Judy Vickers dropped to her knees beside Marty Faraday. “Mother, get some water. He’s hurt, badly.”
It was Quade who got the water. He had to step over McClosky’s body which lay in the kitchen just inside the door.
Water did not help Faraday. He revived partially but he merely moaned and cried out incoherently. “Judy!” He called her name over and over.
“His skull’s fractured,” Quade said. “I don’t think he’ll do any talking today.”
Bonniwell turned toward Heinie. The roly-poly killer ducked out of the door.
“Get out your medicine chest,” Quade ordered Mrs. Egan. “Otherwise there’ll be one more dead man at Eagle’s Crag.”
Bonniwell made no objections. In fact he furthered Quade’s offer of treating Faraday. “Patch him up so he can talk by tonight. I’m sure he’s the guy.”
They moved Faraday to the couch and Quade treated the schoolteacher’s wounds. Judy Vickers hovered anxiously nearby, despite her mother’s sighing and muttering. Mrs. Egan’s medicine kit was a good one and Quade was able to help the injured man.
By that time Bonniwell and his men were searching outside for the hidden treasure. They ransacked the garage, the outbuildings and even moved boulders that lay here and there in the clearing.
Quade moved McClosky’s body out of the kitchen and Mrs. Egan cooked for everyone. Quade spent most of his time going back and forth, examining Faraday and soothing Judy Vickers. “He’ll be all right by this evening,” he assured her.
“And then those killers will start all over on him,” sobbed Judy. Quade couldn’t assure her about that. He knew that when the posse came he would himself be in vital danger.
It happened shortly after twelve o’clock. The mountain-top was still one moment; the next the quietness was shattered by a thundering roar. Jake Somers’ machine-gun. Bonniwell and the others immediately rushed to their car and began hauling out guns. They ran to join Jake who was standing up behind the boulder at the head of the road, still sending an occasional burst down the hillside.
Even before the first burst from Somers’ gun had ceased Oliver Quade was down from the veranda and walking toward Bonniwell’s car. He walked softly but with a determined step. He was a dozen feet from it when Bonniwell suddenly turned around and saw him.
“You!” he cried. “Your posse’s here, but you’re not going to welcome them.”
He had picked up a twin to Somers’ tommy gun from his car and he held it facing Quade, as he walked back toward him.
“Are you sure it’s a posse?” Quade asked quickly. “It might be some tourists?”
“Two cars full of them,” replied Bonniwell. “With rifles and tommy guns? Tourists, yeah!”
“But Jake fought them back!” cried Quade. “No harm done.”
“They went back around the turn, that’s all,” said Bonniwell. “You know what I promised you—”
“Wait!” cried Oliver Quade desperately. “I can tell you how to get away!”
The muzzle of Bonniwell’s gun did not waver. His eyes flashed though and Quade knew that he had struck a responsive note.
He said quickly, “Make a deal with them. You can’t take us all along as hostages, but you can tell ’em if they don’t let you go you’ll kill all of us up here. They couldn’t allow that.”
“What makes you think I’m not going to kill all of you anyway?” asked Bonniwell.
“Because you’ll die then yourself. My way you’ll have a chance. The posse came a long way. There won’t be any of them down below. Make them come up here and give you a head start. That’s all you’ll want, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that and the eighty grand. But they won’t miss a lousy, double-crossing book peddler!”
Quade knew that he had never been closer to death in all his life. “The money!” he cried. “I’ll find it for you!”
“Then it was you!” snapped Bonniwell.
“No, of course not. But I can find the money for you. I know I can. Give me twenty minutes—fifteen. Think of it, Bonniwell. A head start and eighty thousand dollars. What more can you want?”
“I’ll bite once more,” said Bonniwell. “But it’s the last time. I’ll make the deal with the posse and I’ll give you exactly fifteen minutes to find the money. If you don’t find it I’ll leave without it, but you won’t be alive then.”
“And if I do find it?”
“Then I’ll let you live.”
“Give me your word?” Quade asked eagerly.
Bonniwell hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “All right. I promise. You’ve got fifteen minutes.” He turned back to his pals and yelled down the mountain-side.
Oliver Quade turned toward the lodge and saw Judy Vickers running toward him.
“I heard!” she cried. “He’ll kill you if you can’t find the money.”
“I made the best of a bad deal,” said Quade. “But I’ve got to find that money.”
