Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia

by Gruber, Frank

  “You damn well know because your shadow followed me all afternoon,” Quade said.

  Buck’s face was blank. “Why?”

  “That was my question,” Quade retorted. “Why? Anyway, I let him tag along. I could have lost him easy enough. Did once. He tell you that?”

  Buck glowered at the table across the room. “Is she paying you, Quade?”

  “She is not. And don’t go getting ideas, Christopher. You might get burned.”

  “One of the biggest society women ever heard of, back East, shot a guy once,” said Buck. “Any woman’s a potential murderess. This Wentworth—”

  “Is the second most important actress in Hollywood,” Quade said. “And Hollywood protects its own. Get what I mean, Buck?”

  “A client is paying me money,” Buck said doggedly. “I’ve never let down a client.”

  A stocky man with sleek black hair and a shaggy tweed suit was standing behind Tommy Slocum’s chair, patting the producer’s shoulder and talking over his head to Thelma Wentworth. He turned and showed Quade a mouthful of gleaming teeth.

  He left the table, came toward Quade. He stuck out a fleshy hand. “Howdy, Mr. Quade. I’m Lou Gould. Like to talk to you a minute.”

  Buck cut in: “You’re Lou Gould, the actor’s agent. I tried to get you at Consolidated this afternoon.”

  Quade clung to Gould’s hand and started pulling him away. Buck shot up to his tremendous height and pushed his long, lean arm in between.

  “I’m Christopher Buck,” he said.

  Gould gave Buck his ten per cent personality. “Yeah, sure. We’ll have to get together. Give me a jingle at the office sometime.”

  “Well, I’ve got to be going,” Quade said. “Thanks for the drink, Christopher. Good-night, Mr. Gould.”

  Lou Gould was quite willing to be rescued from Christopher Buck, but Quade knew that that would be an impossibility. When Buck got his teeth into someone, fire or water wouldn’t make him let go.

  “I’m going to slug Buck some day,” Boston said as they left the Sunset Club.

  “Some day I’m going to let you slug him,” Quade retorted.

  They got their bright yellow car from the nearby parking lot and drove to the hotel, where they turned it over to the doorman. “Don’t get the paint scratched,” Boston cautioned the man.

  The lights were on in their suite when Quade unlocked the door.

  The shadow who had followed Quade all afternoon was sitting in the most comfortable armchair. He was a rather slight fellow with an unhealthy complexion.

  Quade said, “Are we intruding?”

  “Not at all,” the man replied. “This is your room. And my name’s Higgins.”

  Charlie Boston went back a step. “Willie Higgins!”

  “You know,” said Quade, “I just guessed that out a little while ago. I couldn’t figure out why the real estate fellow got so scared when he got a glimpse of you through the window. I thought at the time you were one of Christopher Buck’s ops.”

  Higgins nodded thoughtfully. “Understand you been looking for me.”

  Quade sat down across the room from Higgins. Charlie Boston remained standing near the door, decidedly uncomfortable.

  Quade said, “Tommy Slocum wants to see you.”

  Higgins shrugged. “So?”

  “That’s all. Tommy Slocum asked me to bring you to him. He didn’t tell me why.”

  Higgins regarded Quade thoughtfully. “How much will he pay?”

  Quade became suddenly annoyed. Ever since morning people had been giving him hints of things, had taken for granted he knew what they were talking about. He had played up to them, fishing out scraps of information. But as far as knowing anything definite was concerned, he was completely at sea. In a dead calm that seemed to presage the coming of a hurricane.

  He said testily, “I don’t know a damn thing. Tommy Slocum seemed to think I did: so did Christopher Buck and Thel—and someone else. I don’t know anything.”

  “From the way you talked this morning, you knew everything,” Willie Higgins said. “You said you were a human encyclopedia, or something, didn’t you?”

  “But I’m not a mind reader! All I know is that you’ve got something or know something, that Tommy Slocum wants. And it has some bearing on Stanley Maynard’s murder.” He shot a speculative look at Higgins. “Would you be knowing anything about that?”

  “I would not. The only thing I know, Quade, is that you’re a damn liar.”

