“You’re the Human Encyclopedia,” Boston said. “I’m only the stooge. I’d much rather be up at the Danbury Fair. It opens tomorrow and we ought to be there right now, finding a spot.”
“There’re always fairs, Charlie. Roll out, so we can get going.”
“You’re really going through with that Park Avenue stuff? What for?”
“Because Mr. Al Donnelley lives there. I looked him up in the phone directory. I’d like to meet Al. He must be in the chips to live at a jernt like the Huyler Arms.”
Charlie Boston groaned …
The Huyler Arms was even worse than Charlie Boston had imagined. The renting agent wore a cutaway coat and striped trousers.
“Just a little one-bedroom apartment,” Quade said, loftily. “I’m not going to bring many of my things. I can run out to the country easily if I need anything. And my secretary, Mr. Boston, here, will be going out there weekends, anyway.”
“Oh, quite!” said the manager. “We’ve a lovely little furnished apartment on the tenth floor, overlooking the Avenue. Would you care to see it?”
“I would, indeed.”
It was a very nice apartment, consisting of a living room, bedroom and kitchenette. The furniture was in excellent taste, if a bit shabby around the edges.
“Only two and a quarter,” said the renting agent. “Should you care to take a lease, it’ll be two hundred even.”
“I don’t believe I’d be interested in a lease. That’s why I came here. Because it’s an apartment hotel. I may be in town only two or three months. Florida, you know … and a bit of sport in Quebec.”
“Ah, yes, quite! The apartment is satisfactory?”
“Oh, quite! Charles, will you write out a check for the first month’s rent?”
Charlie Boston’s mouth moved two or three times before he could bring out any words. “I’m sorry, Mr. Quade, I do believe I left the check book in the country. The rush, you know.”
Quade looked annoyed. “That’s awkward! And I don’t believe I have any money with me. You’ll have to run over to the club later and get some. Umm, yes, here’s a little change. Will this tenner do for the moment, Mr. Holzshuh?”
“Oh, quite! At your convenience, Mr. Quade. And I do hope you’ll like it here.”
“I think I will. I’m a bit tired now. Rather large evening yesterday, you know.”
“Of course. Here are the keys.”
The renting agent left them alone in the apartment. Boston waited until he had closed the door, then snorted: “Secretary! Check book! Bah!”
Quade chuckled. “I told you it was the manner, Charlie.”
“How long you think we can get away with it?”
“Until the ten dollars are used up. A day or two, anyway. And I think that’ll be long enough to check up on Mr. Al Donnelley.”
The piano in the apartment above was banging steadily, not too loud, but enough to be heard in Quade’s newly-rented little place. After a while the tenant above gave his tonsils a bit of exercise. He didn’t sing very well, but he sang loud.
Quade looked at the ceiling. “That wouldn’t be Al Donnelley, would it, Charlie?”
“You know damn well it is, Ollie,” Boston said. “You checked up on the telephone before we came over here and worked the manager around into showing us this apartment, right underneath Donnelley’s hangout.”
“Oh, did I? How clever of me. Well, no wonder this apartment was vacant. Donnelley must have driven the previous tenants out with his racket.”
A trombone joined the piano and after a moment, a female voice joined the male.
Quade said, “Tsk! Tsk! Parties before lunch time. That’s a song writer for you, Charlie. Reach up and bang on the ceiling! We don’t have to put up with that racket, do we?”
Boston took off a number twelve shoe and stepped up on the sofa. He pounded lustily on the ceiling with the heel of his shoe.
In the apartment above, someone responded promptly by jumping up and down. Tiny bits of plaster fell on Charlie Boston’s face.
He snarled, “Fine neighbors!” He belabored the ceiling with increased vigor.
Three or four pairs of feet began stamping on the floor above. Quade said, in a tone of satisfaction, “That settles it, Charlie. We’ll go up and give them a piece of our minds.”
Boston said, crookedly, “Now comes the slapping around. I’ll bet a couple of them are heavyweight prize-fighters. All right, lead on.”
