Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia

by Gruber, Frank

  Roletti said, “Nuts! Give me the letter you didn’t deliver to this—Paley, did you say?”

  “I didn’t say.” Quade thrust a hand into his inside breast pocket. Then he let his eyes widen. Quickly he thrust his hands into other pockets. “Why, I haven’t got the letter. I must have lost it. Or had my pocket picked.”

  Captain Roletti yelled, “Damn you, Quade! I’ve got a good notion to run you in. You know a hell of a lot more about this than you’re letting on.”

  “Why, Captain! I don’t know anything. The manager of the hotel must have told you that I never saw Grimshaw until he came up to me in the dining room. What reason would I—well, why shouldn’t I deliver a letter when a man pays me twenty dollars? Especially, when I’m broke.”

  Suspicion was still ripe in the captain’s eyes. But after a moment he shifted to Mills, the fat man. “What’s your part in all this?”

  Mills drew himself together. Then he took a card from his pocket. “I’m Herbert Mills,” he said stiffly. “Victor Mills and Son, Brokers. I’m the son, you know.”

  Captain Roletti looked at the card. “I’ve heard of the company. Rates pretty high, doesn’t it?”

  Mills shrugged an admission. “You must know my father. He’s a friend of the mayor, you know.”

  “I know. But let it stop there. All right, you coming?”

  Mills moved quickly to the door.

  “Thanks for the reward, Mr. Mills,” said Charlie Boston.

  Mills popped out of the room. Roletti turned and delivered a parting shot: “Don’t leave town, Quade!”

  Quade stepped after him. “Say, tell that to the manager on your way out, will you?”

  The door closed, but Quade signaled to Boston to remain quiet. He waited a moment, then jerked the door open. The hallway was empty. He closed the door.

  “Charlie,” he accused his friend, “that was highway robbery!”

  “Oh, was it?” grinned Boston. “Why, the fat so-and-so. Fifty-two bucks reward isn’t too much for giving him nine hundred and eighty. And say, that Mills guy knows a lot more than he lets on. About Grimshaw and Lund, both.”

  “You’re telling me, Charlie. He lied like the devil. A Custer autograph wouldn’t be worth as much as he intimated. Custer wrote plenty of letters. Articles for magazines, too. His autograph is pretty common.”

  “I don’t get that autograph stuff at all, Ollie,” said Boston. “Hell, I read a piece in the paper a while ago which said that Greta Garbo’s autograph was only worth two bucks.”

  “She’s still alive, Charlie. The value of an autograph increases with age, provided also that it isn’t too common. The autographs of some of the signers of the Declaration of Independence aren’t worth over fifty bucks, but one of them, that of Button Gwinnett, is worth fifty thousand.”

  “Holy smokes!” exclaimed Charlie Boston. “I never even heard of the guy.”

  “Not many people are familiar with his name, today. In fact, if he hadn’t been one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence no one would even want his autograph … Shame to be wasting all my Human Encyclopedia knowledge on just you.”

  “But this Jesse James stuff. Why should his autograph be worth so much? He’s only been dead about fifty years or so.”

  “That’s right. But if you’ll remember your dime novels, you know Jesse James wasn’t in the habit of writing letters. At least not with his own name. He was an outlaw from the time he was fifteen until he was killed nineteen years later. And his name today is known to more people than the names of any of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Yes, I’d say that an authentic autograph of Jesse would be worth quite a sum of money. I think I’d like to talk to Miss Grimshaw about that.”

  “The girl whose father was knocked off? Where’ll you find her?”

  “Why, her father was here at the hotel, so I imagine this is where Miss Grimshaw will be. A lot of the race-track crowd make this their headquarters. I’ll see.” He walked across the room and picked up the telephone.

  “Hello, operator, can you tell me in what room Miss Helen Grimshaw is registered?”

  “Ten-fourteen,” was the reply. “Shall I ring it?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll run up. She’s expecting me.”

  “I’ll bet she is,” snorted Boston. “Is she expecting me too?”

  “You stay here and hold down the fort. As long as one of us is here, the manager won’t lock the door on us. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  Oliver Quade climbed two flights of stairs to the tenth floor. Outside of Room 1014 he paused. A rumble of voices came to his ears, but he could not make out the words. He rapped on the door.

