Quade grinned. “None of them do, Charlie.” His eyes went to Becker. The fox raiser wasn’t at all disconcerted by the arrival of all the guests.
“Our friend Becker has counted the gate and seems quite pleased.”
“Yeah,” said Boston, “he’s figuring on charging everyone for room and board. Except us.”
“Oh, he won’t lose by that,” said Quade. “He’ll just charge the others a little more.”
McGregor, the saturnine passenger, moved over to Quade. “Did you see in the plane?” he asked.
Quade nodded. “Who did it?”
McGregor shrugged. “We were going along smooth, see. Then all of a sudden the motor began missing. Everybody got excited and then, boom, we hit. First thing I knew, we were all out on the snow.”
“But didn’t you hear the shot?” Quade persisted.
“Me, all I could hear was Gabriel’s horn.”
Gustave Lund, the skater’s partner, said: “What do you mean, shot?”
Quade looked at him. “Don’t you know?”
“I don’t know anything!” Lund said bitterly. “I’m not supposed to know anything. I’m just a stooge. Olga, she’s the smart one, and Slade.”
Slade bounced up from the sofa. “Now lookit, Lund, don’t start in on Olga again! I’ve warned you about that! You’re just paid to skate with her!”
“Slade,” Lund said coldly. “I don’t like you!”
“Boys! Boys!” Olga said placatingly. “Don’t start fighting! I won’t have it! I’ve had enough for one day!”
“Folks,” Quade announced, “it seems that some of you don’t know all that’s happened. The pilot of your plane wasn’t killed by the crash. He died because some one of you put a bullet in his head!”
Quade’s statement stunned the entire room. Only for a moment, however. Then Olga Larsen screamed. Bill Morgan strode angrily across the room.
“Why did you have to spill that?” he demanded.
“Oh,” said Quade, “you knew?”
“Of course I knew, but I wasn’t telling them.”
“Why not?” asked Quade bluntly. “Because you were in the cockpit with him?”
Morgan’s eyes gleamed. “I was with him when we crashed but I didn’t shoot him.”
“But who did?” cried Slade. “You were the only one up front. All of us were fastened in our seats with the belts.”
“That isn’t so, Mr. Slade,” said Mona, the hostess. “If you’ll think back calmly, you’ll know that everyone started jumping around. As far as I am concerned, I helped only Miss Larsen.”
Morgan smiled gratefully at Mona. “Thanks, Mona. Then someone could have opened the door and stuck in a gun!”
“But why would anyone do that?” exclaimed Gustave Lund. “It seems that someone wanted to make sure the pilot was killed!”
“Julius!” That was Karl Becker.
Quade looked at the German fox breeder. His face was white. Julius came hurrying out of the kitchen.
“Julius!” the German said. “Someone’s been murdered around here. I don’t like it. I want you should go tell Oscar and Hugo. Make sure the t’ief alarms are set, and,” he jabbed a stubby finger at Julius, “you know, the guns, too.”
Julius bowed his head and started for the door. He didn’t reach it, however. The door was opened from the outside, and two men stepped into the heated room.
“Hello, folks,” one of them said.
There was a huge gun in his fist. It was a .45 automatic, and it was pointed carelessly in the general direction of the occupants of the lodge.
“Eeek!” screamed Olga Larsen.
“Oh, oh!” said Quade.
Beside him Charlie Boston’s teeth clicked. Karl Becker almost fainted when he saw the gun in the newcomer’s hand.
“Who,” he faltered, “who are you? Vot you vant?”
“Guess,” grinned the gun wielder. He was a square-built man, standing about five feet ten, but so heavily built that he weighed over two hundred pounds. He wore a heavy camel’s hair coat which made him seem more burly even than he actually was. The man with him was short and slight. Swarthy. There was a gun in his hand too.
“You, you’re a hold-up man!” cried Karl Becker. “You want our money. I don’t keep none here. I only got six-seven dollars in the whole house.”
He looked sidewise at the others in the room, but his anxiety did not seem to lessen.
