Treadwell was still seated, but his arms and head hung over the top of the pit and even as Quade looked, his hat fell from his head and dropped to the sandy floor. At the distance Quade could see that Treadwell’s eyes were glassy.
“Treadwell!” Reggie Ragsdale exclaimed. He, too, had glanced across the pit.
Ragsdale brushed past Quade and hurried around the pit to Treadwell’s side, Quade following. Other spectators saw Treadwell then and a bedlam of noise went up.
“Don’t anyone leave!” thundered Ragsdale, his bored manner gone. “Treadwell is dead!”
“He’s been murdered!”
The three words rang out above the rumble of noise. Quade looked down into the pit at the awe-stricken face of Cleve Storm, Treadwell’s handler.
“Don’t be a fool, man!” he cautioned. “You can’t make an accusation like that! Mr. Treadwell probably died of heart failure.”
“He’s been murdered, I tell you!” cried Storm. “There wasn’t nothin’ the matter with his heart.”
Ragsdale straightened beside Quade. “Doctor Pardley!” he called.
A middle-aged man with a grey-flecked Vandyke came up. He made a quick examination of George Treadwell, without touching the body. Then he frowned at Ragsdale. “Hard to say, Reggie. Might have been apoplexy—except that he’s not the type.”
Ragsdale blinked. “He was a dead-game sportsman—I’ll see that his widow receives my check at once.”
“That ain’t gonna bring him back to life!” cried Cleve Storm. “I—I warned him not to come up here.”
“Why?” snapped Ragsdale testily.
Cleve Storm looked around the circle of hostile faces, for most of the men here were personal friends of Ragsdale. He gulped. “Because he didn’t have a chance—not against your money. You—you always win.”
Ragsdale winced. It was the deadliest insult any man could have hurled at him: to accuse him of not being a real sportsman. His lips tightened.
Quade came to Ragsdale’s assistance. “I’d advise you to keep your opinions—for the cops.”
Ragsdale flashed him a wan smile of thanks. “That’s right, we’ve got to call the police. And when the newspapers hear of this!”
Quade knew what he meant. Cock fighting was an undercover sport. A murder on the Ragsdale estate—cock fighting. The tabloids would have a scoop.
Ragsdale signaled to a steward. “Telephone for the Charlton police, Louis,” he ordered. “Tell them someone died here—might possibly be a murder.” He did not spare himself.
Quade looked at his leather case full of books and shook his head. Well, this shattered his hopes of making sales. The prospective customers wouldn’t be in the mood now for buying books, even if Quade had the bad taste to try selling them with a corpse just a few feet away.
Wait—a thought struck Quade. The police! They’d be here in a few minutes. This might be a murder after all and everyone here knew everyone else—except Quade. He was a gate-crasher—and he was not a millionaire. Why—why, he might even have some very bad moments trying to explain his presence here.
The police came, four of them, led by Chief Kells. With them came the county medical examiner. There was deference in the chief’s manner as he approached Ragsdale.
“Cock fighting, sir? It’s going to make quite a stir in town. It’s—it’s against the law!”
“I know,” replied Ragsdale wearily. “Go ahead, do your duty.”
The chief looked importantly at the medical examiner who was already going over the body of George Treadwell. “Very well, sir, you might begin by telling me just what happened.”
Ragsdale sighed. “Our birds were fighting in the pit—the last bout. My bird lost. When I looked across the pit, there was Treadwell, head hanging over the railing, dead.”
“Who was beside him?” asked the chief.
Ragsdale shook his head. “I don’t know, several of my guests, I suppose. I know only that I was directly opposite him across the width of the pit. But no one—excepting myself—had any motive for wishing his death.”
“And why yourself?” The chief pounced on Ragsdale’s self-accusal.
“Because I had a bet with Treadwell and lost.”
The chief looked worried, but just then the medical examiner came up. He, too, was frowning. “Not a mark on him,” he said. “Yet I’d swear that it wasn’t apoplexy or heart failure. Symptoms indicate he’s been poisoned, but I can’t find anything on him. I’ll have to do a post-mortem.”
