Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia

by Gruber, Frank

  “Nuts!” said Charlie Boston.

  At Fourth and Hennepin, Quade made a left turn and drove the flivver two blocks south. Then he squeezed it in between a taxi and a fireplug.

  They climbed out and went into the Eagle Hotel, a fourth-rate firetrap, that was patronized by lumberjacks, farm hands and traveling citizens who could not pay more than a dollar a day for a hotel room.

  Quade called for his key and when the clerk handed it to him, he said jokingly: “Julius, in what year was fought the Battle of Hastings?”

  Julius said: “1066. It established the supremacy of the Normans in England.”

  Quade gasped. “Why, Julius!”

  The hotel clerk grinned. “Try me on Ancient history. I’m particularly good on Phoenician and Chaldean.”

  Quade fled to the elevators.

  Up in their room, Quade took a quick shower, then brushed his suit and touched up his shoes with a towel. Boston went into the bathroom and when he came out, Quade was sprawled on the bed, reading Arnold’s American History.

  Boston scowled. “Why don’t you take it along tonight?” he asked.

  “A very good idea, Charlie.” Quade rose and tucked the book under his arm. “Let’s go.”

  Quade followed Hennepin to Lindell, then turned into the south boulevard and cruised along for more than a half-hour.

  Finally he pulled up before a two-story frame house. “Here’s the number.”

  He blew the horn and the girls, Mildred Rogers and Linda Starr, came out. They were dressed in semi-formal evening dresses. “Ha,” said Quade, “you should have told us and we’d have got our dinner jackets out of the mothballs.”

  The girls were looking dubiously at the ancient flivver. Linda said, “I suppose your chauffeur has the limousine tonight?”

  “Never judge a man by the car he drives,” retorted Quade. “Climb in and we’ll be off to a nice Greasy Spoon and a quiet country road.”

  “The road’s all right,” retorted Linda Starr, “as long as you don’t stop on it before we get to The Poplars, which is halfway between here and Lake Excelsior. And if you don’t have at least three gallons of gasoline in the car and ten dollars, we don’t step into this pile of junk.”

  “By a coincidence,” laughed Quade, “we have just that much money. So climb in.”

  They arranged themselves in the flivver. Boston and Mildred in front and Quade with Linda in the rear. Linda saw the book in Quade’s hands.

  “Your homework?”

  “My history lesson. D’you know, Linda, who won the Battle of Gettysburg?”

  “The United States.”

  “Ha, I had in mind a more specific answer, such as which general.”

  “Abraham Lincoln.”

  “Perhaps we’d better skip the history lesson.”

  “Hooray! I never liked it myself. I always got D’s. Now it’s my turn. What do you think of Benny Goodman?”

  He told her and she sulked all the way out to The Poplars, which turned out to be a huge roadhouse with great neon signs and a parking lot that already contained more than a hundred cars.

  They went in and got a table for four and when they had seated themselves, Quade saw Colby, the manager of the Arnold Publishing Company. He was in a booth with a blonde; a blonde on the voluptuous side.

  Colby’s face looked a bit sick when he saw Quade. He whispered to the blonde, then signalled to a waiter. A moment later he paid the check and the two of them got up and started for the door.

  Quade pushed back his chair. “Will you excuse me a moment?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he followed Colby and the blonde. They got outside before he reached the door and when he stepped out into the night, he saw them moving in the ghostly light shed by the neon signs, toward the parking lot.

  He went after them, calling, “Hey, Colby! Wait a minute!”

  Instead of stopping, they started running.

  “Damn!” Quade said. He bounded after the fleeing pair. When he reached the first line of cars, someone rose up out of the gloom. Quade, thinking it was the parking lot attendant, swerved to the left. A battering ram lunged out of the darkness and smacked him in the forehead. Quade went down like a log.

  Some time later he crawled to his hands and knees. He shook his head and pain darted from his head down into his body. He winced and began swearing.

  After a minute he climbed to his feet. He got out a packet of matches from his pocket and began lighting them. By their feeble light he searched the ground around where he had fallen. When he had used up the last of the matches he quit in disgust.

