“Susan’s a very attractive girl.”
“So she had boy friends. Anyone special?”
“A fellow named Dave came around about as often as anyone. But there were others. Bob, Dan, Pete.”
“Mike, Joe, Fred—”
Linda showed annoyance. “Now, you’re being facetious.”
“No-no. I just meant, I’ve got to have other names than just Bob and Joe and Dave. This Dave — what was his last name?”
“I don’t know. Linda didn’t introduce her friends that way. She’d just say, ‘Meet Bob.’ ”
“And your boy friends?”
“Marshall Tan...” Linda caught herself. “What’s the idea?”
“Marshall Tan... you started to say.”
“Marshall Tanner. But that’s got nothing to do with this. You’re investigating Susan, not me.”
“Well, what else can you tell me about Susan?”
“That’s about all. She went out one evening a week ago and hasn’t returned.”
“Not even for her clothes?”
“Everything’s just as she left it. Except...” She stopped.
“Except what?”
“Her personal things. Her... her letters and things like that.”
“She’s taken them out? When?”
“I don’t know. I really didn’t look until yesterday. Whether she removed them a week ago or has returned since and gotten them, I don’t know.”
“Did it ever strike you that this Susan might just have decided to move out on you?”
“And leave a mink stole?”
“I see what you mean.” Joe nodded thoughtfully. “Now, her description...”
“I can do better than that. Here’s a picture of her.” Linda reached into her purse and brought out a snapshot. “I guess she forgot that I had this.”
Peel took the picture. It was the girl he had met at the Hillcrest Towers, the one who had given him her name as Linda Meadows, the one with whom Otis Beagle had corresponded.
“All right,” he said, “you’ll hear from me tomorrow.”
“You expect results that quickly?”
Peel shrugged. “I’m a fast worker. Oh — one thing more. Where can I get in touch with you during the day? You said you were working.”
She hesitated. “I don’t want you to call me where I’m working. I’ll be at home after six.”
“But in case of an emergency—”
“It can wait until after six.” She got to her feet. “Please try to find Susan as quickly as you can.”
“I will,” Joe promised.
She went out, but left the aroma of her perfume in the little office. Joe sniffed it a moment, then turned and dropped into his chair.
“Goddam Otis Beagle!” he swore.
He reached for the phone and dialed the number of the Sunset Athletic Club. The operator answered in a moment.
“I want to talk to Otis Beagle,” Joe said. “He’s probably in the card room.”
A minute or two later the operator replied, “Mr. Beagle is busy and cannot come to the telephone.”
“Tell him it’s important,” Joe exclaimed. “He’s got to talk to me...”
“One moment, please.”
A long minute went by and then the operator said, “Mr. Beagle says that it can’t be as important as the five spades he has just bid and if this happens to be Joe Peel to... to drop dead!”
Peel slammed down the receiver and swore again. “Goddam Otis Beagle!” He gave it more feeling than the first time.
He shot a quick look around the office, then went to the door and unsnapped the catch lock. Deliberately leaving on the lights, he went out.
Out on the street he walked down to Hollywood Boulevard and looked to the left. His eye caught the marquee of a theater, advertising a double bill he had not seen.
4
It was twenty minutes to seven when Peel came out of the theater and the morning papers were just being put out on the newsstand. He bought a Times and Examiner and went into the coffee shop on the corner.
He ordered a T-bone steak, then opened the newspapers. The Times carried the headline: “MAN FOUND SLAIN ON MULHOLLAND.” The Examiner worded it: “HOLLYWOOD HILLS SLAYING.”
The Examiner subhead read: “Prominent Sportsman’s Body Found on Mulholland Drive in Mystery Slaying.” The account was sketchy, the information apparently having been received just before the paper went to press. It merely told that a man identified as David Corey had been found on Mulholland Drive near Laurel Canyon in the late afternoon. The police stated that Corey was a habitué of night clubs and seemed to know many sporting figures. Death was due to a bullet wound in the forehead.
The story in the Times was similarly skimpy. Peel refolded the papers, ate his steak and after paying the check, stepped into the phone booth. But with a coin ready to drop into the slot he exclaimed and put the money back into his pocket.
He returned to the counter, scooped up his papers and left the coffee shop.
The lettering on the ground glass door read: Iowa Lee, Registrar, Hours 2–6 7-11. Nicely vague to all but the initiate.
Peel pushed open the door and the strains of “When You and I Were Young, Maggie” assailed his ears. He found himself in a plainly furnished reception room. Two other doors opened off the room, one leading straight to the rear and another to the left. The music came from the rear door.
A girl, who accentuated her plainness by wearing elongated horn-rim glasses and hair pulled straight back and knotted on the nape of her neck, sat behind a scarred desk in the reception room. She looked up from a pamphlet she was reading.
“Yes?”
“I’m lonely,” Peel said.
“Who isn’t?” the girl retorted.
Peel reached into his pocket and brought out a scrap of newspaper print. He held it up and read, “Lonely? Join our Social Club. All ages. Iowa Lee, Registrar, Macaulay Bldg. 2–6, 7-11. This is the place, isn’t it?”
“It is, but...” The girl frowned a little. “You don’t look like the type.”
“What is a lonely man supposed to look like?” Peel demanded. “I’m a stranger in town and I’m too bashful to go to dance halls and pick up girls.”
“Our gentlemen members,” the receptionist said, “don’t pick up girls. They are properly introduced to the female members of the club. We have little get-togethers.”
“Like now?” asked Peel, nodding toward the door from which the music came. “It’s between seven and eleven.”
The girl picked up a phone, pressed a buzzer. “Just a moment.” Then she spoke into the phone. “Could you come out, Miss Lee?” She replaced the phone on the prongs. The door at the side of the room opened immediately and Joe Peel could scarcely restrain a low whistle of admiration.
Iowa Lee came into the reception room; she brought with her the breath of spring, the whiff of flowers — orchids. She was a fairly tall girl, with golden hair and a complexion that almost matched. She had a figure like, well, like every girl would like to have and almost never has.
She could have been twenty-five and might have been thirty, but if she’d told you she was only twenty-one you’d have believed her. In the proper background you’d have believed anything she told you.
“Miss Lee,” the receptionist said, “this gentleman is inquiring about the club.”
Iowa Lee gave Joe Peel the full power of her eyes; they were blue, with just a tinge of green. She held out her hand. Joe grabbed it.
“I’m Iowa Lee,” she said. “Welcome to our little club.”
“Uh, sure,” said Peel. “Sure.”
Iowa Lee disengaged her hand smoothly from Peel’s grip. “If you’ll give Miss Anderson your name and a few statistics I’ll introduce you to some of the members.”