Cleve Storm, who had released his Whitehackle in the pit and come up, sprang forward. “I knew he was poisoned. I knew it.”
“How did you know it?” asked Chief Kells sharply. “And who are you anyway?”
“He was Treadwell’s trainer,” explained Ragsdale. “A loyal employee.”
Kells shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. “It would have to be murder. All right, Mr. Ragsdale. I’ve got to do some questioning. How much money did you have bet on the final outcome of these cock fights?”
“Ten thousand—no, wait. Thirty-five thousand altogether. Ten thousand with Treadwell and twenty-five thousand with a man down in the South.”
“Who? Is he here?”
“No, and I really don’t know the man except by reputation. The bet was made through correspondence. A cocking enthusiast who lives in Nashville; C. Pitts is the name.”
The chief’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds screwy. You mean this Pitts guy just up and sent you twenty-five thousand as a bet?”
“Not exactly. Pitts sent the money to the editor of the Feathered Fighter,” explained Ragsdale. “I gave my own check to Mr. Morgan when he arrived here.”
“That’s true,” said a heavy-set man, stepping forward. “I have both checks in my pocket right now.”
Kells bit his lip. “You know this Pitts fellow?”
“Not personally,” said the magazine man, “but by reputation. He bets on many of the cocking mains and I’ve held stakes for him before. The arrangements have always been made by mail.”
Kells grunted. “How long you been raising roosters, Mr. Ragsdale? I thought horses was your game.”
“They are, but a few months ago Treadwell got me interested in game cocks. To tell you the truth, I’ve only raised a few birds and they’re still too young to fight. All the cocks I fought here tonight were purchased specially for the occasion. It’s quite ethical, I assure you.”
Quade perked up his ears. This was ironical indeed. Ragsdale with millions at his command and intensely interested in winning in everything he did, had probably spent an enormous sum for his fighting birds—and yet they’d lost, against ordinary fighting birds raised by Treadwell himself. Quade began to take a more serious interest in the situation. There might be something here yet that would prove interesting, perhaps afford Quade an opportunity to use that marvelous brain of his.
“From whom did you buy your roosters?” Kells again.
“Terence Walcott, who lives in the state of Oregon. Tom Dodd brought the birds East and handled them for me, during the fights. Dodd!”
Tom Dodd came forward. He was a little bandy-legged man of about forty.
“You the chap who raises these roosters?” questioned the chief.
“Yes, I work for Mr. Terence Walcott of Corvallis, Oregon. I been working around game cocks all my life.”
“Where were you when Treadwell was kil—died?”
“In the pit, of course.”
Kells looked at Ragsdale for confirmation. The latter nodded. “That’s right. He was down in the pit. In the opposite corner from Treadwell. Treadwell’s handler, Cleve Storm, was in the other corner, just under Treadwell’s seat. Federle, the referee, was all around the pit.”
“And everybody was watching them? That sorta lets those three out. Well, who was close by Treadwell at the moment?”
&nbs
p; “I was,” a lean, middle-aged man spoke up. “I was right beside him on his left. I was so excited over the fights down in the pit, however, that I didn’t even know anything had happened to poor George Treadwell until Ragsdale came dashing around.”
The chief looked at the man with suspicion-laden eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Ralph Wilcoxson. Treadwell was my business partner. Treadwell & Wilcoxson, Lumber.”
The chief looked even more hostile than before. “And who was on the other side of him?”
“I was,” said Morgan, the editor of the Feathered Fighter.
The chief snorted in disgust. “Hell, everyone here is a friend of someone and respectable as a deacon. What chance have I got?”
Louis, the steward, who was standing behind his master, coughed. “Pardon, sir, everyone here isn’t a friend. I—I let the gentlemen in at the door—and one of them didn’t have a card.”
Quade swore softly. Ragsdale, the sportsman, hadn’t seen fit to betray him, but the servant who’d been the butt of Quade’s harmless joke awhile ago, couldn’t take it. This was his revenge.