“I’ll bet you’re Karl Becker!” said the big gunman. “I heard about you. You’d sell the gold in your mother’s false teeth. Well, Becker, I’ll take your six-seven dollars for cigarette money, but that ain’t why I came up here to the North Pole. I guess you know that, don’t you, Becker?”
Karl Becker’s teeth chattered. “Uh—uh, I don’t know.”
“You got some foxes out there,” said the gunman. “Maybe you got some skins, too. I like fox skins. Louis, here, does too. We read about you in the newspaper a while ago; so we thought we would come and see you and maybe take along a few pelts.”
“Och Gott!” cried Becker.
Quade whistled. “This is going to be sad,” he said to Charlie Boston.
The gunman had sharp ears. He heard.
“Ain’t it though?” he said.
Olga Larsen contributed her silver fox vocabulary. “Silver foxes, Mr. Becker? You raise them? I have always meant to buy a beautiful silver fox coat.”
“If you’ve got the money to lay on the line,” said the gunman, “I’ll sell you a few pelts, Miss.”
The swarthy gunman nudged his bigger partner. “Hey, Willie, dat dame, I know her. I seen her somewhere.”
Willie looked hard at Olga Larsen. “Yeah, Louie, I have too. Sister, what’s your name?”
Ben Slade couldn’t contain his managerial pride. “This is Olga Larsen,” he announced.
“Olga Larsen!” gasped Louis. “The ice skater!”
“Movie star,” murmured Willie. He looked in awe at Olga Larsen. “Lady, I seen you in Queen of the Ice. You wasn’t bad, not bad at all.”
“Thank you,” said Olga frigidly.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Willie. “I don’t mind telling you you’re good. Me, I’m good in my own line, too. I always like to meet people who are tops in what they’re doing.”
“You’re Willie Scharnhorst, aren’t you?” Quade asked.
Willie inhaled. “Yeah, sure, but look, pal, I don’t like the Willie stuff from strangers. Call me Bill, and we’ll get along.”
“Willie Scharnhorst,” cut in Boston, “he’s the guy who snatched that butter and egg man down in St. Louis, ain’t he?”
“Now, now,” chided Scharnhorst, “you mustn’t believe all the papers say. They say I did it, and I ain’t saying I didn’t. I ain’t saying I did, either. Anyway, he didn’t shell out.”
“Aw, cut it!” groused Louie. “We didn’t come here to tell everyone our business. We came to do something; let’s do it and get out of here.”
“Yeah,” said Scharnhorst, “the fox pelts. Break them out, Becker.”
“Vot do you mean, break them out?” cried Becker. “They are out, out there on the foxes. It’ll take two weeks to get them off.”
“You wouldn’t fool me, Becker,” jeered Scharnhorst. “You finished pelting your animals two days ago, and somewhere around here you got three or four thousand skins all ready for me to load up into my truck outside.”
Becker groaned. “Thirty-two hundred pelts! A year’s income! Och, why did I ever go into this foolishness business!”
“To make money, you tight-fisted Dutchman!” said Scharnhorst.
Quade grinned. Scharnhorst was as much of a Dutchman as Becker. The newspapers’ pet term for him was “The Mad Dutchman.”
Becker threw up his hands. “The skins are out in the drying sheds.”
/>
“You mean I got to go around and bale them up?” Scharnhorst frowned.
“Not if you don’t want to,” cut in Quade. “If you’ll leave your name and address, we’ll be glad to pack them up and ship them to you.”
“Wise guy!” said Scharnhorst. He turned to his pal, Louie. “Well, Louie, it’s going to be a little harder than we figured, but for a hundred and fifty grand, we don’t mind doing a little work, do we?”
“How much work?” asked Louie.
Scharnhorst grinned. “You heard him say the pelts are in the drying sheds. You take these boys and have them gather them up and load them into the truck. Me, I’ll stick here and see that none of these folks run to call a cop.”
“The police are miles away,” said Becker, “and I ain’t even got no telephone.”
“I know that,” said Scharnhorst. “You’re too stingy to have one put in. I know lots of things about you, Becker. I cased this joint for quite a while.”
