Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia

by Gruber, Frank

  “Fine! I’ll try your car for a few days and if it operates as well as the others, I’ll no doubt buy it because I like the color better. Did you bring the keys up with you, Mr. Clayton?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “But what, Mr. Clayton? Oh!” Quade laughed heartily. “You don’t know me. Quite so. Well, well! I’m Oliver Quade of New York and this is Mr. Charles P. Boston. If you’re worried about us, why just stop down at the desk. Or, there’s the phone—call up my friend, Tommy Slocum.”

  Mr. Clayton beamed. “Certainly, Mr. Quade, you drive that car as long as you wish. Take a week. When you’re ready, just call me. Thank you very much. I’m sure you’ll decide in our favor.”

  “I hope so, Mr. Clayton. And good day, sir!”

  When he’d gone, Charlie said, “Ollie, you’re the biggest four-flusher in California.”

  Quade winked at him. “Who knows? We may buy the car from him yet. Our jalopy’s on it’s last legs. Which reminds me, better run down there and get our things out of the car and see if you can’t get it dragged off the street. Here.” He tossed over the keys Mr. Clayton had left.

  Boston started for the door. “What are you going to do?”

  “Make a few phone calls.”

  Boston went out and Quade reached for the telephone. “Get me Consolidated Studios … Consolidated? I want to talk to Miss Thelma Wentworth.”

  “I’m sorry,” said an operator. “Miss Wentworth does not receive calls at the studio.”

  “But this is a matter of vital importance.”

  Quade got the general office and was switched to three different persons. He used his most autocratic voice on them and finally got the ear of a Mr. Gould.

  “Lou Gould,” the man said. “I’m Miss Wentworth’s agent. Just what is this matter of importance? I handle all of Miss Wentworth’s business matters. You can tell me what it’s about.”

  “Then tell Miss Wentworth that Oliver Quade wants to see her right away. Tell her it’s the man she bumped into this morning in a certain place.”

  When Gould’s voice came back on it sounded pained. “Miss Wentworth said she’d see you. If you’ll come over here—”

  Knuckles rapped on Quade’s door and before he had a chance to say anything, Christopher Buck’s lean face appeared. Quade snapped into the telephone. “I’ll call you back in five minutes. Stay at your phone.” He banged the receiver on the hook. “Buck,” he said, “how’d you get here?”

  The tall detective came into the room and let himself down into a chair. He was so tall and lean the act was very much like an accordion folding itself.

  “How come you ducked out of the studio, Quade?” he asked.

  “Too many cops around—and shamuses. So you followed me.”

  “No. One of my operators did. I gave him the sign when you came out of Slocum’s office. I just saw your stooge downstairs. You’ve come a long way since New York. That’s an expensive car you’re driving these days.”

  “I like a good car,” retorted Quade. “So what can I do for you?”

  Buck nodded toward the telephone. “Did I interrupt an important call?”

  “You did, but don’t let that worry you. What’s on your mind? You didn’t shadow me just so you could drop in for tea.”

  “Slocum’s on the spot,” said Buck. “You know that. When I left the studio the D.A. was just about to have a warrant sworn out for him, on a first-degree homicide charge.”

  “Nuts! He doesn’t dare to do that to Slocum, not without evidence.”

  “I’m cooperating with the D.A.,” said Buck.

  “What for? Your client’s dead. Los Angeles County isn’t going to pay you the kind of fees you’re used to.”

  “I’ve got another client.”

  Quade looked sharply at Buck. “Who?”

  “Thelma Wentworth.”

  Quade’s eyes barely flickered toward the telephone, but Buck caught it. “Ha! So you were talking to her!”

  Quade said tightly, “So she’s not your client. You’re lying. Look, Buck, you drew a rather crude picture this morning. Around Slocum, Maynard, the Wentworth girl and Willie Higgins.”

  “You can see the picture though, can’t you? Maynard’s been knocked off. Maybe they won’t indict Slocum for that just yet, but they will when I get through. I need just one little thing. When I get that—”

  “And that little thing is—”

  Buck grinned wolfishly. “The same thing Slocum wants you to get from Willie. Look, Quade, we’re both after the same thing. Why don’t we corner Willie together, then compromise, take the biggest fee and split!”

