Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia

by Gruber, Frank

  “I just said so.”

  “Sure you said so, but you didn’t say what he hired you for. Look, Quade, we worked together on a case once before. You helped me quite a bit—”

  “I helped you, Buck?”

  Buck smiled ingratiatingly. “Well, you were lucky, eh? Now, look, we’re both working on the same case. Maybe for different bosses. But what’s the difference? We can still work together. Pool our information, you know, and maybe split fees, huh?”

  “If you did the splitting, Buck,” growled Charlie Boston, “we wouldn’t get a hamburger out of it.”

  Quade brightened. He caught Boston’s eye and winked. “On the other hand, Buck, maybe there’s something in what you say. You in a hurry to see Slocum? If not, why not let’s go talk about this over a cup of coffee?”

  Buck sighed. “Why not? Maybe I’ve got some things you can use and maybe you’ve stumbled across a bit or two that might clear something for me. Come on.”

  The trio walked out of the studio, through the street gate. Boston turned toward their old jalopy across the street but Quade caught his eye in a warning look. He fell behind Christopher Buck.

  Buck led the way to a Packard coupe. “Might as well use my car,” he offered. “Or shall we walk over to that restaurant on the corner?”

  “Oh, the Brown Derby’s just up the street,” Quade said. “I like the atmosphere there.” He had never seen the Brown Derby in his life.

  The three of them climbed into the coupe and Christopher Buck tooled it into the traffic. “How long’ve you been here, Quade?” he asked.

  “Not so long. But long enough to pick up a few things.”

  “What?”

  “Now, now, Buck, you wouldn’t want me to tell what I know, before I know what the score is, would you?”

  Christopher Buck scowled. “Cagy, as always, huh? Well, who’s your client—Tommy Slocum?”

  “Who’s yours?” Quade asked.

  “Stanley Maynard’s paying me. That’s why I was—ah, somewhat disconcerted to see you coming out of Slocum’s office. The way Maynard put it to me, Slocum wasn’t to know who was having the investigation made.”

  “Oh, Maynard was trying to keep it dark? Does he think Slocum’s a chump?”

  Buck sighed. “Well, it would have come out sooner or later … There’s the Brown Derby. They’ll probably charge you twenty cents for a cup of coffee. But—come on!”

  They went into the restaurant and sat in a booth.

  Quade picked up a menu. “It’s almost lunch time. This avocado salad sounds intriguing.”

  “Long time since I ate an avocado salad,” agreed Boston. “I guess I’ll have it too. Shucks, Ollie, you’ve given me an appetite. Look, they’ve got a steak at two bucks. Can you imagine getting a steak here for that? I think I’ll try it.”

  “I’ll have one, too,” Quade said. “What about you, Buck?”

  “I’m not as big an eater as you fellows,” grunted Buck. “But go ahead. I guess we’ve got time. I’ll just have a glass of buttermilk.”

  “All right now, Quade, just what does Tommy Slocum intend to do?”

  “What he always does. Sit tight! The question is, what is Maynard going to do?”

  “With the case he’s got and the proof, he’s going through with the suit. He’d be foolish not to. He’s got the goods on Slocum. It’ll cost him a million before it’s finished.”

  Quade shrugged, pretending he knew what this was all about. “There’s a difference of opinion about that. That’s what makes a lawsuit. Slocum’s a tough customer. And he’s got plenty of money.”

  “Maynard knows that. That’s why he’d rather settle out of court at a somewhat lower figure. The Wentworth dame coming in—”

  “Ah, yes!” said Quade, still groping.

  “Thelma Wentworth?” Charlie Boston cut in.

  “There’s only one Wentworth,” Buck said. “Sure, Thelma Wentworth. Who’d you suppose? The thing I can’t figure out is how a woman like her ever came to know Willie Higgins.”

  “Higgins?” said Quade. Then he shook his head quickly. “He’s bad medicine. When they sent him to Alcatraz they really did something.”