They left their newly rented apartment and ascended to the floor above and made their way to the door of Apartment 11-C. Quade leaned against the door buzzer.
A skinny, long-haired chap of about thirty, with bright eyes, opened the door. “Yeah?” he said.
“We’re the new tenants down below,” Quade said, pleasantly. “You’re making too much damn noise.”
Long-hair sneered. “I pay the rent of this apartment and I can make all the noise I like. If you don’t like it, you know what you can do.”
A brawny chap with black, slick hair hove up behind Long-hair. “Trouble, Al?” he asked.
“Al?” said Quade. “Say, you wouldn’t be Al Donnelley, the famous song writer, would you? I heard he lived in this building.”
“Yeah, I’m Donnelley. What of it?”
Quade crowded Donnelley into the hallway, trying to peer inquisitively into the apartment. “That’s swell,” he said, “you’re our neighbor. Sorry about the beef. Forget it. Umm, having a little party, huh?”
“Yeah,” Donnelley conceded. “Have a drink?”
“Don’t mind if I do. This is my secretary, Mr. Boston.”
They pushed into the apartment. There were five or six men and about that many women of various ages and degrees of attractiveness.
They were mostly gathered around a grand piano, clutching drinks that were being served by a white-jacketed Filipino. Charlie Boston snagged drinks for himself and Quade.
A little girl whose lips matched her hair came up to Quade. “I’m Grace Evans,” she said. “I’m glad you joined the party. You live here in the building?” Without waiting for a reply, she went on: “You must have loads of money. I’ll bet you’re a stock-broker or something.”
“Or something,” Quade said. “And I’ll bet you’re in the chorus.”
She made an O with her mouth. “Why, how’d you know? My, but you’re clever. I just love clever men. Say something clever, will you?”
“I feel like singing,” Quade said. “Get Al to sing something. His new song, Cottage By the Sea. I like that.”
Al Donnelley was already at the piano. Grace Evans shrieked at him. “Al, play your new number.”
“Which one?” Al Donnelley asked, expansively.
Grace Evans trilled. “Isn’t he clever? He writes so many songs he doesn’t know which is his latest. What is it, again?”
“Cottage By the Sea,” Quade said. “I heard it the other day and it was swell.”
Al Donnelley pawed over some music sheets and finally found the one he was looking for. He spread it out, glanced at it and began pounding the grand piano.
The sleek-haired man began bellowing in a hog-calling voice and the others in the room took it up. Quade went through the motions of singing, but kept his eyes on Al Donnelley. The song writer played well enough, but when it came to vocalizing, he wasn’t so good.
Half-way through the song, the door bell whirred, but no one paid any attention to it. Quade saw the Filipino going toward the door, but did not turn until Donnelley finished with Cottage by the Sea.
Quade exclaimed, “That was swell, Al!”
“Wasn’t it?” a new girl asked Quade.
He looked at the girl with her hat on and for a moment he didn’t recognize her. It was the man behind her, that told him who she was. The man was Murdock, president of the Murdock Publishing Company. And
the girl—in a silver fox jacket, brilliant make-up and the trimmings—was Martha Henderson, Murdock’s secretary.
She said, “I didn’t know you knew Al. You should have said so the other day.”
“I didn’t know him then. Uh, I live in the apartment below.”
“In this building. Why, you said—” She turned abruptly and, catching hold of Murdock’s arm, pulled him aside.
Al Donnelley got up from the piano. “Hi, Murdock,” he cried. “And Martha, old girl. H’ar’ya. Glad you came up.”
Quade caught Charlie Boston’s eye and motioned toward the door. He set down his glass. “Well, thanks for the drink, Al. Got to be going.”
Martha Henderson deserted Murdock and ran to Al Donnelley’s side. She whispered into his ear. Murdock’s face looked as if he’d just been told that his bank account was overdrawn.
“Hey!” he said, weakly. “Wait a minute, you two!”
Quade began moving toward the door. “Sorry, Al. We’ve got to be running along. Stop downstairs sometime and I’ll repay the drink. So-long.”