  Charlie Boston growled deep in his throat. Higgins glanced at him and Boston became quiet. Higgins went on:

  “Not that it’ll do you any good, but I was down at the Slocum Studios this morning. I saw you come up with a rattletrap flivver. And now you’re driving a big yellow bus that cost. So …”

  “So why does Tommy Slocum want you?” Quade snapped.

  “Maybe because he killed Stanley Maynard.”

  “I don’t think he did,” Quade said slowly.

  “I think he did.”

  Quade sawed the air impatiently. “All right, how much do you want for—it? I’ll tell Slocum your proposition; that is, if you won’t go and talk to him yourself.”

  “I won’t,” said Higgins. “At least, not in his place. But you can tell him the price is a half million.”

  He got up and grinned crookedly. Charlie, seeing him approach, stepped hastily away from the door. With his hand on the knob, Higgins turned. “And if you’re figuring on putting me at the studio when that business happened, don’t waste your time. I’ve got four different alibis.” He went out.

  Charlie Boston shivered. “I could hear wings flapping!”

  “Oh,” said Quade, “he didn’t look so tough.”

  “No? What was that bulge under his coat? You suppose that was a ham sandwich?”

  “A half million,” Quade said thoughtfully. “And Maynard was going to sue for a million.”

  “For what?”

  “That’s one of two things I don’t know. The other thing is—who killed Stanley Maynard?”

  Slocum Studios’ gateman was so impressed by Quade’s yellow car that he permitted him to walk through the gates without a pass. Boston went to park the car somewhere on the street.

  Quade sauntered into Miss Hendricks’ office. “Morning,” he said pleasantly. “Can you tell me where the sound room is? I believe they’re waiting there for me.”

  “Studio Twelve, on the second floor,” replied Miss Hendricks.

  Quade nodded. “Say, if my secretary, Charlie Boston, the big lug who looks like a heavy-weight wrestler, comes looking for me, keep him here.”

  He went out and climbed a flight of stairs. Studio Twelve was a large room, soundproofed.

  “I’m the new voice of Desmond Dogg,” Quade said to a young fellow.

  “It’s about time you got here,” the fellow snapped. “We were just getting ready to go out and find another sap.”

  Quade showed his teeth in a cold smile. “Bring on your dog!”

  Several men were gathered around a microphone and a layout of crazy objects. The young fellow snatched up several sheets of music.

  “I’ll explain what we’re doing,” he said crisply. “Desmond Dogg’s a St. Bernard. In this particular scene he’s pulling the old rescue scene. Christopher Cat—”

  “Christopher?” Quade asked.

  “Yes, Christopher. And don’t interrupt. Christopher Cat’s lost in the snowstorm. Desmond Dogg has this keg of rum tied about his neck and is leaving the hospice to rescue Christopher. The wind’s howling—that’s Felix—and it’s snowing like hell. Desmond—that’s you—is running down the mountain.”

  “With the keg of rum around my neck?” Quade asked.

  “Yes, and don’t interrupt again. You’re galloping through the snow. You bark, woof-woof, and then you si
ng: ‘Here I come with a keg of rum.’ All right, Felix—wind!”

  A skinny fellow with a big Adam’s apple stepped up to the microphone and whistled softly. Amplified, the sound was very much like the howling of a blizzard.

  “O.K.,” said the young director. “Now, you, Oscar—Desmond’s feet crunching the snow.”

  Another man brought a bowl of baking soda up to the microphone, stuck an iron pestle into it and twisted it. The result was a sound like feet crunching on snow.

  “Swell,” said the director. “Now, we’ll get together on it. Felix, wind! Oscar, snow! And you, whatever your name is, you bark, ‘Woof-woof!’ and sing—in a dog’s voice!”

  The wind howled and the snow crunched under Desmond Dogg’s feet, and Quade barked and sang in a tone that might have sounded like a dog’s if a dog could sing.

  When they finished, the director held out his hand to Quade. “My name’s Needham. You did that better than Pete Rice. He just couldn’t get that dog quality into his voice.”

  “I’m a success!” Quade murmured.

