Boston craned his head around. “If there’s fifty I’m countin’ some of ’em twice. How the hell can they pay the nut with such a small attendance?”
“The entry fees. There must be around two thousand chickens in here and the entry fee for each chicken is at least a dollar and a half. The prize money doesn’t amount to much and I guess the paid admissions are velvet—if they get any, which I doubt.”
“Twenty thousand, bah!” snorted Boston. “Well, do we go back?”
“Where? Our only chance was to stay in our room. I’ll bet the manager changed the lock the minute we left it.”
“So what?”
“So I get to work. For the dear old Eagle Hotel.”
Quade ploughed through an aisle to the far end of the auditorium. Commercial exhibits were contained in booths all around the four sides of the huge room, but Quade found a small spot that had been overlooked and pushed a couple of chicken coops into the space.
Then he climbed up on the coops and began talking.
The Human Encyclopedia’s voice was an amazing one. People who heard it always marveled that such a tremendous voice could come from so lean a man. Speaking without noticeable effort, his voice rolled out across the chicken coops.
“I’m Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia,” he boomed. “I have the greatest brain in the entire country. I know the answers to all questions, what came first, the chicken or the egg, every historical date since the beginning of time, the population of every city in the country, how to eradicate mice in your poultry yards, how to mix feeds to make your chickens lay more eggs. Everything. Everything under the sun. On any subject: history, science, agriculture, and mathematics.”
The scattered persons in the auditorium began to converge upon Quade’s stand. Inside of two minutes three-fourths of the people in the building were gathered before Quade and the rest were on their way. He continued his preliminary build-up in his rich, powerful voice.
“Ask me a question, someone. Let me prove that I’m the Human Encyclopedia, the man who knows the answers to all questions. Try me out, someone, on any subject; history, science, mathematics, agriculture—anything at all!”
Quade stabbed out his lean forefinger at a middle-aged, sawed-off man wearing a tan smock. “You, sir, ask me a question?”
The man flushed at being singled out of the crowd. “Why, uh, I don’t know of any … Yes, I do. What’s the highest official egg record ever made by a hen?”
“That’s the stuff,” smiled Quade. He held out his hand dramatically. “That’s a good question, but an easy one to answer. The highest record ever made by a hen in an American official egg-laying contest is three hundred and forty-two eggs. It was made in 1930 at the Athens, Georgia, Egg-Laying Contest, by a Single-Comb White Leghorn. Am I right, Mister?”
The sawed-off man nodded grudgingly. “Yeah, but I don’t see how you knew it. Most poultry folks don’t even remember it.”
“Oh, but you forget I told you I had the greatest brain in the country. I know the answer to all questions on any subject. Don’t bother to ask me simple poultry questions. Try me on something hard. You—” he picked out a lean, dour looking man. “Ask me something hard.”
The man bit his lip a moment, then said:
“All right, what State has the longest coast line?”
Quade grinned. “Ah, you’re trying the tricky stuff. But you can’t fool me. Most folks would say California or Florida. But the correct answer is Michigan. And to head off the rest of you on the trick geography questions let me say right away that Kentucky has the largest number of other states touching it and Minnesota has the farthest northern point of any State. Next question!”
A young fellow wearing pince-nez put his tongue into his cheek and asked, “Why and how does a cat purr?”
“Oh-oh!” Quade craned his neck to stare at the young fellow. “I see we have a student with us. Well, young man, you’ve asked a question so difficult that practically every university professor in this country would be stumped by it. But I’m not. It so happens that I read a recent paper by Professor E. L. Gibbs of the Harvard Medical School in which he gave the results of his experiments on four hundred cats to learn the answer to that very same question. The first part of the question is simple enough—the cat purrs when it is contented, but to explain the actual act of purring is a little more difficult. Contentment in a cat relaxes the infundibular nerve in the brain, which reacts upon the pituitary and bronchial organs and makes the purring sound issue from the cat’s throat … Try that one on your friends, sometime. Someone else try me on a question.”
“I’d like to ask one,” said a clear, feminine voice. Quade’s eyes lit up. He had already noticed the girl, the only female in his audience. She was amazingly pretty, the type of a girl he would scarcely have expected to find at a poultry show. She was young, not more than twenty-one, and she had the finest chiseled features Quade had ever seen. She was a blonde and the rakish green hat and green coat she wore, although inexpensive, looked exceedingly well on her.
“Yes, what is the question?” he asked, leaning forward a bit.
The girl’s chin came up defiantly. “I just want to know why certain poultry judges allow dyed birds to be judged for prizes!”
A sudden rumble went up in the crowd and Quade saw the sawed-off man in the tan smock whirl and glare angrily at the girl
“Oh-oh,” Quade said. “You seem to have asked a delicate question. Well, I’ll answer it just the same. Any judge who allows a dyed Rhode Island Red to stay in the class is either an ignorant fool—or a crook!”
“Damn you!” roared the little man, turning back to Quade. “You can’t say that to me. I’ll—I’ll have you thrown out of here.” He started pushing his way through the crowd, heading in the direction of the front office.