  He returned to the roadhouse.

  Linda Starr saw him first. “So he gave you what you deserved! Imagine trying to flirt with a man’s girl!”

  “And two shiners!” guffawed Charlie Boston.

  Linda Starr opened her purse and handed Quade a small mirror. “Look at yourself!”

  Quade looked and winced. The punch he had taken in the darkness had caught him right between the eyes, a little high or both eyes would already have been closed. As it was, they were decidedly puffy. They would be black by tomorrow.

  “What did you do with your book?” Linda asked.

  “Somebody swiped it. I was on the ground looking for it. That was a very interesting book.”

  “What was interesting about it?” asked Mildred Rogers. “I used the Arnold History in high school, only four years ago.”

  “Yes?” said Quade eagerly. “Then, do you remember—was William Clarke Quantrill a famous Confederate colonel?”

  “I don’t remember,” frowned Mildred. “I guess I was like Linda about history.”

  “You girls!” said Quade bitterly.

  Linda Starr reached again into her purse. “Here’s something may interest you, Mr. Quade.” She brought out a handkerchief, unrolled it on the table and revealed a feathered dart, with an inch and a half of pointed needle.

  Quade exclaimed, “Where did you get that?”

  “From the back drop of our lunch stand. Someone threw it at me. It missed my head by about one inch.”

  Quade inhaled sharply. “When did that happen?”

  “Right after you two left this afternoon—after the murder.”

  “What is it?” Charlie Boston asked, reaching for the dart.

  “Let it alone!” Quade slapped Boston’s hand away before it could touch the dart. Then he picked it up himself, handling it gingerly. The point, for about a half-inch, was covered with a greenish, sticky substance.

  He looked sharply at Linda. “Have you any idea what this stuff is on the point?”

  Her eyes met his, steadily. “I handled it very carefully.”

  He stared at her. She was a flippant, light-headed girl. Or was she?

  He asked softly: “When that murder happened this afternoon, were you looking?”

  “I was,” she replied. “The man who threw the dart was standing right at the edge of our stand.”

  “You saw his face?” Quade exclaimed.

  “Unfortunately, no.” She sighed. “I didn’t pay any attention to him, until I saw his arm whip forward. And then he sprang quickly around the corner. I had no more than a glimpse of him. I don’t think I could identify him.”

  “He wouldn’t know that, though,” said Quade, half-aloud. “And he must have seen me talking to you. He must’ve prepared two darts instead of only one in case he either missed the first time or had to get rid of a witness.” He laughed shortly. “And Johnson, storming all around!”

  “Look, Ollie,” said Charlie Boston. “Are you playing detective again? You promised me the last time that you were through. We always come out the wrong end on it.”

  Quade looked around the table. “Well, you’ve had a drink apiece …”

  “Why not?” retorted Boston. “You were gone twe
nty minutes. What’d you expect us to do, sit around twiddling our thumbs?”

  “So, inasmuch as I don’t want to embarrass the girls with my shiners, let’s pull out.”

  “Let’s,” said Linda Starr.

  Quade rolled the dart into Linda’s handkerchief and stowed it carefully in his breast pocket. Then he called the waiter.

  A few minutes later they reached the flivver in the parking lot. “I’ll drive this time,” Quade volunteered.

  Boston had no objections. He was even enthusiastic about the suggestion as he climbed in the back with Mildred. When they were in the car, Quade whispered to Linda.

  “Which way do I go to get to Anoka?”

  “Left,” she whispered back. “There’s a cut-off road about two miles from here. It’s about ten miles to Anoka. You’re going to follow up on that—business?”

  “Yes, but—sh!”

  But they were whispering in the rear seat, too. And after a mile or so they were quiet. Linda moved closer to Quade. There was a chill in the September air and she shivered a little.

  On the outskirts of Anoka, Quade pulled in at a filling station. “Got to get some gas,” he announced.

  Charlie Boston yawned elaborately. He did not even know where they were; did not care.

