“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. Peeclass="underline" 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.
2
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.”