Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia

by Gruber, Frank

  One slash of those powerful legs and the needles would rip through clothing, skin and flesh. They would lay open a thigh to the bone.

  Quade was given no time for thought. With a sudden vicious squawk the Jungle Shawl hurled himself at Quade, half running, half flying. Quade sprang backward and collided with a sack of egg-mash. He stumbled on it and tripped to the floor. He rolled over on his side as quickly as he could and just missed the attack of the angry rooster. One wing brushed his face. He sprang to his feet and put a safe distance between himself and the bird.

  The cock whirled and uttered a defiant screech. Then it charged again. Quade sidestepped and began stripping off his topcoat which he’d donned before leaving the big barn. He held the coat a foot or so before him and waited.

  The bird charged. Quade flicked out the coat like a bull fighter teasing a bull and lashed out with his foot at the same time. The bird hit the coat and there was the ripping sound of cloth. At the same moment Quade’s foot caught something solid and a sharp streak of pain shot through his leg.

  The kick hurled the bird several feet backward and Quade looked down. The steel gaffs had slashed the topcoat clean through, pierced Quade’s trouser leg and the skin underneath. Quade felt the warm blood course down his shin and cursed aloud.

  He was fighting a losing fight, he knew. The bird seemed hurt by the kick but was preparing for another charge. Quade tossed his coat aside and sprang across the room for a heavy broom that stood against the wall.

  Glass tinkled as Quade hefted the broom. His eyes shot to the little window beside the door. A red galvanized pail appeared in the opening and its liquid contents poured in to the floor with a tremendous splash. The fumes of gasoline hit Quade’s nostrils and he gasped. The distraction fortunately had also attracted the attention of the fighting cock, for if it had charged just then it would have been too bad for Quade.

  The hair on Quade’s neck bristled. He had a feeling that he was in the most dangerous spot of his entire life. In front of him a fighting cock—and on the side—?

  The rooster was cackling again. Quade took the fight to the bird now. He rushed across the room and met him in full charge. The smack of the broom as it hit the rooster could have been heard a hundred yards away. The cock screeched as it was lifted off its feet and hurled against the wall. Quade followed up his attack, smashed the bird again as it hit the floor.

  Then—then the entire room shot up in one terrific blaze of fire. The attacker outside the shed had tossed a blazing piece of newspaper into the gasoline. One entire side of the room was a sheet of flame, from floor to ceiling. Quade rushed back from the crippled bird and stared, panic-stricken, at the fire.

  The door was locked on the outside. The windows were small and had wire mesh nailed outside of the glass. He could never get through one of them—not in time at least. This building was made of dry spruce boards. It would be in ashes inside of ten minutes.

  Quade was trapped.

  Heat from the huge flames scorched Quade’s face. Fire! Of what use now was his encyclopedia knowledge when he was trapped in a burning building? Was there anything in the Encyclopedia Americana that would tell him how to get out of such a predicament?

  Fire—what would extinguish a fire? Water. There was none in here. Chemicals. There were none—Wait!

  Chemicals—no—but baking soda! Why, there were three large cartons of it right here behind him on the bench. Baking soda, one of the finest dry fire extinguishers in the world. Quade had read about it in his encyclopedias and had tried it out—as he had many other things that particularly interested him. He’d built a fire of charcoal wood and paper, had let it blaze fiercely. Then with an ordinary carton of baking soda he’d put out the fire in an instant. That had been an experiment on a small scale, however; would it work on a large scale—when it was an absolute necessity?

  Quade reached behind him and snatched up a five-pound carton of baking soda. He reached in, drew out a handful and hurled it into the midst of the big blaze. A flash of white leaped high and was followed by greyish smoke. Quade’s eyes, looking sharply at the floor where the soda fell, saw that the fire burned less fiercely there.

  He advanced on the fire then. It seared his face and hands, but he threw the baking soda full into the flames, handful after handful. Then, finally, with a desperate gesture, he emptied the box. He whirled his back on the fire and started back for the second box. He caught it up, ripped open the cover and turned it on the fire.