  When the attendant had filled the tank, Quade went into the station with him and paid for the gas. Then he asked: “By the way, can you tell me how to get to the residence of L. B. Arnold?”

  “Turn right on the second street. It’s the big white house in the middle of the block.”

  “And Mr. Colby, who works for Arnold?”

  “He lives at the hotel—the Fortner House.”

  “Thanks,” Quade stepped to the door, then turned back. “Ever hear of a man named Wexler?”

  “Yeah, sure, he owns the printing plant here. It’s on the other side of town.”

  Quade went back to the car. Linda nudged him gently and looked inquiringly at him. But he shook his head. He turned the car right in the second block and drew up before the Arnold house. He climbed out alone.

  Jim Stilwell opened the door to Quade.

  “What do you want?” Stilwell demanded truculently.

  “I’d like to ask Miss Arnold a question. She lives here, not you. Or have you moved in since her father got killed?”

  Stilwell blocked the doorway. “You’re not a cop. It’s none of your business. Miss Arnold’s gone through enough today. Clear out of here.”

  Quade heard movements in the house behind Stilwell. He tried to push past Ruth Arnold’s fiancé. Stilwell snarled and swung his fist. Quade ducked and used his head as a battering ram. He drove the young fellow into the house, but Stilwell was only recently out of college and had evidently played football. He chopped down and hit Quade on the back of his neck, smashing him to the floor.

  Quade clawed at the big fellow’s ankles. He heard Charlie Boston coming up the porch stairs and tried desperately to hang on until he got there. Stilwell drew back his foot to kick Quade and then Charlie Boston roared. Quade rolled aside in time to hear a loud smack. It was followed by a thump.

  When he got to his feet, Jim Stilwell was sitting on the floor and Charlie Boston stood over him.

  “Come on, get up!” Charlie invited.

  “O.K., Charlie!” said Quade. Then to Stilwell, “I only wanted to ask Miss Arnold a couple of questions.”

  Ruth Arnold was already in the vestibule, gasping at Stilwell on the floor. “What—what happened?”

  “Nothing much, Miss Arnold. I just want to ask you a question.”

  “He isn’t a cop, Ruth!” exclaimed Stilwell. “You don’t have to tell him anything.”

  “You don’t,” admitted Quade, “but it will save you trouble if you do. How much insurance did your father carry?”

  “Not much, only about five thousand dollars.”

  “See, wise guy,” exclaimed Stilwell. “You think Ruth killed him.”

  Quade shook his head. “I know she didn’t. I’m merely trying to establish a motive for the real killer.”

  “Well, you’ll have to look somewhere else. Ruth didn’t kill her father, not for a measly five thousand dollars insurance!”

  “I’d forgotten!” said Ruth Arnold. “Before the Depression, when business was good, Father took out a fifty-thousand-dollar insurance policy as president of the Arnold Publishing Company. That policy is still in effect, but it wouldn’t help me any at all, because the insurance money would go into the firm which isn’t doing well at all.”

  “You could liquidate, couldn’t you?”

  “Perhaps, but I wouldn’t. Father was proud of the business. When he took out that insurance policy, the company did a million-dollar business. It’s gone away down, but Father always said it would come back, some day.”

  Quade nodded. “Thank you, Miss Arnold.” He turned and walked out of the house.

  Out by the flivver, Linda Starr said, “So you got a few more wallops? Nice going.” He grinned and slammed into the car.

  In the rear, Charlie Boston growled, “That’s what we usually get when we play detective.”

  Quade drove back to the main street of the little town. He turned right in the next block and stopped before the hotel.

  “I won’t need you this time, Charlie,” he said, as he climbed out.

  In the lobby, he went into the telephone booth. He picked up the phone and said, “Will you give me Mr. Colby’s room.”

  A moment later Colby’s voice said, “Yes?”

  “This is Lieutenant Johnson of the St. Paul Police Department,” Quade said in a muffled voice. “I want to ask you one question.”

  “Go ahead,” Colby said wearily.

  “Was William Clarke Quantrill a Confederate colonel of cavalry?”