  Christopher Buck looked sharply at Quade. “You knew, of course, that he’s out?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Quade. “I read the papers.” Which was a slight falsehood. He hadn’t read the papers in several days. He hadn’t known that Willie Higgins was out of Alcatraz. But he knew who Higgins was. Everyone knew that. His career, before he had finally been sent to Alcatraz six years ago, was known to everyone.

  But what Higgins had to do with Thelma Wentworth, who seemed to be known to even Charlie Boston, but was merely a name to Quade, was something else. For that matter, Quade didn’t even know what Christopher Buck was talking about. He was merely cuing Buck. The lanky detective thought Quade knew something and it wasn’t Quade’s idea to disillusion him.

  “So you see,” Buck went on, “the thing’s more complicated than you think. Tommy Slocum … Stanley Maynard … Thelma Wentworth and Willie Higgins, all mixed up. And maybe some others. There’s money in it, though, for a couple of good private detectives and if we work together and play it right, we ought to be able to nick them for say, five or ten grand.”

  Quade chuckled. “Knowing you, Buck, the figure’ll be five times that!”

  Buck’s mouth twisted. “What’s Slocum paying you?”

  Quade smiled deprecatingly. “Well, you know Christopher, I’m not a professional detective. Money can’t usually buy my—uh, detective services. It has to be something unusual.”

  “Ah,” said Buck, “so Slocum’s really paying you big sugar? That proves he’s worried about Maynard, after all. I had a hunch about that!”

  “Buck,” sighed Quade, “that wasn’t cricket. You talked about cooperation and all you brought me here for was to pump me about what my boss is doing. I’m not going to say another word, now, until I have my coffee and steak and salad.”

  A triumphant light gleamed in Christopher Buck’s eyes while Boston and Quade did justice to their food. When they finished, they talked each other into having pie a la mode for dessert.

  Quade finally put down his fork. “Excuse me, a minute, now, Buck. I’ve got to make a phone call.” He got up and went to the washroom. He washed his hands, then returned to the booth. His eyes spotted the check that lay face down on the table near his own place.

  He remained standing. “Something’s come up, Buck!” he said. “I’ve got to run!”

  “Wait!” exclaimed Buck. “I’ll go with you.”

  Quade took his hat from the hook. “No, no, I’d rather go alone.”

  “But we haven’t settled yet how we’re going to work!” cried Buck. He squirmed out of the booth and was so anxious to follow Quade he grabbed up the check, and winced when he saw the amount. Quade was already moving toward the door and Boston was scrambling out of the booth.

  Buck threw a coin on the table and followed. Quade waited just inside the front door. Buck hurriedly paid the check at the cashier’s stand.

  “You’re going back to the studio, Quade?” he asked eagerly. “I’ll drive you there.”

  “Well, all right.”

  As they climbed into the car, Charlie whispered in Quade’s ear: “Well, it worked!”

  They drove back to the Slocum Studios and Buck parked his car. At the gate, Quade and Boston fell behind Buck and allowed the tall detective to get them through the gate by showing his pass.

  Once inside, Quade became reticent. “You run along about your business, Buck.”

  “Yeah, but that phone call,” protested Buck. “What’s come up?”

  Quade waved a finger chidingly at Buck. “Now, now!”

  Buck’s face contorted angrily for a moment. “All right, if that’s the way you’re going to be. But
remember, Quade, I’m on the job, and I’ll be running into you.”

  “Oh sure, no hard feelings. Eh?”

  Buck went off and Boston asked, “So what’s it all about, Ollie?”

  “We’re detectives again,” replied Quade. “Christopher Buck, the world’s greatest detective, came all the way from New York on a job. He thinks because I once got mixed in a case that he was on—and solved it—that I’m here as a detective.”

  “But, hell, you don’t even know who those people are that he mentioned!” exclaimed Charlie Boston.

  “We got a lunch out of it, didn’t we? How much was the check?”

  “Five-forty!” chuckled Boston. “Which, for a tightwad like Christopher Buck, was plenty.”

  “He figured he was going to have a cup of coffee—on us!” Quade laughed. “Say, Charlie, who’s Thelma Wentworth?”

  “Huh? Say, don’t you read the movie magazines, Ollie? She’s the new sensation in the films. Her and Hedy Lamarr. I knew about her, all right, but who’re Maynard and Higgins? Is that the Willie Higgins who used to be Public Enemy Number One?”