  A wild surge of joy rose in him. Why, there was a wide swath of blackened flooring now leading to the door. The fire still blazed around the edges but the heart was cut out of it. Quade attacked the fire with renewed effort. He hurled soda right and left. His eyes smarted, his lungs choked and his skin was scorched, but he persisted. The second box of soda went and now the fire was but a few flickering flames around the edges. It required only a few handfuls from the third box to put out the last little flame.

  Quade surveyed the fire-blackened wreckage and let out a tremendous sigh of relief. A stench of burnt flesh penetrated his nostrils. A mass of smoking flesh and feathers told of the fate of the fighting cock that had attacked him.

  Five minutes later Quade leaned against the doorbell of the big Ragsdale residence. A butler opened the door, gasped and tried to close the door again, but Quade shoved it open smartly and stepped into the hallway.

  “Mr. Ragsdale in?”

  The butler rolled his eyes wildly. “Why—uh—I don’t think so.”

  Quade heard voices and the tinkling of glasses ahead. He brushed past the butler. A wide door opened off the hallway into a luxuriously furnished room, containing about twenty men. Ragsdale, standing just inside the door, caught sight of Quade and cried out in astonishment. “Why—it’s Oliver Quade. Good Lord, man, what happened to you?”

  Quade walked into the room. His eyes searched the crowd, picking out familiar faces—Morgan, Wilcoxson, the medical examiner, even Tom Dodd. Then his eyes came back to Ragsdale. “One of your hen houses caught on fire and I put it out,” he explained.

  “Good for you!” exclaimed Ragsdale. “We all left the barn right after the police found the hypodermic which pinned Treadwell’s murder on Cleve Storm.”

  “Storm didn’t kill Treadwell,” Quade said bluntly. “The murderer is right here in this room. He’s the same man who poisoned your Jungle Shawls and made you lose the cocking main.”

  “He’s a liar!” Tom Dodd, face black as a thundercloud, came forward. “Your birds weren’t poisoned, Mr. Ragsdale. I handled them myself and examined each one before I pitted them.”

  Quade looked insolently at the furious handler. “I didn’t see all the bouts, but I did see four Shawls in a row get killed—and each one of them was killed because he apparently turned yellow—and faltered. But they didn’t really falter. They were poisoned—”

  “That’s a lie!” screamed Tom Dodd. “The Shawls lost because they were up against better birds.”

  Quade grinned wolfishly. “Say—whose side are you on?” he asked. “You brought those Shawls here and claimed they were the best in the world.”

  “That’s right!” snapped Ragsdale. “I paid Walcott a fancy price for those birds and he guaranteed them to beat the best in the country.”

  “I think they would have,” Quade assured him. “They were real fighters. One of them almost killed me—but let that pass for the moment. Mr. Ragsdale, just to prove my point, pick up that phone there and call Mr. Terence Walcott, of Corvallis, Oregon.”

  “Why should he call up the boss?” cried Dodd. “I’m the handler. I’ve raised fighting cocks all my life!”

  “Have you?” Quade didn’t seem impressed. “I’ve raised a few birds myself. By the way, have you gentlemen noticed that we Southerners use different cocking terms than Northerners? For example, up here you say, ‘stuck’ when a bird is wounded. Down South we say ‘hung
.’ Am I right, Mr. Morgan?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Quade,” the editor replied. “There’s quite a difference in the terminology of the South and North. I’ve published articles on the subject in my magazines.”

  “Well, did any of you notice that every time a Jungle Shawl was hung, Tom Dodd cried out, ‘Hung’? Yet Mr. Dodd says he comes from the North!”

  The silence in the room was suddenly so profound that Tom Dodd’s hoarse breathing sounded like a rasping cough. Quade broke the silence. “By the way, Dodd, that’s a peculiar ring you’re wearing. Mind letting me take a look at it?”

  Tom Dodd looked down at the ring on his left hand. His lips moved silently for a moment, then he looked at Quade. “No—I don’t mind. Here—”

  He started toward Quade who, to the surprise of everyone in the room, suddenly lashed out with his right fist. He put everything into the blow, the pent-up emotion and anger he’d accumulated in the burning poultry house. The fist caught Dodd on the point of the jaw, smashed him back into a couple of the guests. They made no move to catch him and Dodd slid off them to the floor. He lay in a huddle, quiet.