  “Nuts!”

  Buck coughed. “By the way, Lieutenant Murdock will be up to talk to you in a few minutes.”

  “You told him where I was? Thanks, Buck. I’ll snitch on you some time.”

  “Oh, I didn’t do it. It was my operator, I’m afraid. Well, so you’re not with me?”

  “No, Buck. I’m not.”

  Buck uncoiled himself. “Lieutenant Murdock says you were the one who found Stanley Maynard.”

  He took two strides toward the door and ducked out.

  The Human Encyclopedia paced the floor for a minute, then went to the door. He was stepping out of the elevator in the lobby, when Lieutenant Murdock reached out and caught his arm. “I was going to see you, Quade.”

  “I was just going out.”

  “I won’t take more’n a couple of minutes,” the lieutenant said, walking to the divan in the corner of the lobby. As he sat down, Quade observed a man across the lobby watching them covertly over the top of an open newspaper. Buck’s man, no doubt.

  Murdock said, “I understand you were the first to see Maynard.”

  Quade shrugged. “The first you know of. Someone else might have gone into Maynard’s office after he was killed.”

  “That sounds as if you think someone else had been in before you.”

  “Not necessarily. I mean a half-dozen people could have gone in and out of his office and decided the best thing to do was keep mum.”

  Murdock’s mouth twisted out of shape. “Dr. Lang said Maynard had died about twenty minutes before he examined the body. That would place the time pretty close to when you found his body. What were you going in to see Maynard about? I understand you’re not connected with the studio?”

  “Oh, but I am. Slocum hired me just this morning.”

  “Doing what? Buck claims you’re a book agent.”

  “Ordinarily I am. I travel the highways and byways, selling books where I can, studying nature—”

  “Nix on that stuff,” Murdock said crossly. “Answer my question. Why’d Slocum hire you?”

  “To bark for him! The next time you hear the voice of Desmond Dogg on the screen, that, Lieutenant, will be me!”

  Murdock’s face was comical to see. “You—the voice of Desmond Dogg!”

  “What’s funny about that? Walt Disney dubs in the voice for Mickey Mouse and Rudy Ising is the growl you hear when the big bad bear gets mad.”

  “I’ll be damned!” said the lieutenant. “Well, did you see anyone go in or come out of Maynard’s office?”

  “Nope,” said Quade.

  “Well,” Murdock got up, “listen, Quade, don’t leave Hollywood suddenly. I may think of some more questions to ask you later.”

  “Any time, Lieutenant, any time.”

  The lieutenant left the hotel. Quade sauntered over to the newsstand. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the man with the newspaper.

  He grinned slowly, then suddenly headed for the side door of the hotel. He jumped through and rushed to the corner, forty or fifty feet away, made a quick left turn and popped into the Hollywood Boulevard entrance.

  Inside the lobby he moved swiftly to a telephone booth and, leaving the door part
ially open so the lights would not go on, called the Consolidated Studios.

  “General office,” he said. “Mr. Quade calling Lou Gould.”

  “Sorry,” was the reply. “Mr. Gould waited for your call, but finally he and Miss Wentworth had to leave.”

  Quade hung up and came out of the booth. He went to the Hollywood entrance, where a man was talking to the doorman. “Tell Buck I lost you,” he said as he passed.

  The shadow gulped.

  Quade walked a couple of blocks and entered a drug store. As he skimmed through a telephone directory he saw Buck’s operator getting a drink at the soda fountain.

  Quade found a number and went into a booth. A moment later he said: “Hello, is this the Hollywood office of the Movie Fan Magazine? Well, this is Mr. Quade speaking. I’m the motion picture editor of the Omaha News-Bee. I’m in Hollywood doing a publicity story on Miss Thelma Wentworth, the new glamor girl. I want to check some facts in her history. Can you tell me her birthplace?”

  “Certainly,” said a woman’s voice. “Miss Wentworth was born in Tasmania, the daughter of a British diplomat.”

  Quade sighed. “I’m sorry, lady, I’m from Nebraska, but we’re not all farmers out there. Start all over. Where was Miss Wentworth born? Brooklyn?”

