“I’m a monkey’s uncle!” he muttered.
“What’d you say?” asked the cabdriver.
Peel turned, looked through the rear window. The green Ford was pulling up twenty yards away. Peel opened the cab door and stepped out.
“The meter reads sixteen bucks,” the cabby said.
“Wait and you’ll get another sixteen bucks for taking me back to town.”
The driver hesitated. He looked back toward the green Ford, then at the picnic grove. “It’s a picnic,” Peel said.
“How long you figure on stayin’?”
“Maybe five minutes, maybe an hour.”
“And you’ll pay the meter all the way back?”
“I said I would, didn’t I?”
The taxicab man sighed. “I’ll wait.”
Peel shot another look at the green Ford. Two men had climbed out, but they stood beside the little car, talking. Peel drew a deep breath and started out across the field.
Iowa Lee saw him coming. She said a word to Smallwood and started toward Peel, but then Smallwood turned. He saw Peel and cried out:
“You... you’re the man who...”
“Harya,” Peel said casually.
“What are you doing here?” Iowa Lee demanded.
In his advance toward Iowa, Peel had looked past her and noted three or four faces that he had seen before. He said, “This is a club picnic, isn’t it?”
“It is, but it’s for members only.”
“But I’m a member,” Peel said. “You’ve had me on the books for quite a while.”
Smallwood was trying desperately to control himself. “Iowa, I must speak to you. About this man...”
“You’ve met him?”
“If you want to call it that. He came to my office yesterday and...” He grimaced and his face darkened two shades. “I must talk to you about him.”
“You got me wrong, mister,” Peel said easily. “I work for Otis Beagle.”
Smallwood took a quick step back. “What’s that you say?”
“Beagle. B-e-a...”
“He’s a private detective,” Iowa Lee offered helpfully.
Smallwood stood suddenly as though he were turning to stone. Then suddenly a violent shudder shook him. “I... I don’t understand. You’re the man who came to my office yesterday and...”
Peel stepped forward and clapped Smallwood on the shoulder. “Don’t try to understand it, pal. That’s the way us detectives work. We’re on the job — always. Relax. You haven’t got a thing to worry about, Smallwood. Not as long as I’m on the job.”
“I think,” Iowa Lee said, “I would like to have a little talk with you, Mr. Peel.”
“Sure, baby.”
He winked at the still flabbergasted Smallwood and followed Iowa Lee about twenty yards to the left. Iowa stopped then and her eyes glinted as she faced Peel.
“Just what are you and that employer of yours up to?”
Peel looked at her innocent-eyed. “We’re doing the job we’re being paid for. You hired the agency this morning and—”
“Now wait a minute,” Iowa said grimly. “I employed your agency to keep it out of my affairs. That was the understanding I had with Mr. Beagle.”
“That isn’t what he told me,” Peel protested. “He said we’d been retained to look after your interests. You were worried about the club getting involved in the murder of—”
“Don’t!” cried Iowa. “Don’t say it. Neither Susan Sawyer nor David Corey was a member of my club.”
Peel grinned. “Not if you say they weren’t.”
“They weren’t!”
“All right, baby, all right. Relax. You haven’t got a thing to worry about.”
“I’m beginning to think that I’ve got a lot to worry about.” Iowa gestured toward Thaddeus Smallwood. “You’re also working for Mr. Smallwood. Why?”
“Uh-uh,” Peel said, shaking his head. “We’re like lawyers, we can’t tell one client another client’s business.”
“I see. And aren’t private detectives — like lawyers — forbidden from representing two clients in the same case?”
Peel grimaced. “Not the same case.”
“Smallwood’s involved in the Susan Sawyer-David Corey mess, isn’t he?”
“But you’re not!” Peel shot at her. Then he chuckled. “See? Your interests don’t conflict, so it’s perfectly all right.”
Iowa Lee hesitated. She was not appeased, but didn’t know how far to press Peel. And while she was debating the matter, a woman’s voice shrieked:
“Joey!”
Peel whirled. “Oh, no!”
15
Rushing toward him, waving and squealing in delight, was the Lonely Hearts Club member from Minnesota, Miss Ruth Higgins.
She came forward and before Peel could throw up his guard she threw both arms about him. “Joey, boy!” she bleated. “They told me you changed your mind about joining the club, but here you are and am I glad to see you!” She gave Peel another bear hug, then released him.
Peel swallowed hard. “Harya?”
Miss Higgins grabbed Peels hand. “Come on, they’re just choosing up sides for the ball game.”
“Baseball?” exclaimed Peel. He shot a look past Iowa Lee toward the center of the field where the picnickers had gathered in a solid clump. “Aren’t some of these people a little old for games?”
“Silly,” cackled Ruth Higgins. “No Lonely Hearts Club member is old. You’re only as old as you feel, isn’t that right, Iowa darling?”
“Of course it is.” Iowa Lee smiled maliciously at Peel. “It’s only softball, Mr. Peel. Of course, if the game’s too strenuous for you...”
Ruth Higgins grabbed Peel’s biceps. “Too strenuous for Joey? With that muscle. Come on...”
She tugged at Peel’s arm. Peel followed.
They joined the excited knot of club members. An oldster of about sixty and a hefty lass in her mid-fifties were apparently the self-appointed captains. Ruth Higgins screamed at the female captain.
“Pick Joey for our side!”
“Look,” said Peel indignantly, “I wear pants.”
“So what?” retorted Ruth Higgins. “We need a good man or two on our team.”
“Aren’t the men playing the women?”
“Don’t be silly. It’s more fun with a mixed team. How about it, Dorothy, is Joey boy on our team?”
The stout feminine captain sized up Peel. “Can you play first base?”
“I’d rather pitch,” said Peel sourly.
“I’m the pitcher.” Dorothy tapped Peel on the chest with a meaty palm. “You play first base.” She waved to the crowd. “Let’s start the old ball game.”
A coin was tossed and Dorothy, the self-appointed captain, decided that her team would take the field.
Peel, trotting to first base, looked around at the players in their positions. The catcher was a decrepit-looking man of about sixty, who was going to catch the softball with his bare hands.
Ruth Higgins was playing second. Another woman of about forty was at shortstop and at third was a man almost completely bald. The fielders consisted of one old man and two women who could barely waddle around.
He looked toward home plate where the opposing team had congregated. If anything, they looked even worse than the team on which Peel was going to play.
It was now discovered that there was no umpire. Iowa Lee promptly volunteered her services for the job, but someone who had once seen a baseball game declared that an umpire was required for the bases.
There was a big hassle over this for a few minutes, then Peel, blinking, saw a man trotting out to first base. It was one of the two men who had followed his taxicab in the green Ford. The other man was walking toward third base.
The man came up to Peel, grinning wickedly. “Some fun!”
“You a member of this club?” Peel asked.