Al Donnelley made a running dive and landed on his hands and knees in the narrow hall leading to the door. “You can’t leave here!” he bawled. “Hey, Joe! Max! Help me!”
Quade tried to step over Al Donnelley, and the song writer jack-knifed and caught hold of Quade’s ankle. He yanked on it and dumped Quade on top of himself.
Charlie Boston roared and went into action then. He smacked the sleek-haired man who was charging and smashed him back into another man coming up behind.
Quade, sitting on the floor, reached out and clamped a half Nelson on Al Donnelley. He flopped him over on his back, let go of the half Nelson suddenly and cuffed the song writer along the side of his head. Al Donnelley’s head banged on the floor. He went limp.
Quade bounced to his feet, took a couple of quick steps and opened the door. “All right, Charlie!” he yelled.
Charlie Boston was just in the act of chopping down Mr. Murdock, president of the Murdock Publishing Company. He finished that little task very neatly, then leisurely joined Oliver Quade at the door. There was no pursuit and the two friends returned to their new apartment on the floor below.
“That,” said Charlie Boston, “was fun. Is there going to be any more like that?”
Quade shook his head. “No, this case is just about washed up. Al Donnelley washed it up. If Vickers is smart, he’ll throw Donnelley in the clink and give him the third-degree. He’ll kick through.”
“With what?” Charlie Boston demanded. “I didn’t see anything out of the way. Maybe he swiped that song from Billy Bond and maybe he didn’t.”
“Maybe he did? He didn’t even know it!”
“Whaddya mean, he didn’t know it? He played it.”
“With the music. And he had to keep reading it. Funny. You’d think if a fellow had written the song himself, he’d be able to play it without keeping his eyes on the music.”
Boston inhaled softly. “Jeez, I never thought of that. You think—”
“I think I’ll call Sergeant Vickers.”
Quade picked up the telephone and told the operator downstairs that he wanted police headquarters. The operator gasped. “Is there anything wrong, Mr. Quade?”
“Too damn much noise around here. I’m going to make a complaint about the people upstairs.”
“Oh, don’t do that, sir! We’ll take care of it!”
“Never mind. I’ll handle it myself. Just get me Headquarters. And make it snappy, or I’ll make a complaint about you, too.”
The girl made the connection. After being shifted to several departments, Quade finally got Sergeant Vickers. “This is Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia. I’ve got that Billy Bond case washed up for you, Sergeant. Feel like making the arrest?”
“Are you kidding?” Sergeant Vickers cried.
“Of course not! Rush over to the Huyler Arms on Park Avenue and I’ll give you a lad who can tell you the whole thing with a little pressure.”
“You’re sure, Quade? I’ve got a little something myself today that’s damn funny. It came in the mail. The original manuscript of that song Billy Bond wrote.”
“What? Somebody sent you that in the mail?”
“Yeah. Sounds screwy, doesn’t it? There was a note with it, even screwier. It says: ‘Play this on your trombone.’ That’s what’s funny about it, Quade.” Vickers cleared his throat. “I do have a trombone. Play it a lot. But no one except my landlady knows I’ve got a trombone. Secret vice, you know. What do you make of it, Quade?”
Quade bit his lip. “Where do you live, Sergeant?”
“On West Forty-Sixth. I’ve got a little apartment—”
Quade cried, “Meet me on the corner of Forty-Sixth and Broadway, in front of Childs’, in ten minutes. And don’t go to your apartment first.”
“Why not? What’s it all about?”
“Meet me there and you’ll find out!”
Quade slammed the receiver on the hook. “Come on, Charlie. I’ve got an awfully funny feeling about something.”
“About what?”
“You’ll see!”
Outside the Huyler Arms, Quade signaled to a taxicab and inside of ten minutes paid it off at 46th and Broadway. They had scarcely taken up a stand than Sergeant Vickers climbed out of a police car and waved goodbye to his driver.