  “Waterloo, Iowa,” was the reply.

  “Fine,” said Quade. “Now give me the lowdown on Tommy Slocum. Where was he born and what did he do before he clicked in Hollywood?”

  “Strangely,” said the informant, “Mr. Slocum also comes from Waterloo, Iowa. He was a sports cartoonist on the Waterloo Independent before he went to New York.”

  “One thing more—what about Stanley Maynard?”

  “Stanley Maynard?” Quade detected the sudden change in the woman’s tone. “Say, what did you say your name was?”

  “Shade. I’m the motion-picture editor of the Omaha News-Bee. About Maynard—”

  “I’m sorry,” was the reply, “but you’d better come to our office for further information.”

  “Thank you,” said Quade and hung up.

  When he came out of the booth, the shadow was thumbing through the magazines. Quade whistled pleasantly at him and went outside.

  He sauntered down the street. In the next block he came to a combination magazine and cigar store. Racing tip sheets were displayed prominently on the rack. Quade went inside and said to the man behind the counter:

  “Doc, I’ve got a really hot one at Santa Anita tomorrow. I want to place a big bet.”

  The man stared blankly at Quade. “What do you think this is?”

  “Phooey!” said Quade. “All you take in on cigars and magazines you can stick in your ear.”

  “I never saw you before in my life!” protested the counterman.

  “I just blew in from New York. Do I look like a cop?”

  “No, but just the same, I don’t take horse bets. But I know a fella—How much was you figuring on betting?”

  “Depends on the bookie. If the odds are right, maybe a couple of grand.”

  The man’s eyebrows arched. “Just a minute,” he said. He went to a telephone booth and closed the door tightly. He emerged in a couple of minutes, mopping his forehead. He pulled a notebook from his pocket, wrote on a sheet and ripped it out of the book. “Go to this address. Ask for Jake.”

  “Thanks, pal!”

  The shadow was looking in the window of a shoe store next door. Quade signaled to a taxi on the corner.

  Five minutes later he stepped out. As he paid the driver he shot a look at the taxi that had pulled to the curb a half block away.

  A sign on a store window said: “Argus Realty Company.” The walls inside were covered with pictures of houses, maps and insurance calendars.

  A young chap got up from behind a desk.

  “I want to see Jake,” Quade said. “Mr. Wolfson sent me over.”

  A man in the rear of the realty store took his feet from his desk and slid his derby forward on his head. “You interested in a good house?” he called to Quade.

  Quade went back. “Yeah, in Santa Anita.”

  “How much you figure on paying?”

  “That depends. If I can locate my partner.”

  “Yeah? “Jake said.

  “My partner’s name,” said Quade, “is Willie Higgins. Ever hear of him?”

  Jake said, “You ain’t a cop. So what’s your angle?”

  “I want to have a talk with Willie.”

  Jake shook his head. “I’ve seen the name in the papers, Mister, but I ain’t never seen the man himself. You’ll have to—” His face went slack. Quade, seeing the man’s eyes looking past him, whirled, just in time to see his shadow duck out of sight, outside the store.

  The realtor-bookie swung on Quade. “What’re you tryin’ to pull?”

  Quade was perplexed. “Nothing. I know Willie Higgins used to be a big horse player and since he’s in Hollywood I figured you might know where he was staying.”

  “You lie like hell!” exclaimed Jake. “Get out and don’t come back!”

  Quade shrugged and walked out. Outside, he looked around for the man who had been shadowing him, but the fellow was strangely out of sight now. Which gave Quade something to think about.

  He took a taxi back to the Lincoln Hotel. A bright yellow sports model was parked at the curb. When he got up to their suite, Charlie Boston asked, “You know a fellow by the name of Paul Clevenger?”

  “Yes, why?” Quade said.

  “He called up five minutes ago. Said he wants you to meet a friend of his tonight at the Sunset Club.”

  Quade knew who that “friend” was. Paul Clevenger was the young fellow who had soothed Thelma Wentworth, that afternoon in Stanley Maynard’s office.

  Oliver Quade and Boston sauntered into the Sunset Club. In a far corner Thelma Wentworth was seated at a table with Paul Clevenger.