  There was silence inside the room for a moment, then a feminine voice called, “Come in!”

  Quade pushed open the door. Helen Grimshaw, looking pale and drawn, sat in an easy chair facing the door. She clutched a handkerchief in her fist. Standing nearby, a scowl on his handsome face, was young Jack Forester, the wealthy horseman.

  Quade said, “I’m Oliver Quade. Remember me?”

  Jack Forester snapped, “What do you want?”

  “Why, I’m interested in autographs,” he said. “I understand your father had a fine collection of Custer items.”

  Jack Forester cut in sharply. “Say, is this a time for that? Can’t you see Miss Grimshaw has suffered a severe shock?”

  “I’m all right, Jack!” said Helen Grimshaw. “After all, I’m going to need money. Plenty of it. Yes, Mr. Quade, Father owned some Custer letters. Not many, however. Are there any particular ones you are interested in?”

  “Yes. Any he wrote while in Washington during ’76? During the time he appeared as a witness before the Federal Board of Inquiry.”

  Helen Grimshaw shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I know Father had no letters written during that period.”

  Quade sighed. He half turned away, then said, casually, “By the way, Miss Grimshaw, did you ever meet an autograph dealer named Martin Lund?”

  The girl shook her head. “No, but Father had dealings with him. He bought and sold several items for Father … It’s—it’s been a shock. Both of them killed on the same day.”

  “Will you get out of here?” cried Jack Forester, unable to restrain himself any longer.

  Quade nodded, then opened the door and stepped out. He was immediately flanked by the two thugs who had attacked him and Charlie Boston that morning. Each grabbed an arm and, to make it more effective, the bigger of the two showed Quade a .32 caliber automatic.

  “How’s about it?” he asked cheerfully. “You want some of this?”

  “I ought to have it, I guess,” Quade said bitterly, “for being so stupid. I should have known you boys would be around again. Well, what is it?”

  “We want to talk over some things with you. Let’s go down to your room—by the stairs.”

  The man put the gun in his coat pocket, but kept his hand on it. “We’ll make off we’re pals if we meet anyone on the way.”

  “Sure, pal,” Quade said and started for the stairs with the two thugs crowding his heels. On the eighth floor he said, “You know I think you boys are making a mistake. I don’t—”

  “Keep your mouth shut!” snarled the man with the gun, taking it from his pocket and jamming it into Quade’s spine. “You’re not going to give any signal to that big stooge of yours.”

  Quade relaxed. He pushed open the door of his suite. Charlie Boston was lying on one of the twin beds in the bedroom. He lifted up his head, said, “That you, Ollie?” Then he saw the men behind Quade.

  He sprang up from the bed. By that time the man with the gun had stepped around Quade and pointed the gun at Boston. “Lay down again, mutt,” he sneered.

  Charlie Boston sat on the bed. “What’s the idea?”

  “Search me,” said Quade flippantly.
/>   The man with the gun took up that remark. “That’s just what we’re going to do. Search you. You can save yourself a lot of trouble by kicking through with that letter.”

  “Oh,” said Quade, “you want a letter. Sorry. I haven’t got one. But I’ll be glad to write you one.”

  The thug showed Quade the gun, then whipped it up suddenly and laid it along the side of his jaw. It was a cruel blow and sent pain streaking through Quade’s head.

  Charlie Boston leaped to his feet again, snarling. The gunman quickly threw down on him. “Come ahead, monkey!” he invited.

  Quade said steadily, “I still haven’t got that letter.”

  The man with the gun said, “Search him, Tony!”

  Tony made a good job of it. He even took off Quade’s shoes. But he didn’t find the letter. “She ain’t here, Henry,” he said.

  “Try the other lug.”

  Boston bristled, but relaxed under the threat of the gun. Tony searched him thoroughly. Then he went through the drawers of the dresser in the bedroom; in the sitting room. Finally he tackled the closets and even peeled back the rugs on the floors.

  He finally conceded defeat. “It ain’t here.”

