Peel entered and the salesman bore down on him. “Yes, sir, what can I do for you, sir?”
“What’re you asking for one of those jobs?”
“Beautiful, aren’t they, sir? A new shipment just came in. They won’t last long, sir, no sir, not these beauties. Look at those lines, the very latest. And look at this magnificent—”
“How much?”
“Uh, which one?”
“The one without the top.”
“The convertible. Yes, sir, I can see you’ve an eye for beauty. This model was the sensation of the automobile show. The throngs that saw it for the first time swooned—”
“How much?” cried Joe Peel.
“Ah, yes, the price. The finest bargain on the market today, the ultimate in beauty... Mmm, only twenty-four fifty. Think of it, sir, for this magnificent power plant—”
“You’ll be sorry,” Peel said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, that’s a lot of money for some rubber, four wheels and a little tin.”
A violent shudder shook the automobile salesman. “Please, sir, you mustn’t joke. This wonderful machine is priced too low, far too low—”
“You mean for twenty-four fifty I could get into that thing and drive it away?”
“Well, not quite, sir. The price is FOB and of course there are a few extras, the radio, the bumpers, the power steering, the special lubricoil tires—”
“All right,” moaned Peel, “how much would it cost to drive it out, as it stands, with the lubricoil FOB and the special bumpers and all the rest of it?”
“Including the sales tax and the license... Mmm, it comes to only, yes sir, only $3399.65.”
“How much down?”
“Ah yes, one third, sir. We might possibly shave that a tiny bit, say thirty per cent. And in how many months would you like to pay the balance?”
“Now, wait a minute,” said Peel. “I don’t know yet whether I want this car. I need a car that’s got a quick pickup, that’s fast, that rides smooth and can take the bumpy pavement of Sunset Boulevard out Brentwood way.”
“Say no more, sir!” cried the auto man. “The proof of the pudding is in the eating. Climb in, sir, climb in. We’ll drive it around the block—”
“A little more than that. I want to let her out a little.”
“And that you shall!”
Peel got into the car and the salesman climbed in behind the wheel. He started the motor and backed the car through the rear of the salesroom into a garage and then out into the street.
“Listen to that motor,” he said enthusiastically. “She purrs like a Persian kitten.”
“Step on her,” said Peel.
The salesman swung the convertible into Cahuenga, crossed Sunset and sent the car roaring up the incline toward Cahuenga Pass.
“A rolling power plant,” he cried. “One hundred and twenty horsepower and every horse pulling its weight. Forty-two miles per hour and you wouldn’t even think we were moving. And please notice this steering wheel. I’m barely touching it, yet I have complete control. Power steering. You can drive ten hours, twelve, with less body fatigue than you’d get in four hours of driving with a nonpower steering car... Would you like to try her for yourself?”
“Too much traffic here,” said Peel. “You can’t let her out. Why don’t you turn off at Lankershim?”
“Right. We’ll get out of this traffic and I’ll show you what this baby can really do.”
He steered the car off Cahuenga onto Lankershim to Riverside. On Riverside he turned left and sent the car whipping along.
“Too many stops here,” said Peel after a few minutes. “Why don’t you try Van Owen, or Sherman Way? Yes, Sherman Way’s a good street.”
“Isn’t that a little far?”
“Nah, you’ve really got to try out these babies to know bow they operate.”
The salesman looked at the speedometer and the mileage indicator. He frowned a little, but he was game. He took the car over to Van Owen.
“Now, sir, would you like to try the wheel?”
He brought the car to a stop and Peel got out and ran around to the driver’s side. He climbed in and started the car. In a block or so he had it past fifty.
“Handles like a toy, doesn’t she?” chortled the salesman.
On Balboa, Peel turned right. The salesman exclaimed, “Don’t you think we ought to turn back?”
“In a minute!”
Peel drove to Sherman Way, turned left and looked at the house numbers. He stepped heavily on the accelerator and raced for a mile or so. Then he slowed up the car.
“Let’s see how she idles, now.”
“Like a kitten, sir, like a—”
“I know, a Persian kitten. Say...! Whaddya know, there’s old Morty Brown’s place. Mind if I stop and run in and say hello to him? We were roommates at college.”
Peel whipped the car to the curb and braked it. “I won’t be more’n a minute!” He got out, grinned crookedly at the sign, “Brown’s Babbitry,” in front of a weathered shack. He crossed an unkempt, weed-grown little yard.
Peel knocked on the front door and a grossly fat man wearing a dirty shirt, torn trousers and shabby carpet slippers opened the door. He was partly bald and had egg yolk on his chin.
“You’re Mortimer Brown?” Peel asked.
“That’s right and if you’re looking for some nice frying rabbits, I got a pair on ice that I killed only yesterday. Tastiest eating you ever et.”
“I only eat Easter bunnies,” Peel replied. He took a letter from his pocket and began to read it, “...I weigh slightly over two hundred pounds—”
Mortimer Brown scowled. “What’s the idea?”
“How much over two hundred?” asked Peel. “A hundred and ten?”
Brown’s eyes fell on the letter and he suddenly cried out, “Where’d you get that?”
“Linda Meadows.”
“Linda!” cried Brown. A sudden palsy shook him and he reeled back into the house. Peel followed him, looked around the dirtiest living room he had ever seen in his entire life. Rabbit food stood around in partly opened sacks. A half bale of hay was scattered over the floor and beyond, in the kitchen, dishes were stacked high in a sink and littered about on an oilcloth-covered table.
“Mister,” Peel said bluntly, “you need a wife.”
“Sure, sure,” babbled Mortimer Brown, “but... but...” He gulped. “Did — Linda send you here?”
Peel put his foot on a chair and rested his elbow on his knee. He studied the frightened mass of human flesh before him.
“How much did she take you for?”
“I... I don’t know what you mean...”
“Look,” said Peel, “you answered her ad in Heart Throbs. She answered it and you went to see her. Her husband broke in on you and — how much did you pay him?”
“No!” howled Mortimer Brown. “I didn’t pay him a cent. I... I don’t know anyone named Linda Meadows. I never saw her in my life.”
Peel held up the letter and read, “ ‘Dear Box 314. I am still on the sunny side of forty and I have a fine batch of Chinchilla rabbits and a small fruit orchard. I own a beautiful four-room home...’ ” Peel stopped and looked about the dirty room. “Want more?”
“Where did you get that letter?” cried Brown.
“I found it in Dave Corey’s apartment.” He paused. “You know he’s dead?”
“I didn’t do it, I had nothing to do with it. I don’t know him.” Then Brown made a desperate attempt to pull himself together, his flesh quivering in the process. “You’re a policeman?”
Peel didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no. He looked steadily at the rabbit raiser. “How much did you pay Corey?”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars. He wanted five hundred dollars, but I don’t have that kind of money. I... I had to sell half of my rabbits to raise the two hundred and fifty.”