“Look, Willie,” said Louie, “it’s snowing like hell outside; it’s cold. Why do I have to be the one to go outside?”
“’Cause I’m the boss,” replied Scharnhorst, “And the boss always takes it easy. Go on now. The sooner you get the pelts in the truck, the sooner we get out of here.”
Louie stabbed his gun at Oscar, then Julius. “All right, you fellows, come on. Let’s get busy! I’m warning you, I’m sore already. You fellows make any bad moves, and I’ll skin you too!”
The three of them left the room. Scharnhorst pulled up a chair near the door and dropped into it. He dangled his gun carelessly between his knees.
“Relax, folks. It’ll take Louie a while to get the skins baled together, and there’s no reason we can’t make ourselves comfortable…. Say, Miss Larsen, how about you giving us a song, that song maybe that you sang in ‘Queen of the Ice’?”
“I don’t want to sing,” said Olga Larsen coldly. “I don’t like you, and I am not used to having guns waved in my face. Please go away!”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Willie Scharnhorst. “So you don’t like me. Well, I don’t mind. I like you just the same.”
“Mr. Scharnhorst,” said Ben Slade suddenly, “we’ve been in an airplane accident. We’re nervous and excited. Please let us alone.”
“Who are you?” asked Scharnhorst.
“Slade’s my name. I’m Miss Larsen’s manager.”
Quade nudged Charlie Boston. “All right, Charlie, here we go.”
“Folks!” Quade announced in a sudden, dramatic voice. “I’m Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia. I’m probably the smartest man in the entire state of Wisconsin! I know the answers to all questions!”
His voice rose until it filled the entire room. It was an amazing voice, vibrant and clear. It would have done credit to the best political orator of a national convention. The entire group jerked to attention.
“I see doubt in your faces,” he cried. “You think I’m crazy! I’m not. I’m the Human Encyclopedia, and I know the answers to everything! I can answer any question any of you can ask me on any subject—history, mathematics, geography, business or sports! Try me out with a question, someone!”
Those in the room were staring at Quade in open-mouthed astonishment, all except Karl Becker. He had sampled Quade before.
“What’s this,” demanded Scharnhorst, “a new game?”
“Call it that,” Quade shot back at him, “and ask me something.”
Scharnhorst screwed up his mouth. You could almost hear him think. After a moment his face twisted into what Quade guessed was brilliance. “I got something!” exclaimed Scharnhorst. “Who was called the father of this country?”
Quade looked hard at Scharnhorst. “Is that your idea of a difficult question?”
“Why not?” demanded Scharnhorst. “When I applied for my citizenship papers four years ago, they asked me that. I got mixed up, too. I told ’em Congress.”
Charlie Boston guffawed.
“Oh, you’re another smart guy, huh?” snapped Willie Scharnhorst. “You know all the answers, huh? Well, I did too. The saloon-keeper on the corner told me they always ask first who makes the laws for this country and second, who’s called the father of this country. Well, the judge made a mistake and asked me the second question first and I give him the answer to the first. Was it my fault the judge didn’t know his stuff?”
Quade kept a straight face. “Well, we’ll just skip your question, Willie. Someone else, please, ask me something. Anything.”
“I’ll play,” said Bill Morgan. “I used to fly down in South America. Look, Quade, what’s the chief product exported from Chile?”
“Nitrate,” Quade replied laconically. “It constitutes more than half of all Chile’s exports. The total value of the Chilean nitrate exported every year is $100,000,000 of which the government through taxation gets approximately $20,000,000.”
Murmurs went around the room at that. “You’re dead right!” exclaimed Bill Morgan. “But I’ve got another question—”
“One to a customer,” said Quade. “Miss Lane, what about you?”
“I was just thinking,” smiled the air hostess. “I lived in England a while. So I’ll ask an English question. ‘What is a galee?’”
“A coal miner. A man who operates a coal mine under a government lease, which is called a gale.”
The saturnine, lean Alan McGregor threw in a question, then. “How far is it from St. Louis to Chicago?”
“Two hundred and eighty-five miles,” Quade replied quickly.