  Henry, whose face had been growing darker during the search, turned to Oliver Quade. “I’m going to ask you just once more for that letter, and then I’m going to take this gun and break every bone in your head. And I’ll do it without noise. Now, where’s the letter?”

  Quade saw the determination in Henry’s eyes. “I mailed it to myself. It won’t be here until morning.”

  Consternation spread across Henry’s face. “You mailed the letter to yourself?”

  “Yes. You boys know what happened at the track. I was questioned by the cops. I had a hunch they’d be after me again and I couldn’t risk having it found on me, or in this room. I mailed the letter to myself.”

  “Jeez!” cried Tony. “He’s lyin’!”

  Henry sighed wearily. “No. The letter isn’t here. That’s just about what a smart guy like him would do. Well, we’ve got to stick here until morning. You’ll have to go out and tell the boss.”

  “Before he goes,” said Quade, “let me give you a friendly warning about something. My room rent’s overdue. At six o’clock the manager comes to lock me out. It’s five-thirty now.”

  Alarm shot into Henry’s eyes. “What the hell?”

  Despite the gravity of the situation, Quade chuckled, “Of course, if you were to pay the bill …”

  “How much is it?”

  “Four hundred and twenty-four dollars.”

  Henry exclaimed, “For the love of Mike!”

  “He’s stringing us,” snapped Tony. “No guy could run up a hotel bill of four twenty-four.”

  “There’s the telephone,” said Quade. “Ask the manager how much my bill is.”

  Henry looked at the phone. “You pick it up. Ask him about the bill. I’ll hold the receiver and get the answer. Here, Tony, hold the rod.”

  Quade picked up the phone, while Henry put the receiver to his ear. Quade said, “Let me talk to the manager, Mr. Meyer.”

  Henry nodded. After a moment, he nodded again. “Mr. Meyer,” Quade said, “will you tell me again how much my bill amounts to?”

  Henry listened for a moment, then reached over suddenly and covered the mouthpiece. “He wants to know if you’ll pay by six o’clock. Tell him, yes—quick!”

  “Yes, Mr. Meyer, at six-sharp. Thank you,” Quade said.

  Henry put the receiver on the hook. “Tony, you’ll have to run out and tell the boss. We’ve got to stay here until the morning mail comes in. If we don’t pay that money, they’ll come up here. Hurry, tell him the money’s got to be here before six.”

  Tony returned Henry’s gun and scooted out of the room. Henry moved to a position just inside the door. He glowered at Quade. “This is a lousy mess.”

  “Isn’t it?” Quade asked pleasantly. “But you can cheer yourself up by thinking of the letter.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it already. And if it don’t come here, you know what’s going to happen to you?”

  “The same thing that happened to Martin Lund and George Grimshaw?”

  Henry scowled. “We didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “Rats!” jeered Charlie Boston.

  Henry gave him a dirty look. “I ain’t never bumped a man—” he began and then when Charlie Boston took a step forward, a gleam in his eyes, he added hastily: “Except in self-defense. Sit down, bozo!”

  There was a knock on the door. Henry leaped three feet toward Quade. “Keep your mouth shut!” he whispered frantically.

  “It might be the maid,” Quade said. “If I don’t answer she’ll come in.”

  “All right, answer!”

  “Yes?” Quade called. “Who is it?”

  “Herbert Mills,” was the reply. “Can I see you a moment, Mr. Quade?”

  Henry’s eyes popped. “Let him come in, but don’t spill anything. Introduce me as a friend. Any damn name.”

  “Come in, Mr. Mills,” Quade invited.

  Herbert Mills, his fat face perspiring, came into the room, closing the door behind him. Quade, shooting a look at Henry, saw the gunman’s hands jammed deep in his coat pockets.

  Quade walked toward Herbert Mills, held out his hand. “Glad to see you, Mr. Mills.”

  He caught the fat man’s hand, whirled and slammed in the bolt on the door behind Mills. Then shoving Mills violently toward Henry, he cried, “Charlie!”

  Mills yelped and jerked his hand out of Quade’s grip. The latter was surprised at the strength in the fat man. Henry cried out: “No, you don’t!” and then Charlie Boston slugged him from the side.