  “Yep! None other! Seems he finished his time on Alcatraz. Also he knows these people. Maynard, I haven’t placed. But he seems to think he’s got something on Tommy Slocum. I’m going to find out what.”

  Charlie’s forehead creased. “You’re not serious in mixing in this detective stuff, are you? Not out here?”

  Quade shrugged. “We’re broke. That is, we are today. Although tomorrow Tommy Slocum’s giving me a hundred bucks.”

  “What?” cried Charlie Boston. “He really gave you a job? Doing what?”

  Quade said hastily, “Oh, just a job.”

  “What the hell can you do around a studio?”

  “Lots of things. They have producers and writers and such, in a studio, you know.”

  “Not in this place, Ollie. This is where they make the Desmond Dogg cartoons. It’s all done by artists.” Boston looked suspiciously at Quade. “Why the mystery all of a sudden? You’re talking to me, you know.”

  “Oh, hell!” said Quade disgustedly. “We’re broke and we’ve got to make a quick stake so—well, Slocum offered me this hundred bucks for just a couple of hours work and I accepted.”

  “A hundred bucks for a couple of hours?” persisted Boston. “Doing what?”

  Quade swore. “Barking, damn you! I’m going to imitate Desmond Dogg’s bark. Now laugh, you fool!”

  Boston did laugh. He laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. But Quade heard only the beginning of the laughter. He walked off, muttering savagely to himself.

  Oliver Quade jerked open the first door he came to and found himself facing one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen in his life. She was tall and slender and blonde.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “You startled me!”

  “Sorry, I guess I got into the wrong place. Whose office is this?” He wondered why the girl looked so pale, why her lips were so taut. His sudden entry couldn’t have scared her that much.

  She started around him, toward the door through which he had just entered. “I—I got into the wrong office myself,” she said lamely. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone here.”

  She stepped hurriedly past him, pulling the door shut behind her. Quade stared at the door. “I must have caught her doing something,” he said to himself. “She’s scared stiff.” He shrugged and glanced about the office. There was an inner door with a ground glass panel, on which was lettered the name: Mr. Maynard.

  He walked across and opened the door. “Mr. Maynard,” he began, “I just dropped in to—” he stopped.

  He was talking to a dead man.

  He sat in a big chair behind a mahogany desk. His arms hung loosely at his sides and his head was thrown back. Blood was trickling from his mouth, to the thick rug. It was dropping on a .32 caliber automatic that might have fallen from his limp hand.

  Quade had seen dead men before. He was a man of the world and had seen many things in his time. He had never got used to death. A shiver ran through his lean body and he felt strangely cold. He backed out of Maynard’s private office and closed the door softly. Then he walked swiftly out of the other office into the corridor. And collided with Tommy Slocum.

  The little producer said “Excuse me,” and reached for the door through which Quade had just come.

  Quade’s hand shot out and caught Slocum’s arm. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you, Mr. Slocum.”

  “Why not? Who’re you to tell me where I can go? I’m Tommy Slocum and this is my joint. I’m the boss around here.”

  “I know, but just the same, don’t go into Mr. Maynard’s office. Not yet. He’s—dead!”

  “Dead, hell!” said Slocum and shoved against the door. Then, as understanding swept into his brain, he recoiled. “Dead!” he squeaked in a thin voice.

  “With a bullet in his head. I think you’d better call the police.”

  “Oh, my God!” moaned Tommy Slocum. “Stanley Maynard—dead? I don’t believe it.”

  But he did believe it. And if he had known of Maynard’s death before Quade told him, he put on a very good act.

  He snapped at Quade: “You found him? All right, stick around then. Hey, Hendricks!” he roared at the top of his voice. “Come out here!”

  Miss Hendricks, the school-teacherish looking secretary, rushed out of her office. “Call the police!” Slocum yelled at her. “Tell them to hurry up. Stanley Maynard’s killed himself.”

  Heads popped out of doors. Tommy Slocum roared at them. “Get back to your work! What do you think I’m paying you for? To gawk around? Somebody call the police department. Murder’s been done. Mr. Maynard’s killed himself.”