  “There’s your murderer!” cried Quade, blowing on his fist.

  That broke the spell. Men began shouting questions. Quade stooped down, slipped the ornate ring from Dodd’s finger. He held it up for all to see. “See this little needle that shoots out on the inside of the ring?” Heads craned forward.

  “That’s why those birds of yours died without fighting, Mr. Ragsdale,” Quade explained. “Just as Dodd would let them go, he’d prick them with this needle. There’s poison on it, which took effect almost instantly.”

  Ragsdale shook his head in bewilderment. “But Treadwell—”

  “Was killed in a similar fashion, but not with the ring. Remember there was an intermission before the last fight—during which I tried to sell you men a few books,” Quade grinned. “That’s when Dodd stuck a little poisoned needle into the flat top of the railing where Treadwell sat. Perhaps he’d noticed Treadwell eyeing him with suspicion. Suspecting that he was poisoning the cocks. Dodd worked out the whole thing pretty cleverly. Took no chances. Witness the hypodermic which he tossed into the sand. That was for a blind.

  “He’d figured out that when Treadwell’s bird won the last and deciding bout that Treadwell would probably smack the railing in his excitement—maybe he’d watched him doing it after other bouts. Well, that’s exactly what Treadwell did. The needle’s still in the railing. I ripped my coat on it when I started to leave.”

  “But what made you suspect Dodd?” asked Ragsdale.

  Quade grinned. “My encyclopedic brain, I guess. In the excitement of learning that Treadwell was murdered, Dodd was still cool enough to remove the carcass of the Shawl. That was the first thing that got me to thinking. Then the matter of terminology stuck in my mind. I didn’t catch it at first. Dodd cried out ‘hung’ every time. Well, that’s a Southern term and Dodd was supposed to have come from Oregon: claimed he’d lived there all his life.”

  “You mean to say that Dodd does not actually come from Oregon?” exclaimed Ragsdale. “Why—that would mean that he isn’t really Dodd at all?”

  “Right,” said Quade. “And Treadwell must have known that. He’d probably met the right Dodd at some time or other. I suspect you’ll learn after talking to Walcott on the phone that the real Dodd doesn’t look like this one at all. Where he is, I don’t know. This chap may have bought him off, murdered him perhaps. That isn’t so important because he’ll burn for the murder of Treadwell anyway. It’s enough that we know this chap took the real Dodd’s place somewhere between Oregon and here.”

  “Yes—but who is he?” asked Ragsdale.

  Quade screwed up his lips. “I think you’ll find that he sometimes uses the name of C. Pitts. In fact, I’m willing to lay odds that a hand writing expert will declare the signature on that check Morgan has, was made by this chap. Twenty-five thousand is a lot of money and Mr. Pitts wanted to make sure he won.”

  “I’ll be damned!” said Ragsdale. “You’ve certainly figured everything out. And—I believe you. I can understand now why they call you the Human Encyclopedia.”

  Quade’s eyes lit up. “That reminds me—I didn’t get finished out there in the barn. So if you have no objections, I’ll continue with my little talk about The Compendium of Human Knowledge. ‘All the knowledge of the ages condensed into one volume.’”

  Ask Me Another

  Oliver Quade was reading the morning paper, his bare feet on the bed and his chair tilted back against the radiator. Charlie Boston was on the bed, wrapped to his chin in a blanket and reading a copy of Exciting Confessions.

  It was just a usual, peaceful, after-breakfast interlude in the lives of Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia, and Charlie Boston, his friend and assistant.

  And then Life intruded itself upon the bit of Utopia. Life in the form of the manager of the Eagle Hotel. He beat a tattoo upon the thin panels of the door. Quade put down his newspaper and sighed.

  “Charles, will you please open the door and let in the wolf?”

  Charlie Boston unrolled himself from the blanket. He scowled at Quade. “You think it’s the manager about the room rent?”

  “Of course it is. Let him in before he breaks down the door.”

