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.
10
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.”