  “What a man!” murmured Quade.

  And now the human bloodhound, Christopher Buck, popped out of nowhere. “Maynard’s dead?” he hissed. “Where?” He saw Oliver Quade and clapped a hand to his skinny face. “You, Ollie, what do you know about this?”

  “I found his body. He’s in there.” He jerked a hand toward the office door.

  Christopher Buck slithered past them and little Tommy Slocum charged him. “You can’t go in there, you long drink of water. Stay out!”

  Christopher Buck shook off the little man. “Maynard’s my client! I’m going in and no one can stop me.” And in he went.

  Quade stepped in swiftly after him. Tommy Slocum yelled and followed. He sobbed when he saw the dead man with the sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.

  “Stanley, old boy!” he moaned.

  Buck, his head craned forward, was sniffing about the office. “Through the mouth,” he said, “and the gun’s here. I don’t believe it!”

  “You don’t believe what, Buck?” asked Quade softly.

  “That he’d kill himself. He was so sure of winning out. Damn, what a dirty trick! Now, I can whistle for my fee.”

  Someone came up behind Quade and breathed on his neck. “I told you, Ollie!” exclaimed Charlie Boston. “We had no business butting in around here.”

  “Oh, shut up, Charlie!” snorted Quade.

  “The best friend I ever had!” said Tommy Slocum.

  “Oh, yeah!” That was Christopher Buck, all detective now. He had whirled on Slocum and was towering over him, his face grim and unforgiving. “If he was your best friend, why was he suing you for a million bucks?”

  Slocum jumped. “Who’re you?” he cried. “How’d you get in here? What right have you got to talk that way to me? I’m Tommy Slocum and this is my studio. Get the hell out of here.”

  Christopher Buck showed his teeth. “I’m Christopher Buck, the detective!” he announced. “Mr. Maynard employed me to—to uncover some evidence he wanted. I came out here from New York by plane. Mr. Maynard wanted me right away. Why, Mr. Slocum, why?”

  “Hendricks!” roared Tommy Slocu
m. “Call the cops. Have this man thrown out of here. I don’t care if he is a detective … Hendricks!”

  A studio cop rushed into the office. “Yes, Mr. Slocum, what is it?”

  “Emil! Throw this man off the lot. He says he’s a detective, but I don’t believe him. Throw him off. He insulted me.”

  The studio cop looked at the tall detective who was glowering at him. “I dunno, Mr. Slocum,” the cop said hesitantly. “The city police just pulled up outside—”

  “Here we are!”

  They came in, a small army of them. A hawk-faced man with graying hair was in command. “I’m Lieutenant Murdock,” he announced. “What’s happened here?”

  Slocum pointed a quivering hand at the dead man. “Stanley Maynard, he killed himself!”

  “O.K.,” Lieutenant Murdock said. “We’ll take care of things. Just keep back … Johnson, clear this gang out of here. Outside, everybody. We’ll handle things in here.” Everyone cleared out.

  Alone in an adjoining office, Quade sidled up to Tommy Slocum. “In a little while, Mr. Slocum, they’re going to discover that Maynard didn’t kill himself.”

  The producer of the famous Desmond Dogg animated cartoons snapped: “What do you mean, he didn’t kill himself?”

  “I mean he was murdered.”

  “You’re crazy, the gun—”

  “Was left by the murderer, in an attempt to make it look like suicide.”

  Slocum’s eyes widened. “You were coming out of Maynard’s office when I bumped into you.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Quade. “I never met Mr. Maynard while he was alive. Before today I had never even heard his name. I know nothing about him and had absolutely no motive for killing him. I can prove that. Can you?”

  Slocum became strangely calm. “I don’t get you.”

  “You heard what Christopher Buck said—that Maynard was suing you for a million dollars.”

  “That’s news to me,” scoffed Slocum. “Why would Stanley want to sue me? He was working for me and we were friends.”

  “Buck says otherwise.”

  “Buck, Buck!” Slocum cried, impatiently. “Who is this Buck, who seems to know everything?”