  It was the manager. In his right fist he held a ruled form on which were scrawled some unpleasant figures. “About your rent, Mr. Quade,” he said severely. “We must have the money today!”

  Quade looked at the manager of the Eagle Hotel, a puzzled expression on his face. “Rent? Money?”

  “Of course,” snapped the manager. “This is the third time this week I’ve asked for it.”

  A light came into Quade’s eyes. He made a quick movement and his feet and the front legs of the chair hit the carpeted floor simultaneously.

  “Charles!” he roared in a voice that shook the room and caused the hotel manager to cringe. “Did you forget to get that money from the bank and pay this little bill?”

  Charlie Boston took up Quade’s cue.

  “Gosh, I’m awful sorry. On my way to the bank yesterday afternoon I ran into our old friend John Belmont of New York and he dragged me into the Palmer House Bar for a cocktail. By the time I could tear myself away, the bank was closed.”

  Quade raised his hands and let them fall hopelessly. “You see, Mr. Creighton, I just can’t trust him to do anything. Now I’ve got to go out into the cold this morning and get it myself.”

  The hotel manager’s eyes glinted. “Listen, you’ve stalled—” he began, but Quade suddenly stabbed out a hand toward him. “That reminds me, Mr. Creighton, I’ve a couple of complaints to make. We’re not getting enough heat here and last night the damfool next door kept us awake half the night with his radio. I want you to see that he keeps quiet tonight. And do something about the heat. I can’t stand drafty, cold rooms.”

  The manager let out a weary sigh. “All right, I’ll look after it. But about that rent—”

  “Yes, of course,” cut in Quade, “and your maid left only two towels this morning. Please see that a couple more are sent up. Immediately!”

  The manager closed the door behind him with a bang. Oliver Quade chuckled and lifted his newspaper again. But Charlie Boston wouldn’t let him read.

  “You got away with it, Ollie,” he said, “but it’s the last time. I know it. I’ll bet we get locked out before tonight.” He shook his head sadly. “You, Oliver Quade, with the greatest brain in captivity, are you going to walk the streets tonight in ten below zero weather?”

  “Of course not, Charles,” sighed Quade. “I was just about to tell you that we’re going out to make some money today. Look, it’s here in this paper. The Great Chicago Auditorium Poultry Show.”

  Boston’s eyes lit up for a moment, but then dimmed again. “Can we raise three weeks’ rent at a poultry
show?”

  Quade slipped his feet into his socks and shoes. “That remains to be seen. This paper mentions twenty thousand paid admissions. Among that many people there ought to be a few who are interested in higher learning. Well, are you ready?”

  Boston went to the clothes closet and brought out their overcoats and a heavy suitcase. Boston was of middle height and burly. He could bend iron bars with his muscular hands. Quade was taller and leaner. His face was hawk-like, his nose a little too pointed and lengthy, but few ever noticed that. They saw only his piercing, sparkling eyes and felt his dominant personality.

  The auditorium was almost two miles from their hotel, but lacking carfare, Quade and Boston walked. When they reached their destination, Quade cautioned Boston:

  “Be sharp now, Charlie. Act like we belonged.”

  Quade opened the outer door and walked blithely past the ticket windows to the door leading into the auditorium proper. A uniformed man at the door held out his hand for the tickets.

  “Hello,” Quade said, heartily. “How’re you today?”

  “Uh, all right, I guess,” replied the ticket-taker. “You boys got passes?”

  “Oh, sure. We’re just taking in some supplies for the breeders. Brr! It’s cold today. Well, be seeing you.” And with that he breezed past the ticket-taker.

  “H’are ya, pal,” Boston said, treading on Quade’s heels.

  The auditorium was a huge place but even so, it was almost completely filled with row upon row of wire exhibition coops, each coop containing a feathered fowl of some sort.

  “What a lot of gumps!” Boston observed.

  “Don’t use that word around here,” Quade cautioned. “These poultry folks take their chickens seriously. Refer to the chickens as ‘fine birds’ or ‘elegant fowls’ or something like that … Damn these publicity men!”

  “Huh?”

  Quade waved a hand about the auditorium. “The paper said twenty thousand paid admissions. How many people do you see in here?”