Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia

by Gruber, Frank

  “Gag, hell!” Quade said indignantly. “I am the human encyclopedia. Ask me any question, any question at all.”

  “All right,” Vickers said, aching to get even with him for the mandrake one. “See how smart you are about criminal things. How much stolen property is recovered and returned to the victims?”

  “That’s easy,” Quade said. “It varies slightly, but during the first nine months of 1939, and taking in the whole country, a little over sixty-seven percent of all stolen goods—autos, furs, jewels, money, and the like—was reported recovered. In 1938, however—”

  “All right! All right!” Vickers waved his arms. “Now about this Billy Bond affair … Soup may have had a friend with him who stayed downstairs and saw me taking him out. That’s how Nick got tipped off so quick. I had to let Soup go, on account of Darcy had a habeas corpus writ with him and there wasn’t enough evidence to hold Soup on a murder charge. He really had a license to carry the rod.”

  “And he knows about poisons and such?”

  “Yeah, sure. Oh, there’s no doubt that Soup slipped the stuff in Billy Bond’s beer. The question is, who hired him to do it?”

  “Wouldn’t he be doing it on his own?”

  “Naw. It’s a job of work with Spooner. That’s his business. Somebody wants to throw a stink bomb in a movie that’s lined up with the wrong union, they hire Soup to make the bomb. Soup’s got a reputation. People who want a job done, hire him to do it.”

  “And you’ve never been able to pin a rap on him? I thought you said he was goofy?”

  “Yeah. In some ways. He’s kill-crazy. Don’t think no more of a life than you do about stepping on a bug. And he’s got no nerves at all. But when it comes to other things—mixing up a bomb or a batch of poison, Soup isn’t crazy at all. He’s a genius.”

  Quade put his forefinger under his collar and loosened it. “And he’s out walking the streets now. Uh, is Soup the kind that holds a grudge?”

  Vickers smiled grimly. “Against you? Well, don’t go drinking beer with him. That’s all I’ve got to say. That’s why I stopped in, to warn you.”

  He moved to the door. “You got any ideas about this business, Quade?”

  “Only one, Sergeant. Bond was a song writer, but there were no song sheets or manuscripts in his room. It just struck me as funny.”

  “Funny? Say!” Sergeant Vickers popped out of the room.

  “Ollie,” said Charlie Boston. “The Danbury Fair opens in a couple of days. Remember? We were there in 1932 and sold a lot of books. Why don’t we run up there?”

  “Maybe we will, Charlie. Maybe we will. After we clean up here.”

  Charlie groaned. “You heard what the copper said. That guy, Soup, is kill-crazy. He might toss a pineapple at us. You can’t digest a pineapple, none a-tall!”

  “We won’t go down any dark alleys. Come on, Charlie, forget it. We’ll go downstairs and lap up a beer.”

  Charlie sprang up quickly from the bed. “Sure, but why downstairs? I—I didn’t like their beer.”

  “Watch your glass and it’ll be all right. It’s not the beer they sell that’s poisoned. Come on.”

  Paddy, the bartender, remembered Quade and Boston. He looked uneasily at them as he drew two beers.

  Quade drank half of his beer and smacked his lips. “Good stuff, Paddy. By the way, where’s the professor?”

  “The piano pounder? He ain’t on in the afternoon. Just around lunch time and after supper. Why?”

  “No reason. I was just wondering.” Carrying his glass, Quade sauntered over to the little piano and began pawing over a stack of music.

  “That’s funny,” he remarked. “He must have taken it with him.”

  “What?” demanded Paddy, the bartender.

  “Billy Bond’s song, Cottage By the Shore. Remember, he was singing it when he—”

  “I don’t know anything about Cassidy,” the bartender said quickly, “or about Bond. He stopped in here once in a while for a glass of beer. That’s all I know.”

  “I’m curious about that song,” said Quade. “Where does Cassidy live?”

  “At the Mangner, across the street!” barked Paddy. “And that’s all I know about him.”

  Quade drank the rest of his beer and put the glass on the bar. “Come on, Charlie, we’ll go see a movie. They’ve got Donald Duck.”

