hand that Temple was slammed back against the Cadillac.

“There’s been enough double-crossing,” Brown said. He turned to Willie and Freddie. “Get in your car and beat it.”

“There’s a matter of a hundred bucks apiece coming to us,” growled Willie. “We want our dough.”

“Pay them,” said Brown.

Temple took out his wallet and counted the money into Willie’s hand. The two thugs put away the money and got into their car. They turned it around and headed for the rutted road through the barley field.

“As soon as they get over the hill, we’ll finish this little business,” said Brown, grinning wickedly at Beagle.

“So you’re Number One!”

“I,” said Brown, “am Seymour Case.” He reached out and, taking Linda Meadows’ arm, pulled her forward. “And this is my wife. We were married after Temple went to jail.” He shook his head. “But the little lady ran out on me, after she got her little fingers on what was left of my bankroll. I had to join eight different Lonely Hearts Clubs and write about two hundred letters before I finally caught up with her.”

He squeezed Linda’s arm. “You should have known when I sent Temple to jail that I didn’t like being a sucker.”

Linda tried to pull herself away from the fat man, but Brown clung to her. “And you were all set to marry a millionaire?”

Beagle cleared his throat. “This is a family matter. You don’t want me here...”

“A character,” guffawed Brown. “Why do you think I brought you out here? Oh, did you think I didn’t know you were following? I saw you park down the street from the window of the Hillcrest Towers. I knew you’d follow us.” He released Linda and jabbed a powerful thumb into Beagle’s midriff.

“Everything would have been nice and quiet if you hadn’t stuck your nose into this business. You got Smallwood’s wind up, you scared the hell out of little Linda and you got Temple on my neck.”

“Oh,” said Beagle, “I’m willing to forget the whole thing.”

“Until you can get to a police station, eh? Nope, big boy, you’re not walking away from this one.”

“Now, wait a minute,” said Beagle. “Don’t forget Joe Peel, who’s been working on this with me. Joe’s the best private eye in the entire United States and he knows all about you. He knows you killed Susan Sawyer and David Corey.”

“Otis!” called the voice of Joe Peel. “Is that you?”

Beagle cried out, “Run, Joe...!”

Joe Peel came trotting out of the shadows. Brown bore down on him swiftly, his automatic thrust out. “Ah, Mr. Peel, join us, will you?”

Peel came into the circle of light, blinking. “What’s this — a lonely hearts meeting?”

Beagle groaned. “Browns the man who killed Susan Sawyer and David Corey.”

“Sure,” said Peel. “I heard. He came in while I was knocked out and Susan recognized him as Linda’s husband. I guess she went for the phone to call Linda and warn her.” He looked at Otis Beagle. “Temple doesn’t carry a gun.”

“But I’ve got one,” sneered Mortimer Brown. “Now, get over here beside your boss and—”

“I like it over here,” said Peel.

Brown took a step toward Peel. Peel cried out, “All right, Otis!”

The forward step that Brown took half turned him away from Otis Beagle. And then Beagle whisked the sword cane out of the sheath and lunged forward. The sharp blade touched Mortimer Brown’s gun arm, went clear through.

Brown screamed. At the same instant Peel lunged for his knees.

He carried the fat man over backwards. The gun flew from his hand and Otis Beagle promptly scooped it up.

Peel rolled away from Brown, got to his feet.

“Mr. Temple,” he said, “you owe us five hundred dollars.”