“He means me, Chief,” he said, beating the traitorous steward to the punch.
The chief’s shoulders hunched, and his teeth bared. Here was someone who didn’t belong. “Who are you?” he asked, in a voice that almost shook the rafters.
Quade grinned impudently. “Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia, the man who knows the answers to all questions.” The introduction rolled glibly off Quade’s tongue. It was part of his showmanship.
The chief’s mouth dropped open. “Human Encyclopedia! What the hell you talkin’ about?”
“Just what I said. I’m the Human Encyclopedia who knows everything.”
“Ask him who killed Treadwell,” called out a wag in the crowd.
Quade winced. His wits had been wool-gathering, otherwise he’d never have left himself open for that. The chief pounced on it, too. “All right, Mr. Encyclopedia—who and what killed Treadwell?”
Quade gulped. “Ah, now, Chief, you’re not playing fair! Even Human Encyclopedias have a code of professional ethics. We don’t go into competition with other professions. You wouldn’t think it fair for cops to take in laundry on the side or sell moth tabs from door to door?”
Chief Kells tried to look stern but made a failure of it. “So you’re not so smart after all.”
“Well,” said Quade, “it’s against union rules, but I’ll help out a bit.” He pointed at the body of Treadwell. “Notice how the arms are hanging over the pit. I suggest you look at the hands!”
The medical examiner sprang forward, reached down and picked up Treadwell’s limp arms. He exclaimed almost immediately. “He’s right. There’s a tiny spot of blood right in the palm of his right hand. And it’s inflamed. Looks like he’s been struck with a hypodermic!”
The chief whirled and leveled a finger at Cleve Storm. “You—you’re the man!”
The cock handler’s jaw dropped and his eyes threatened to pop from his head. “Me!” he cried.
“Yes, you! You been doing all the hollering about murder around here and you’re the only one could have done it!”
“I could not!” screamed Storm, suddenly panic-stricken that the tables had been turned on him. “I was down in the pit when he was killed.”
The chief nodded grimly. “That’s why I’m accusing you. Look,” he pointed at the body of Treadwell. “He’s hanging over the pit right over the side where you was waiting while the roosters were fighting. Dodd was over on Ragsdale’s side, so it couldn’t have been him. And the referee was moving all around, which lets him out.”
The chief’s reasoning was sound, but the expression on Cleve Storm’s face caused Quade to pucker up his brow. Storm didn’t act like a murderer—and if he really was, he’d been damned dumb awhile ago to insist on murder when everyone else was willing to let it go as heart failure.
He looked down into the cockpit. The Whitehackle was still down there and was now quietly scratching away in the sand, hopefully trying to find a worm or bug. But where was the Jungle Shawl’s carcass?
Chief Kells spat out a stream of tobacco juice. “I’m arresting you, Storm. If I find a hypodermic anywhere around here you’re as good as burned right now. Oscar!” He signaled to one of his policemen. “Go over that pit down there, inch by inch. Look for a needle or hypodermic. You, Myers and Coons, you go over this place with a fine-tooth comb!”
Kells turned to Reggie Ragsdale. “I don’t believe there’ll be any more now, Mr. Ragsdale. Of course you know I got to bring charges about the cock fighting. That’ll mean maybe a small fine or suspended sentence. You’ll be notified when to appear in court.”
Ragsdale nodded. “Of course, Chief, and thanks for the way you’ve handled things here. I’ll speak to the board of council-men about you.”
The chief’s eyes glowed. He rubbed his hands together and began shouting orders. Men bustled around. The body of Treadwell was carried out on a stretcher. Cleve Storm, still protesting his innocence, was led out. Guests began to leave.
Quade gathered up his bagful of books and topcoat. He walked over to Ragsdale. “Sorry about the trouble. Hope everything will work out all right.”
“Thanks.” The young sportsman smiled wanly.
Quade nodded and swung around. His topcoat caught on the top of the railing. He gave it a jerk and it came away with a slight ripping sound. Quade swore softly. The coat was only about a year old. He reached out to touch a nail on which the coat had caught.