  A fist banged on the door. “Let me in!” cried the voice of Tony.

  Quade sunk his fist into Herbert Mills stomach. The fat man said, “Whoosh,” and folded forward. Quade chopped at his face, but Mills leaned forward too quickly and the fist hit his ear. He yelped in pain.

  Charlie Boston was wrestling with Henry, now, trying to keep Henry from bringing the gun into the battle. Quade stepped back to deliver a finishing blow to the fat man. Herbert Mills, not half as far gone as he had pretended, suddenly lunged forward and rammed Quade in the stomach.

  Quade was catapulted back against the wall. He recoiled from it into the ham-like swinging fists of Herbert Mills. One caught him flush on the jaw and he went down to his knees.

  “Charlie!” he cried weakly.

  “Coming!” roared Charlie Boston. He suddenly picked up Henry bodily and smashed him against the wall. The gun fell from Henry’s hand. Boston scooped it up and clouted Henry on the head with it. Henry fell limply to the floor.

  Then Boston was on Herbert Mills’ back. He hit the fat man twice with the gun and Mills fell against Quade, almost crushing him to the floor. Quade scuttled out from under and took the gun from Charlie Boston’s hand.

  He leaped to the door, shot the bolt and jerked it open. Tony was just disappearing around the corridor. Quade slammed the door shut.

  The phone rang shrilly. Quade stepped around Herbert Mills, who was on his hands and knees, blubbering, and scooped up the phone.

  “Mr. Quade!” said the angry voice of the hotel manager. “What’s going on up in your room? I’ve just received a complaint that you’re smashing furniture. Stop that instantly! I’m coming up with a policeman!”

  “Bring two!” snapped Quade, banging the receiver back on the hook.

  Herbert Mills got to his feet and sat down heavily on the bed. He put his hand to his head and brought it away, smeared with blood. He looked at the blood and glared at Quade.

  “I don’t know what this is all about. I just came in to make you a larger reward for that Custer letter and you light into me. What for?”

  “Oh, so that’s yo
ur story? You didn’t come in here because Tony came for you? Or for the Jesse—”

  “I don’t even know who Tony is. And I’m not interested in any Jesse James letter. I’ve already got it, smart guy.”

  “Yes? May I take a good look at it?”

  Mills brought out a letter from his coat pocket. He unfolded it. “This is it.”

  “It’s it all right,” said Quade, “but it’s not what you really want. This is a forgery. And you know it.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Mills. “I guess I ought to know if it’s genuine.”

  “Perhaps you should,” retorted Quade, “being a crook yourself. But that letter’s a forgery. And you know it. And anyone who knew anything about Jesse James would know it.”

  Mills looked again at the letter. “I don’t get it.”

  “The date!” cried Quade. “Sherman, Texas, September 8, 1876. On September 7, Jesse James, Frank James, the three Youngers and three other men, held up the Northfield, Minnesota, bank and suffered the most crushing defeat of their careers. Two members of the gang were killed in Northfield and the others were pursued for two weeks by more than two thousand possemen. Eventually, another member of the band was killed and the three Youngers captured. During those two weeks Jesse James most certainly was not in Texas, nor was he in a position to write any letters—even to his mother.”

  Herbert Mills’ fat face became flabby as mush. “Who—who are you?” he asked weakly.

  “Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia,” grinned Quade. “The man who knows—”

  “What’s going on here?” cried the voice of Meyer, the hotel manager.

  Quade turned. Meyer was storming into the suite. Behind him was Captain Roletti.

  Roletti snapped, “Ah, so you chaps are together again. Good thing I happened to stay down in the lobby. Well, which one is it?”

  “Him!” exclaimed Herbert Mills.

  “Him,” said Quade.

  Captain Roletti nodded at Mills. “I guess I’ll take you. I’d just about decided that, anyway. I thought I’d check up on everybody connected with this affair, just in case, and I discovered a little while ago that Herbert Mills and Son are broke. Junior’s been out of the firm the last three months. And he hasn’t been picking them very good—at the track, I mean. So he’s been dabbling a bit in autographs, mostly forgeries. A dealer named Lund made a beef to Headquarters about a Herbert Mills, only this morning!”