“If the shoe fits, put it on,” Quade called after him. Then to the girl, “Who’s he?”
“A judge here. Stone’s his name.”
“Well, let’s get on with the show,” Quade said to the crowd. “Next question?”
Quade had lost nothing by his bold answer to the girl’s question. The audience warmed to him and the questions came fast and furious.
“Who was the eleventh president of the United States?”
“What is the Magna Charta?”
“Who was the 1896 Olympic 220-meter champion?”
“How do you cure scaly legs in chickens?”
“How far is Saturn from the earth?”
Quade answered all the questions put to him, with lightning rapidity. But suddenly he called a dramatic halt. “That’s all the questions, folks. Now let me show you how you can learn all the answers yourselves to every question that has just been asked—and ten thousand more.”
He held out his hands and Charlie Boston tossed a thick book into them which he had taken from the suitcase they had brought with them. Quade began ruffling the pages.
“They’re all in here. This, my friends, is the ‘Compendium of Human Knowledge,’ the greatest book of its kind ever published. Twelve hundred pages, crammed with facts, information every one of you should know. The knowledge of the ages, condensed, classified, abbreviated. A complete high-school education in one volume. Ten minutes a day and this book will make you the most learned person in your community!”
Quade lowered his voice to a confidential pitch. “Friends, I’m going to astonish you by telling you the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard: The price of this book. What do you think I’m asking for it? Twenty-five dollars? No, not even twenty … or fifteen. In fact, not even ten or five dollars. Just a mere, paltry, insignificant two dollars and ninety-five cents. But I’m only going to offer these books once at that price. Two-ninety-five, and here I come!”
Quade leaped down from his platform to attack his audience, supposedly built up to the buying pitch. But he was destined not
to sell any books just then. Charlie Boston tugged at his coat sleeve.
“Look, Ollie!” he whispered hoarsely. “He got the cops!”
Quade raised himself to his toes to look over the chicken coops. He groaned. For the short man in the tan smock was coming up the center aisle leading a small procession of policemen.
Quade sighed. “Put the books back into the suitcase, Charlie.” He leaned against a poultry coop and waited to submit quietly to the arrest.
But the policemen did not come toward him. Reaching the center aisle the man in the tan smock wheeled to the left, away from Quade, and the police followed him.
Quade’s audience saw the police. Two or three persons broke away and started toward the other side of the building. The movement started a stampede and in a moment Charlie Boston and Quade were left alone.
“Something seems to have happened over there,” Quade observed. “Wonder what?”
“From the mob of cops I’d say a murder,” Boston replied dryly.
The word “murder” was scarcely out of Boston’s mouth than it was hurled back at them from across the auditorium.
“It is a murder!” Quade gasped.
“This is no place for us, then,” cried Boston. “Let’s scram!”
He caught up the suitcase containing the books and started off. But Quade called him back. “That’s no good. There’s a cop at the door. We’ll have to stick.”
“Chickens!” howled Boston. “The minute you mentioned them at the hotel I had a hunch that something was going to happen. And I’ll bet a plugged dime, which I haven’t got, that we get mixed up in it.”
“Maybe so, Charlie. But if I know cops there’s going to be a lot of questioning and my hunch is that we’ll be better off if we’re not too upstage. Let’s go over and find out what’s what.”
He started toward the other side of the auditorium. Boston followed, lugging the suitcase and grumbling.
All of the crowd was gathered in front of a huge, mahogany cabinet—a mammoth incubator. The door of the machine was standing open and two or three men were moving around inside.
Quade drew in his breath sharply when he saw the huddled body lying on the floor just inside the door of the incubator. Gently he began working his way through the crowd until he stood in front of the open incubator door.
The small group came out of the incubator and a beetle-browed man in a camel’s hair overcoat and Homburg hat squared himself off before the girl in the green hat and coat. The man in the tan smock, his head coming scarcely up to the armpits of the big man, hopped around like a bantam rooster.
“I understand you had a quarrel with him yesterday,” the big man said to the girl. “What about?”
The girl drew herself up to her full height. “Because his birds were dyed and the judge—the man behind you—refused to throw them out. That’s why!”
The bantam sputtered. “She—why, that’s a damn lie!”
The big detective turned abruptly, put a ham-like hand against the chest of the runt and shoved him back against the incubator with so much force that the little man gasped in pain.
“Listen, squirt,” the detective said. “Nothing’s been proved against this girl and until it is, she’s a lady. Up here we don’t call ladies liars.”
He turned back to the girl and said with gruff kindness, “Now, Miss, let’s have the story.”
“There’s no story,” declared the girl. “I did quarrel with him, just like I did with Judge Stone. But—but I haven’t seen Mr. Tupper since yesterday evening. That’s all I can tell you because it’s all I know.”
“Yesterday, huh.” The detective looked around the circle. “Anybody see him here today?”
“Yes, of course,” said a stocky man of about forty-five. “I was talking to him early this morning, before the place was opened to the public. There were a dozen or more of us around then.”
“You’re the boss of this shebang?”