“All right,” Sergeant Vickers said to Quade. “What’s this about winding up the Bond case?”
Quade caught the detective’s arm. “First of all, let’s go to your apartment.”
“What for?”
“I want to see that trombone of yours. In the meantime let me see that song manuscript that came in the mail.”
A look of scepticism on his face, Vickers produced the manuscript. Quade scanned it closely. “Yes, as nearly as I can tell, it’s the same one Billy Bond handed to Cassidy, the piano pounder at the Midwest Bar.”
“But why would he send it to me, whoever it was? Soup, you figure?”
Quade shrugged. “I think I can answer that when we get to your apartment.”
They were already walking west on 46th Street, crossed Eighth Avenue, and near Ninth Vickers turned into a shabby building.
“I guess you live on your salary,” Quade murmured.
“Damn tootin’ I do,” Vickers retorted.
He led them down a half-lit corridor and finally unlocked a door, exposing a rather neat two-room-and-kitchenette apartment. “I call this home,” Vickers said.
Quade immediately began poking around the place. “Where’s this secret vice of yours, Sergeant?”
Somewhat sheepishly Vickers brought it out from a closet, a gleaming trombone. He started to put it to his lips, but Quade caught it from him. “Hold it!” he cried.
Startled, Vickers surrendered the instrument. “Say, you don’t think—”
Quade was examining the mouthpiece. He shook his head. Then he hefted the instrument gingerly. “It looks all right,” he said, “it must be something else.”
“What are you talking about?” Vickers demanded in bewilderment.
“Soup Spooner,” Quade replied. “That lad may be goofy, but he isn’t goofy enough to send you a bit of evidence that might point to himself—if he didn’t have a danged good reason. I thought for a minute …”
A look of horror suddenly spread across the sergeant’s face. “That he wiped some of that poison on the trombone. Good Lord!” He snatched the instrument from Quade and began examining it himself.
Quade asked, “Would Soup be apt to know where you live, do you think?”
Vickers nodded, vigorously. “Everyone around here knows me, and Soup holes himself up nearby, over on Tenth Avenue.”
“Then,” said Quade, “let’s go over this place. With a fine-tooth comb.”
It was Quade wh
o found it. His sensitive nostrils led him to it. It was in a glass vase standing on the mantel piece—just a couple of feet from a raised music stand which the sergeant would no doubt use when practicing on his trombone.
Quade smelled the ammonia first, then when he took down the vase and looking in, saw that it was half-filled with a solid brownish cake, he sniffed again and knew that the composition also contained iodine.
A film of perspiration covered his forehead. “Sergeant,” he said, “if you’d played the trombone, you’d have made yourself a candidate for a harpist’s job—up above!”
Vickers came over and looked into the vase. “Who put that stuff in there?” he demanded.
“I think,” said Quade, “your friend, Soup Spooner.”
“What is it? Smells like ammonia.”
“Ammonia,” said Quade, “when mixed with iodine is perfectly harmless when wet, but when dry, it’s more devastating than T.N.T.”
Sergeant Vickers reeled back, his face blanching. “Soup—”
Quade nodded. “You were annoying him. So he sent you the music manuscript and suggested you play on your trombone.” Quade gasped. “Let me see that manuscript again.”
The sergeant handed it over. Quade’s steely eyes scanned it again and slowly his mouth widened in admiration. “Sergeant, remember your saying Soup was a genius! Well, he is. When it comes to figuring out a devilish murder plot. This score’s been changed. I heard Lily Roberts sing it last night and this morning I heard Al Donnelley play it on the piano. Neither of them ever reached high G sharp. But here—see, in this fourth bat, a couple of notes have been changed. You hit high G sharp, suddenly and unexpectedly!”
Vickers stared. “I don’t get it.”
“Did you ever hear of the stunt old Caruso used to pull? He’d go into the bar of the old Knickerbocker Hotel, take a wine glass and hit it with his fingernail to get the pitch of it. Then he’d sing in that pitch, and break the wine glass. With his voice.”
Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia Page 40