  But outside, Quade headed obliquely across the street to the Mangner Hotel, a rat’s nest, if there ever was one. A sign outside stated: “Rooms. $1.00 a day, up.”

  A wildcat bus company had its “depot” in the tiny lobby. Beyond it was a four-foot desk, over which presided a seedy-looking clerk. Quade put on his best brusque manner. “What room does Cassidy, the piano player, hole up in?”

  The clerk avoided Quade’s eyes. “What’s he done?”

  “Nothing, maybe! All right, what room?”

  “Two-ten, but—”

  Quade took the stairs two at a time, Charlie Boston pounding behind him. Two-ten was at the head of the stairs. Quade pounded on the door with his fist. “All right, Cassidy! Open up!”

  There was no response. Quade shook the door knob and banged again on the thin panels. A colored maid poked her head out of an adjoining room. “Mistuh Cassidy takes a nap in the afternoon, mistuh!” she said. “He’s asleep now.”

  “He sleeps sound,” exclaimed Quade. “Give me your pass key.” He strode toward the girl and whipped it out of her hand.

  He unlocked the door of Cassidy’s room, pushed open the door—and stopped.

  Charlie Boston crowded against him. “What’s the matter, Ollie?”

  “We won’t go in,” Quade replied, “not until the cops get here. Cassidy’s got his throat cut!”

  Some time later, Detective Sergeant Vickers moaned to Quade, “But why the devil should you go to his room?”

  “Curiosity. You probably pumped him at the Midtown Cocktail Lounge. But I didn’t. I wanted to get his views.”

  “He didn’t have any. Claimed he’d never seen Billy Bond before.”

  “Paddy, the bartender, said Bond stopped in once in a while for a glass of beer.”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that Cassidy would know Bond. A bartender gets a better chance to remember customers than a piano player would.” Vickers screwed up his face and looked suspiciously at Quade. “Lieutenant Todd was right, you’re snooping around on this. Trying to make a monkey out of me.”

  “Sergeant,” Quade said, with elaborate innocence, “you wrong me. Naturally, I’m a little curious about who wanted to kill poor Billy Bond. That letter in his room … from his father….”

  “I’ve sent him a wire. I guess we’ll be sending Billy home. Tough, but it’s part of the game. I only hope Soup slips up somewhere. If he does and we get him downtown, and Nick Darcy doesn’t show up with a writ, well—Soup’s going to change his appearance.”

  “Me,” said Quade. “I’d rather take a poke at the guy who hired Soup. Can we go now?”

  Vickers nodded wearily. “Yes, but don’t discover any more dead men.”

  Quade and Boston walked back across the street to the Midwest Hotel. The bellboy who had obtained the key to Billy Bond’s room for Quade, stood outside the hotel, talking to the doorman. He winked at Quade, then followed him into the lobby.

  “Mr. Quade,” the bellboy whispered, “are you a betting man?”

  “Only on sure things.”

  “This is a sure bet. For me. I’ll bet you five bucks I can tell you something interesting.”

  Quade sniffed. “How do you know it’ll interest me? Five bucks worth.”

  “Call it a bet, then. Billy Bond had a girl friend. Bet you didn’t know that?”

  “I didn’t,” said Quade. “But what makes you think I’d pay five bucks for her name?”

  “You didn’t wa
nt his key just to look at his neckties, did you? Is it a go?”

  “And her address?”

  The bellboy nodded. “The name is Lily Roberts. She warbles at the Club 38 on 52nd Street. O.K.?”

  Quade slipped him five dollars. “O.K.”

  Charlie Boston sulked all the way up to their room. “I’m surer than ever now that we ought to go to the Danbury Fair, Ollie,” he insisted.

  “In due time, Charlie. In due time. Let’s get our suits pressed; we’re going out stepping tonight. To the Club 38.”

  Charlie Boston groaned. “There goes the last of our bank roll! And what’ll we wear while these suits are getting pressed?”

  “We’ll go to bed. Call a bellboy.”

  The owners of the dilapidated brownstone building on 52nd Street had been about to tear down the building when a man came along and said he wanted to put a night club in on the ground floor. Builders ripped out partitions, splattered paint and paper and electric lights here and there and in a little while there emerged the Club 38. Inside of two years it became the snootiest night club on the street.