  “Sure, why not? I’ll talk to Tommy Slocum and have him give you a contract. Now then, Miss Phillips! Come over here and do your meowing!”

  Miss Phillips, imitating Christopher Cat, was good enough to stampede a convention of rats, Quade thought.

  They rehearsed the scene a half dozen times, then recorded it. Needham, the director, put them through two more scenes, then called a halt. “That’ll be all until this afternoon. I want to see the film run off again.” He turned to Quade. “Like to come to the sweat box?”

  It sounded interesting, so Quade went along. The room they went to was a miniature theater; a couple of dozen chairs in the rear, a projection room and a screen.

  “You know how these cartoons are made, don’t you?” Needham asked Quade.

  “Lot of drawings photographed, eh?”

  “Ten to fourteen thousand for a single reel which lasts about eight minutes on the screen.” He held up a stack of celluloid rectangles.

  “The animators make the original drawings on large pasteboard strips. There are forty to sixty scenes, or frames, to a picture. The animators draw these, put in the animals. The graduation of the movements is drawn on these celluloid panels. The photographer puts a ‘cel’ on the frame, photographs it, then puts down the next. The whole thing is speeded up, makes your movement.”

  “And ten to fourteen thousand complete drawings are made?”

  “Only of the animals in their movements. Girls do that, from the animators’ originals. Some girls do the tracing, others the filling in and the graduation of the movement. It’s expensive business. Some of our technicolor films cost as much as a complete seven reel film put out by other studios.”

  “Well,” said Quade, “some people prefer Desmond Dogg to Clark Gable.”

  Needham grunted, called toward the projection room. “O.K., Clarence!”

  The little theater went dark and a moment later the projector threw a beam of white upon the screen.

  The various screen credits followed:

  Tommy Slocum Productions

  Presents: Desmond Dogg’s Dilemma

  Based upon the famous character created by Tommy Slocum

  Producer: Tommy Slocum

  Director: Hector Needham

  Original Story by Stanley Maynard

  Photography: M. V. Hilton

  Desmond Dogg appeared upon the screen—a St. Bernard, against a background of mountain and snow and a hospice almost toppling off a cliff.

  Quade said, “I just remembered I’ve got to make a phone call,” and got up, groped his way in the darkness to the door, went outside.

  He made his way to Miss Hendricks’ office. Charlie Boston jumped up from a chair. “Where you been all morning, Ollie?”

  “Barking,” Quade retorted and pushed open the door of Slocum’s office.

  The little producer looked up, scowled. “I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to come around.”

  “Why not? You hired me to be Desmond Dogg’s voice. Hec Needham just told me I was better than Pete Rice. He wants you to sign me up on a contract.”

  Tommy Slocum snorted. “Quade, no man ever talked to me like you have, or did the things you’ve done to me.”

  “Why, I haven’t done anything to you.”

  “You know damn well what I mean. What were you trying to pull on Thel—Miss Wentworth?”

  “Oh,” sighed Quade. “I saw Willie Higgins. He said the price is a half million—for it.”

  Quade was watching Slocum closely. The half million made no unusual impression.

  He exclaimed, “If you found him, why didn’t you bring him here?”

  “He wouldn’t come. Doesn’t trust you.”

  “He doesn’t trust me—and asks for a half million? He’s got a crust.”

  “Still, I can see his point,” Quade said. “He’s one week out of Alcatraz and he’s nervous about being seen within two miles of a place where a man is murdered.”

  Slocum nodded, then looked up suddenly. “Which reminds me, that cop, Murdock or whatever his name is, called up here a while ago. Said you’re to be sure and be at the inquest at three this afternoon.”

  “What do you think the verdict of the coroner’s jury will be?”

  Slocum’s face twisted. “What the hell you gettin’ at?”

  Quade shrugged, walked toward the door. “What’ll I tell Willie?”

  “Tell him he’s crazy. He can’t shake me down for a half million.”

  “He thinks he can,” Quade said.