And now the game took on. Olga Larsen asked a question, then Ben Slade. Gustave Lund, too. He answered every question thrown at him, quickly and accurately. But suddenly he called a halt.
“And now I’m going to show you how you yourselves can learn the answers to all questions anyone can ask you! I’m going to give each one of you an opportunity to be a Human Encyclopedia!”
Charlie Boston was fumbling with the bag he had lugged with him earlier in the evening. He opened it and produced a thick volume. He handed it to Quade.
“Here it is, folks, The Compendium of Human Knowledge, the knowledge of the ages in one volume! Twelve hundred pages of facts and knowledge! The answers to any questions anyone can ever ask you! A complete education crammed into one volume! And folks,” Quade leaned forward and lowered his voice, “what do you think I am asking for this marvelous book, this complete college education? Twenty-five dollars? Twenty? No, not even fifteen, or ten, or five! Just a measly two dollars and ninety-five cents. Think of it, folks! Twelve hundred pages of education for only two dollars and ninety-five cents! Charlie, the gentleman over there.” He pointed at Willie Scharnhorst.
Charlie Boston had his hands full, his arms full of books. He strode briskly across the room.
“Here you are, Willie,” he said, “and worth its weight in silver fox skins!”
Willie Scharnhorst looked stupidly at the grinning Boston, and then he reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a fistfull of bills. Charlie whisked away three of the bills expertly and dropped the copy of The Compendium of Human Knowledge on Scharnhorst’s lap. He turned away abruptly and attacked the others in the room.
In the meantime Quade was continuing his exhortation. Boston sold more copies of the book, one to Bill Morgan, one to Alan McGregor. He passed up Mona Lane—because he liked her—and forced one upon Olga Larsen, who protested. Boston ignored her and collected from Ben Slade for two volumes. Charlie paused before Gustave Lund, but Lund wasn’t having any. Charlie grinned wickedly at Karl Becker and said:
“It wouldn’t do you any good. You couldn’t read English!”
“Phooie!” said Becker. “What’s this business anyway? What did I do, that all this should happen to me in one day? I don’t like it, I tell you.”
“Neither do I,” groaned Gustave Lund. “First the airp
lane, then a man murdered, and now this craziness!”
Willie Scharnhorst was fumbling around with his newly purchased copy of The Compendium of Human Knowledge. His ears heard the word “murder.”
“Someone get killed when the airplane fell?”
“Somebody got killed all right,” said Alan McGregor. “But it wasn’t by the crash. It was a bullet right smack in the back of his head!”
Quade, looking at Scharnhorst, saw the startled expression that leaped into his eyes.
“Why should anyone want to shoot someone in an airplane?” Willie asked.
“That’s a question we were talking about when you broke in with your pal,” replied Quade. “It’s the screwiest situation I ever heard of; the airplane crashes, and then we find that the pilot is dead with a bullet in his head.”
“Were you on the plane?” asked Scharnhorst.
“No, that’s one thing I can’t be blamed for. The person who murdered the pilot is one of these others.” He waved a hand about the room.
Willie Scharnhorst’s eyes went around the room. He passed over Morgan, the co-pilot, still with Mona, the hostess, looked long at Alan McGregor and passed on to the two ice skaters and their manager. His eyes went back to McGregor. After a moment he said:
“You, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
McGregor looked steadily at Scharnhorst. “I don’t know. Have you?”
“I’m asking you.”
“Were we ever in the same police line-up?” asked McGregor, a slight sneer in his tone.
“Yeah,” said Scharnhorst thoughtfully. “I think I remember now. Only it wasn’t in a police line-up that I saw you. It was in Duke Kennard’s place in Kansas City. Remember?”
“My memory’s very bad,” replied McGregor.
Willie Scharnhorst got up from his chair, laid the book on it and walked slowly toward McGregor. When he was three or four feet away, he made a swift movement which brought him behind McGregor. He stabbed his gun into the lean man’s spine and frisked him quickly. The result was a pearl-handled .32 automatic. He backed away.
“That was very careless of me,” he said. “I should have had Louie frisk everyone here.”
Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia Page 23