  He heard Colby inhale sharply before replying. “No. He was a Missouri guerilla who pretended—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Colby,” Quade said and hung up. He ran out of the hotel and said to Charlie Boston and the girls, “There’s a restaurant across the street. Let’s get that dinner we didn’t get at the roadhouse.”

  “What’s the matter with you, Ollie?” exclaimed Boston. “Why should we eat in a dump like this after we walked out on that swell joint?”

  “The food’s good here—I hope,” said Quade. “Come on, Linda.”

  Linda came willingly, but Charlie Boston and Mildred still complained when they went into the restaurant. Quade selected a table near the window and seated himself so he could look out.

  They ordered, and just as the waitress brought the food, Quade got up, abruptly. “Excuse me a minute.” He went out of the restaurant.

  Across the street, Colby was walking rapidly northward. Quade followed on his own side of the street. In the next block, Colby stopped at the door of a two-story brick building. After a moment he went inside, and a light appeared in a window.

  Quade crossed the street. Standing on his toes, he peered into the lighted room. It was furnished as an office with shelves of books on three sides. It was unoccupied. He moved to the door and found it unlocked. Drawing a deep breath, he opened the door and went inside.

  He heard noise in the room beyond the lighted office. A drawer squeaked and, as Quade stopped and listened, he heard the rustle of paper.

  He took a couple of quick steps across the office and entered the room beyond.

  “Hello, Mr. Colby,” he said. A bundle of long, narrow sheets of paper fell from Colby’s hands.

  “You!” Colby gasped. “How’d you get here?”

  Quade said, “What do you know about Quantrill, Mr. Colby?”

  The expression of fright on Colby’s face disappeared, and was replaced by a snarl.

  “So it was you!”

  Quade pointed to the long sheets of paper which were scattered on the desk before Colby
. “Checking up on the galley proofs? So you were in on it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “History,” said Quade. “Specifically, Arnold’s American History, the favorite in hundreds of high schools. I should say was because the last edition is not a favorite. It contains too many historical inaccuracies, such as, Quantrill being a Confederate colonel of cavalry, and Zachary Taylor being the first Republican candidate for president.”

  “Stupid proof readers!” exclaimed Colby.

  “And because of the proof readers’ blunders, you came down in the middle of the night to find the galley proofs? What are you going to do with them?”

  “He wasn’t going to do anything with them,” said a soft voice behind Oliver Quade.

  Quade sighed. He moved carefully to one side and then turned. “Hello, Mr. Wexler,” he said.

  There was a .32 automatic in Louis Wexler’s hand. He said, “Colby should have given it to you earlier tonight.”

  “At the Poplars when he took the book from me?”

  “Yes, then.” Wexler shook his head. “That just goes to show you, Colby, even the smartest plans can go screwy.”

  Colby scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Wexler.”

  “Oh, it’s all right now, Colby,” said Quade. “You can let your hair down. This is just among us. It’s possible for an editor to get historical inaccuracies into a book, but a printer couldn’t do it alone, because the editor, who knows such things, reads the proofs. So I knew you had to be in on it.”

  Wexler nodded admiringly. “You see, Colby, your scheme was no good. It’s a good thing I muscled in on you.”

  “That explains one of the little things that puzzled me,” said Quade. “I could figure out that the Arnold Publishing Company had been staggering for some years because Arnold was conservative and didn’t want to take any chances. Mr. Colby wanted more money, so he thought if he helped to make things even worse, the creditors would force the business into bankruptcy and then he, Colby, would buy it in, at a bargain price. But Arnold got wise to Mr. Colby’s little plan, and so did you, Wexler. But why did you kill him, Wexler?”

  “That’s a little secret between me and Colby,” said Wexler. “But I don’t mind letting you in on it. It’s not going any further! Arnold owed me a little money, not much. He could have cleaned it up if his last book had gone over. And then, what? I discover Mr. Arnold’s manager, Mr. Colby, has been changing history. You wouldn’t think, would you, Mr. Quade, that I am an expert on history? Yeah, it’s a hobby with me.