  The telephone on Slocum’s desk rang at the same instant the door opened under Quade’s hand. Lieutenant Murdock came in and said:

  “Mr. Slocum, the D.A.’s given me orders to take you in on suspicion of murder. I’ve got a warrant for your—”

  Slocum howled and jerked the receiver off the ringing phone. He yelled “Yes!,” listened for a moment. Perspiration suddenly appeared on his forehead. “All right,” he said in a meek tone and hung up.

  “A warrant for your arrest!” Lieutenant Murdock repeated.

  Christopher Buck’s head appeared over Murdock’s. “Hello, Quade!” he said in a better-to-eat-you-with tone.

  “Buck,” said Quade, “you certainly can put your big feet into things.”

  “Yah!” jeered the self-styled world’s greatest detective. “You got on the wrong boat this time!”

  Slocum got up from behind his desk. “O.K., Sergeant!” he said.

  Lieutenant Murdock said grimly, “And you, smart boy, be at the inquest at three o’clock!”

  Quade nodded.

  When they were gone, Quade went out to Miss Hendricks’ office. She was white around the gills. “They’ve arrested Mr. Slocum!” she gasped.

  “But they can’t make it stick,” Quade said.

  Charlie came over. “Buck looked like he’d just won screeno!”

  “Yeah, but when he goes up on the stage to get the money, he’ll find he’s missing one number.” Quade turned to Miss Hendricks. “You know, I’m working for Slocum. I want to make two or three long distance telephone calls. Will you have them put through?”

  Wide-eyed, she nodded and Quade slammed into Tommy Slocum’s private office, sat down in the producer’s chair and reached for the telephone.

  “Get me the Waterloo Morning News,” he said. “Yes, Waterloo, Iowa.”

  Twenty minutes later Quade made his final telephone call. “Consolidated Studios? I want to talk to Lou Gould, the actors’ agent. Is he hanging around there?”

  “No, he isn’t. Any message?”

  “There is,” Quade said. “You tell him to have Miss Thelma Wentworth at the coroner’s inquest at three o’clock this afternoon. That’s an order!” He slammed the receiver on the hook. Charlie Boston, draped on
the office couch, said, “I wouldn’t believe it of a girl like her! But if I’ve got to die, I’d like her to knock me off!”

  “You’re goofy,” Quade snorted. “Come on, let’s be bait for Mr. Willie Higgins.”

  Charlie Boston said, “Ouch!”

  When they got out to the street, Boston said, “What’re those paper tags on the jalopy? That cop’s going to get writer’s cramp.”

  The yellow sports job was parked on the side street. When Quade climbed in behind the wheel, Willie Higgins came out of a drug store nearby.

  “Hi,” he greeted Quade.

  “Hello, Willie,” Quade said. “Squeeze in.”

  Charlie muttered, but moved over against Quade. Willie Higgins climbed into the car. “You fix it?”

  “Yeah, where’ll we go?”

  “Your hotel’s all right with me.”

  Quade started the car. As he swung out into traffic, Higgins said, “They pinched Slocum, huh?”

  Quade nodded. “Yeah, but you can square that, I guess.”

  Higgins grunted, said nothing. But when they got to Quade’s suite, he said: “Where is it?”

  “Do I look like I had a half million on me?” Quade asked.

  “They could be big bills,” Higgins said. His eyebrows drew together. “You trying to pull something funny?”

  “The jam Slocum’s in, he can’t afford to. But it’s going to take him a couple of days to raise the money. In the meantime—where is it?”

  Higgins started for the door. “You’ll get it when I get the money.”

  “Charlie!” Oliver Quade snapped.

  Higgins’ right hand darted under his left coat lapel. Charlie’s fist smacked against his jaw and Quade caught the man from Alcatraz as he catapulted back. He let him down gently to the floor.

  “I thought you were afraid of him, Charlie,” Quade said cheerfully.

  Boston dropped to his knees, reached into Higgins’ coat and brought out a .32 caliber automatic. Quade went quickly through Higgins’ pockets. He tossed a sheaf of bills on the rug beside Boston. Boston’s eyes popped. He picked up the bills, ruffled them.

  “Grands!” he said softly. “Forty-eight thousand bucks!”