  The headwaiter regarded Quade and Boston haughtily until the former slipped him five dollars. Then he led them to a tiny table not too far from the miniature dance floor.

  They had scarcely seated themselves when the orchestra burst into a fanfare and the lights in the room became dim, to be relieved by a spotlight.

  The master of ceremonies shouted, “That song stylist, Miss Lily Roberts!”

  A statuesque blonde in a low-cut evening gown came out from behind the orchestra and walked into the spotlight. She began singing in a husky, throaty voice:

  “Say, sweet, you’ll come with me to the sea …

  You’ll stay there evermore … with me …”

  She was singing the chorus when Charlie Boston suddenly exclaimed, “Ollie, that song!”

  “I know,” Quade replied, grimly. “The words are practically the same as Billy Bond’s. It’s probably his song—and that’s his girl.”

  Lily Roberts finished the song and was greeted with a tremendous burst of applause. She sang another number, then retreated, amid continued calls for more.

  Quade signaled to a waiter. “Listen, chum,” he said confidentially, “what was the name of that first song Lily warbled?”

  “Oh, that! Why, Cottage By the Sea.”

  “Cottage By the Sea, eh? Well, look, you suppose you could get me one of the musician’s copies? For—this?”

  He laid a folded five-dollar-bill on the table. The waiter pretended to wipe off the cloth with his napkin and the bill disappeared. It was a neat job.

  Two minutes later he came back with a folded sheet of music. Quade looked at it and said softly, “What did Billy Bond say the name of his song was?”

  “Cottage By the Shore.”

  “That’s what I thought. The Showman gave that title, too. Well, listen to what it says here: ‘Cottage By the Sea, Words and music by Al Donnelley.’”

  Charlie Boston gasped: “One of these guys is a robber!”

  “The question,” said Quade, “is which one. I haven’t told you about my visit to Murdock & Company this afternoon. Murdock gave me a big song and dance; what pals he is with a famous song writer. The guy’s name is Al Donnelley!”

  “Why, the dirty—!” cried Charlie Boston. “Did Murdock publish this song?”

  Quade shook his head. “No. It says here, ‘Published by Wingate Music Company.’”

  Boston sighed. “All right, Ollie. You’ve got me going now. Let’s go it whole hog. Bring on the blonde and we’ll give her a third-degree.”

  “Lily Roberts, eh? You could go for her.”

  “Well, she isn’t a bad looker. Not for my money.”

  At that moment, Lily Roberts wandered out from behind the bandstand. She looked about the floor with an expression of boredom. Quade signaled to the waiter who had obtained the song sheet for him.

  “Julius, do you suppose you could persuade Miss Lily to have a drink with us?”

  The waiter stowed away the bill. “A man can only try, eh?”

  He went over to Miss Lily Roberts and spoke to her. Lily looked over at Quade and Boston, and wrinkled her nose distastefully. Then she strolled over.

  Quade and Boston both rose hurriedly. Quade offered Lily his chair and moved to one the waiter brought up.

  “I drink only champagne cocktails,” Lily Roberts said abruptly.

  “Waiter,” Quade said, “bring Miss Roberts a glass of beer! Domestic beer!”

  Lily started to get up, but Quade said quickly, “Hold it, Lily! I want to talk to you, about—Billy Bond!”

  She stiffened. “Cops?”

  Quade didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no. He smiled. “That song you sang a while ago. Cottage By the Sea. It wasn’t bad. It’s new, isn’t it?”

  Lily nodded. “Just came out a couple of days ago. The customers like it.”

  “It reminded me very much of a song Billy Bond wrote. Ever hear his?”

  “Naw,” said Lily. “I gave up listening to his songs months ago. He was a good kid, but he wasn’t a song writer. I told him he didn’t have the stuff.”

  “I don’t imagine he liked you to say that.”

  Lily sniffed. “So what? So he was just a fella I saw once in a while. Nice to kill an hour with, but he didn’t have what it takes. Not more’n enough to buy a beer with once in a while.”

  “No champagne?”

  The gorgeous Lily patted her red, red lips to conceal a yawn. “All right, I’m sorry. He wasn’t a bad kid, but can I help it if the Big Town was too much for him and he jumped off?”

