“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.”
11
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.”