“Not exactly. Our poultry association operates this show. I’m Leo Cassmer, the secretary, and I’m in charge of the exhibits, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” replied the detective. “You’re the boss. You know the exhibitors then. All right, who were here early this morning when this Tupper fellow was around?”
Cassmer, the show secretary, rubbed his chin. “Why, there was myself, Judge Stone, Ralph Conway, the Wyandotte man, Judge Welheimer and several of the men who work around here.”
“And Miss Martin—was she here?”
“She came in before the place was officially opened, but she wasn’t around the last time I saw Tupper.”
“Who’re Welheimer and Conway?”
A tall, silver-haired man stepped out of the crowd. “Conway’s my name.”
“And the judge?” persisted the detective.
A long-nosed man with a protruding lower lip came grudgingly out of the crowd. “I’m Judge Welheimer.”
“You a real judge or just a chicken judge?”
“Why, uh, just a poultry judge. Licensed by the National Poultry Association.”
“And you don’t hold any public office at all? You’re not even a justice of the peace?”
The long-nosed chicken judge reddened. He shook his head.
The detective’s eyes sparkled. “That’s fine. All that talk about judges had me worried for a bit. But listen, you chicken judges and the rest of you. I’m Sergeant Dickinson of the Homicide Squad of this town. There’s been a murder committed here and I’m investigating it. Which means I’m boss around here. Get me?”
Quade couldn’t quite restrain a snicker. The sergeant’s sharp ears heard it and he singled out Quade.
“And who the hell are you?”
“Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia,” Quade replied glibly. “I know the answers to all questions—”
Sergeant Dickinson’s face twisted. “Ribbing me ha? Step up here where I can get a good look at you.”
Quade remained where he was. “There’s a dead man in there. I don’t like to get too close to dead people.”
The sergeant took a half step toward Quade, but then stopped himself. He tried to smooth out his face, but it was still dark with anger.
“I’ll get around to you in a minute, fella.” He turned belligerently to the show secretary. “You, who found the body?”
Cassmer pointed to a pasty-faced young fellow of about thirty. The man grinned sickly.
“Yeah, I got in kinda late and started straightening things around. Then I saw that someone had stuck that long staple in the door latch. I didn’t think much about it and opened the door and there—there he was lying on the floor. Deader’n a mackerel!”
“You work for this incubator company?” the sergeant asked.
The young fellow nodded. “I’m the regional sales manager. Charge of this exhibit. It’s the finest incubator on the market. Used by the best breeders and hatcherymen.”
“Can the sales talk,” growled the detective. “I’m not going to buy one. Let’s go back on your story. What made you say this man was murdered?”
“What else could it be? He was dead and the door was locked on the outside.”
“I know that. But couldn’t he have died of heart failure? There’s plenty of air in that thing and besides there’s a ventilator hole up there.”
“He was murdered,” said Quade.
Sergeant Dickinson whirled. “And how do you know?”
“By looking at the body. Anyone could tell it was murder.”
“Oh yeah? Maybe you’ll tell me how he was killed. There ain’t a mark on his body.”
“No marks of violence, because he wasn’t killed that way. He was killed with a poison gas. Something containing cyanogen.”
The sergeant clamped his jaws together. “Go on! Who killed him?”
Quade shook his head. “No, that’s your job. I’ve given you enough to start with.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” said the sergeant. “So much so that I’m going to arrest you!”
Charlie Boston groaned into Quade’s ears. “Won’t you ever learn to keep your mouth shut?”
But Quade merely grinned insolently. “If you arrest me I’ll sue you for false arrest.”
“I’ll take a chance on that,” said the detective. “No one could know as much as you do and not have had something to do with the murder.”
“You’re being very stupid, Sergeant,” Quade said. “These men told you they hadn’t seen Tupper alive for several hours. He’s been dead at least three. And I just came into this building fifteen minutes ago.”
“He’s right,” declared Anne Martin. “I saw him come in. He and his friend. They went straight over to the other side of the building and started that sales talk.”
“What sales talk?”
The little poultry judge hopped in again. “He’s a damn pitchman. Pulls some phony question and answer stuff and insults people. Claims he’s the smartest man in the world. Bah!”
“Bah to you!” said Quade.
“Cut it,” cried Sergeant Dickinson. “I want to get the straight of this. You,” he turned to Cassmer. “Did he really come in fifteen minutes ago?”
Cassmer shrugged. “I never saw him until a few minutes ago. But there’s the ticket-taker. He’d know.”
The ticket-taker, whose post had been taken over by a policeman, frowned. “Yeah, he came in just a little while ago. I got plenty reason to remember. Him and his pal crashed the gate. On me! First time anyone crashed the gate on me in eight years. But he was damn slick. He—”
“Never mind the details,” sighed Sergeant Dickinson. “I can imagine he was slick about it. Well, Mister, you didn’t kill him. But tell me—how the hell do you know he was gassed with cy—cyanide?”
“Cyanogen. It’s got prussic acid in it. All right, the body was found inside the incubator, the door locked on the outside. That means someone locked him inside the incubator. The person who killed him. Right so far?”
Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia Page 4
