“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.