  Charlie inhaled softly. “If I kill the guy with her, would she give me a tumble?”

  “According to the Bill of Rights,” said Quade, “every man is equal.”

  She was gorgeous. No, that was an understatement. In Hollywood, she was super-colossal. She wore a white evening gown that revealed. Her blonde hair glittered. Her features were smooth and finely chiseled.

  Her eyes were on Quade as he bowed slightly. “Good evening. Miss Wentworth. Allow me to present my friend, Mr. Boston.”

  Young Paul Clevenger was rising. “Won’t you join us?” he asked.

  Quade sat down opposite Thelma Wentworth. Beside him, Charlie Boston breathed heavily.

  “It’s all right,” Thelma Wentworth said in a low voice. “Paul … knows.”

  Quade regarded him deliberately. “You’re not in the picture business, are you, Mr. Clevenger?”

  Young Clevenger laughed. “Hardly. Banking is my racket.”

  Quade saw the possessive look Clevenger bestowed on Thelma. He looked at the glamor girl for a moment and was rewarded by a slight frown.

  “Paul and I went to school together,” she explained. “He’s out here for a visit.”

  The boy from her home town. There’s always one. Sometimes they forget him. Thelma Wentworth hadn’t. Perhaps the fact that young Clevenger was in the banking business accounted for that. You can forget the boy from home if he’s a soda jerk or works in a filling station. If his father owns the bank—and many Iowa banks are wealthy—you don’t forget him. Bankers are nice people to know. Remarkably handy to meet.

  “Stanley Maynard was from Iowa—too?” Quade asked.

  She winced. “No.”

  Paul Clevenger said, “Thelma didn’t even know him. She just happened to be at the Slocum Studio—”

  “Why?” Quade interrupted.

  Clevenger bristled. “Why were you there?”

  “I have a job there. Miss Wentworth hasn
’t.”

  “But,” Thelma exclaimed softly, “I know Tommy Slocum as well as I know Paul. He used to live two doors up the street from us, in Waterloo.”

  “I see,” said Quade. “So you were visiting Tommy and happened to go into the wrong room—Maynard’s. You didn’t know Stanley Maynard at all.”

  “She never even met him, I tell you,” snapped Clevenger.

  “Did you know him?” Quade asked sharply.

  “I got to Hollywood three days ago,” Clevenger said angrily. “Thelma’s let me take her around. I knew Slocum slightly. That’s all. I never saw Maynard, dead or alive.”

  Thelma’s eyes widened. She was looking past Quade. He turned. Tommy Slocum was bearing down on the table. He was scowling, furiously.

  “Hello, chief!” Quade grinned. “Join us?”

  “You get around!” Slocum said truculently.

  Quade smiled. “You know Miss Wentworth and Mr. Clevenger?”

  “Of course I know them. How’d you get to know them?”

  “Why, I get around,” Quade quipped. “Shake hands with my assistant, Mr. Boston.”

  Slocum looked coldly at Charlie Boston’s big hand. He sat down abruptly.

  “You wouldn’t think it would get so cold in the evenings,” Quade remarked drily.

  Tommy Slocum showed his teeth. “Did you say you were going home, Quade?” he snapped.

  “Why, no, I just got here. I like this place. I’ve heard about it for years. When I left New York the Count said to me—my friend, Count Felix Rosoff, you know—he said to me, ‘Oliver, when you get to Hollywood you must see the Sunset Club.’ And Tommy, old man, he was right. Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Clevenger?”

  “I’m not an authority on night clubs,” Clevenger replied stiffly. “I’ve only been to New York twice in my life. This is the first time I’ve been in Hollywood.”

  Quade chuckled, pushed back his chair. “Excuse me a moment, Miss Wentworth? A business associate has just come in. I must tell him something.”

  “Goodbye, Quade,” Slocum said bluntly.

  Quade smiled pleasantly at him and bowed to Miss Went­worth.

  Boston followed him. “Buck,” he said. “In soup and fish! What a man!”

  Christopher Buck’s face showed relief when he saw Quade and Boston. “Sit down, Quade,” he invited. “And tell me what’s new.”