He stopped his fingers an inch from the point and his eyes narrowed suddenly. It wasn’t a nail on which the coat had caught, but a needle. It stuck up about a sixteenth of an inch from the top of the flat railing. This was the exact spot behind which Treadwell had sat.
At that moment one of the policemen down in the pit yelled. “I’ve found it!” He held aloft a shiny hypodermic needle. The medical examiner hurried down into the pit and took the needle from the policeman’s hand. He sniffed at it. “Not sure,” he said, “but it smells like curare, that stuff the South American Indians put on their blow-gun arrows. Kills instantly. Figured it was something like this that killed Treadwell,” he said triumphantly.
Quade shook his head. Curare at a cock fight! Things were getting complicated. A scrap of information in the back of Quade’s head bothered him. He had a habit of filing away odd bits of information in his encyclopedic brain, and when he had time, marshaling them together like the pieces of a crossword puzzle. A marvelous memory and this faculty of fitting together apparently irrelevant bits of information was largely responsible for his nickname—the Human Encyclopedia.
Quade deserved that name. Fifteen years ago he’d come into possession of a set of the Encyclopedia Americana, twenty-five large volumes. Quade read all the volumes from A to Z and then when he had finished, began at A again. He was now at PU on the fifth trip through the volumes. Fifteen years of reading the encyclopedias, plus extensive reading of other books had given him a truly encyclopedic brain.
What was this odd bit of information that puzzled him? It had something to do with the mix-up here tonight—something he’d observed or heard. Storm? No, because Quade was quite sure Storm was innocent. Something about the birds?
He hesitated for a moment, then sauntered over to the rear door of the barn. He slipped out quietly.
The yard was pitch dark. In the front of the building he could hear voices and automobiles, but back here it was as still and dark as the inside of a pocket. There was no moon or stars. A long black shadow loomed up ahead. Quade made his way toward it.
As he approached the building he recognized it for a Cornell type laying house. There was a door at one end of the building. Quade set down his bag and tried it. It was unlocked. He pushed it open. He stepped inside and struck a match. By the light of it he saw a light switch beside the doo
r. He turned it and electric lights sprang on.
Quade saw that the building was evidently used as a conditioning room for poultry. Wire coops, sacks of feed, a bench on which stood cans of oil, remedies, tonics and other paraphernalia. Quade examined the objects and grinned. There was even a box of face rouge. Having raised birds himself he knew that breeders often used rouge to touch up the ear lobes of the birds. Baking soda was used to bring out the color of the red Jungle Shawl birds. The oil was for slicking up the feathers.
A large gunny sack on the floor caught his eye. There was a small pool of dark liquid beside the sack. Quade stooped and picked up the shawl. He dumped out the contents—four Jungle Shawl cocks—dead.
Four? Nine of Ragsdale’s birds had met defeat. Quade hadn’t seen all the bouts, but he’d been informed by other spectators that six of the losing Shawls had been killed, three merely wounded. Well, where were the other two carcasses? The bag was large enough to have held all of them. That didn’t make sense. If Tom Dodd had brought the carcasses here why hadn’t he brought them all? Or hadn’t Dodd brought them here?
A sound behind him caused Quade to whirl. He was just in time to see the door push open and a couple of hairy arms reach in. The hands held a huge, red fighting cock. Even as Quade looked, the cock was dropped to the floor and the door slammed shut. Quade heard the hasp rattle outside and knew that the person who had thrown in the Jungle Shawl had locked the door on the outside.
Quade’s eyes were focused on the fighting cock. The bird was ruffling up his hackles and uttering warning squawks. Quade gasped. He’d known game cocks down in the South to kill full-grown sheep with their naked spurs—and those were ordinary games. These Jungle Shawls were only one generation removed from the wild ancestors of the Malay jungles.
This particular cock was well equipped for fighting. It had needle pointed steel gaffs on his spurs which seemed to Quade longer than those the birds in the pits had used. They were at least three inches long.
Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia Page 2