  “Oh, you think it was suicide.”

  “What else? He was broke. A flop. He took the easy way out…. Are you cops, or aren’t you?”

  “No,” said Quade. “We’re friends of Billy Bond.”

  “Glad to have met you.” Lily pushed back her chair. “I’ve got to get ready for another number.”

  “So long,” Boston said, but she merely glared at him.

  She sauntered off.

  Quade said, “Nice blonde, eh, Charlie?”

  “And he wasted his dough buying beer for that cake of ice. A dame like that makes a man lose his faith in love.”

  Quade grinned, but there was a glint in his eyes.

  Soup Spooner lived on the top floor of an old brownstone house on Tenth Avenue. He cooked and ate here, slept and conducted his chemical experiments. He had an amazingly well-equipped laboratory.

  Now and then Soup had visitors. They talked furtively and gave him commissions to execute. Soup read the newspapers later on, to learn of his success.

  Soup was in his laboratory today. He was working and the ghost of a smile played about his mouth. It was an unusual thing and indicated that Soup was engaged in a particularly interesting experiment.

  The biting odor of ammonia was strong in the room, but Soup was oblivious of it. Before him on a bench were a half-dozen, small steel discs. Soup put little pinches of powdered iodine on each of the discs. With a knife blade he took iodine from certain discs and added it to others. Finally he took a flask and let drops of ammonia drip on the discs. He worked each heap into the ammonia, making a plastic mixture which he spread out thinly on the discs.

  He let them dry a few moments, then carried one of the discs to a table at the far end of the room.

  Then he did a strange thing. On his bed lay a shining trombone. He got it and, returning to the table on which he had laid the single disc, stepped off a distance of six feet. Marking the spot, he got a telescopic music stand and spread on it the rough manuscript of a song.

  He put the trombone to his lips and began playing. He played one bar of music, looked at the disc, and played another bar. Suddenly there was a sharp explosion and the brown stuff on the disc
went up in a puff of smoke. Soup Spooner took a pencil from his pocket and marked one of the notes on the music manuscript.

  Then he returned to the bench and obtained another disc. He repeated the business of playing on the trombone. He had to play four bars before there was an explosion.

  His dull, vacant eyes almost showed life, for a moment. He nodded his head in satisfaction.

  Oliver Quade bounced out of bed at ten o’clock the following morning, as frisky as a colt in clover. “Roll out, Charlie!” he cried. “I had a swell dream. We moved to a ritzy apartment house on Park Avenue.”

  Charlie Boston rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “On what? The twenty-three bucks we got left?”

  “Money isn’t everything, my boy!” Quade retorted. “It’s the grand manner that gets you by. Come on, get up. We’ll have a touch of breakfast, then run over to Park Avenue.”

  “Huh? What for?”

  “Why, to engage that apartment I was just telling you about. It’s in the Huyler Arms.”

  “Are you crazy, Ollie? Why should we want to move over to the Huyler Arms?”

  “Because last night when you started snoring you woke me up and I got to doing some thinking. Serious stuff. I thought of two things and I couldn’t give myself any answers. One—why did Billy Bond himself send in that item to The Showman?”

  “Even I figured that one out,” Boston replied. “The kid was trying to work his old man for some more dough. He didn’t have anything to show for his year. So he got a phony news item printed about having a song published. He was going to send it to the old gent, to wangle some more cash.”

  “You ought to be on the force, Charlie,” Quade said sarcastically. “So why did someone dump poison into his beer?”

  “The blonde had an answer for that. Maybe the old man turned Billy down, so Billy decided to end it all.”

  “Which leads you right down the street to Question Number Two that worried me. Why was Cassidy, the piano player, knocked off?”

  “Maybe he saw Soup spill the poison in the beer?”

  “Uh-uh, that contradicts your other theory. Besides, Cassidy wasn’t acting when Billy keeled over. He was plenty touched. Cassidy was killed because somebody, maybe Soup, wanted that song manuscript Billy had whipped out in the cocktail lounge. Remember? I looked for it when we went back. It wasn’t on top of the little piano, and it wasn’t in Cassidy’s room. I looked while Sergeant Vickers was fussing around. Let’s say Soup swiped it—but why?”