“But I’m sure you—it wasn’t you.!” exclaimed Judy Vickers. “Can you find it in fifteen—thirteen minutes?”
Quade looked at his watch. “It’s 11:12. I’ve got until 11:25. Please go back to the veranda. I’ve got to think—fast.”
Cummings was coming down from the veranda. Judy headed him back.
Quade looked around the two-acre plateau, the house, the garage and the outbuildings. He sighed and seated himself upon the ground. Eighty thousand dollars. Did it even exist? If it did, where was it?
Harold Thompson had been at Eagle’s Crag a week. He’d had ample opportunity of finding a good hiding place. The house? Bonniwell and his men had searched it thoroughly. Quade could forget it. They’d searched the other buildings, too.
The ground? Thompson could have come out one night and buried it in the ground. But if he had, Quade would never find it. Not in fifteen minutes. It would take six men many days to dig up every foot of the plateau.
Quade looked at the persons on the veranda. They were all there now—Mrs. Egan, Cummings, Judy, her mother and Danny Dale. Faraday was inside the house, injured and sleeping a drugged sleep.
One of those six was a double-killer and knew where the money was. One of them couldn’t talk, the others wouldn’t.
Quade shook his head. “Damn! Where would I hide eighty thousand dollars?”
Quade put himself in the place of Harold Thompson. Thompson was a fugitive from justice. He would be skittish. His two great concerns would be his own safety and the safety of the money. He wouldn’t take any chance of anyone stumbling on the money. He’d give considerable thought to a hiding place. He’d find a safe place, one where no one would think of looking. And people seldom looked in the most obvious place. Quade leaped to his feet. Quickly he approached the veranda.
“I think I know where it is!” he announced.
“Where?” everyone on the porch cried.
Quade looked at his watch. “I’ve got eight minutes left. I want everyone to remain here. When I come back, you’ll see the money.”
Quade passed into the house. He looked at Martin Faraday and saw that he was sleeping peacefully. Then Quade picked up the medicine kit. He carried it with him to the kitchen. He opened it up and looked over the bottles in it. He picked up one labeled ether. His eyes gleaming, he opened a cupboard door. Quickly he looked over the cans and bottles and packages in it. He took down one or two, also a china mixing bowl.
He began pouring things into the bowl and biting, acrid fumes stung his nostrils. He worked with difficulty because of his wounded, bandaged shoulder, but he persisted. And finally he poured a half gill or so of a yellowish liquid into a bottle and corked it. He slipped it into his pocket and went back through the house to the veranda.
The moment he stepped out of the house he saw Lou Bonniwell out in the clearing. The escaped convict was carrying a tommy gun.
“Qua
de!” the killer called.
Quade descended the short flight of stairs to the ground. “Did you make a dicker with the posse?”
“I did. But—your time’s up!”
“I found the money,” said Quade. “At least I think I did. If I guessed wrong—”
Quade dropped to his knees beside the little three-step flight of stairs leading up to the veranda. “I figured this was the most obvious place on Eagle’s Crag,” he said. “So obvious that no one would look here. If I were hiding something….” He reached under the stairs, rummaged about for a moment, then brought out both hands. There was a package in them; a package wrapped in oil cloth, about five inches square. Quade rose to his feet and handed it to the outlaw chief.
Bonniwell put the gun on the ground at his feet. He ripped the oil cloth from the package. Inside the contents were wrapped in newspaper. Bonniwell tore away a corner, looked and nodded.
“You win, Quade,” he said.
Feet pounded down the stairs behind Quade. It was Danny Dale and there was a .32 caliber revolver in his hand.
“Bonniwell,” he said, “that’s my money and I’m going with you.”
Bonniwell gave a start. “Where’d you get the popgun, kid?” he asked.
“The hell with that kid stuff,” snarled Danny. “I’m as tough as you are. If you don’t believe it, reach for that gun.” He gestured with his gun to the automatic that was stuck in Bonniwell’s waistband.
Bonniwell shifted his glance from Danny to Quade. “So this—this punk is the rattlesnake killer!”
“He is,” said Quade. “I figured the minute the money showed up he’d reveal himself. He’s killed two men for that money already and he’d want to go where that money went.”
“And I’ll kill some more if I have to,” sneered Danny. “I outsmarted the whole gang of you and I’d have got away with it if you hadn’t found that money.”
“You see,” Quade said to Bonniwell. “He’s a smart kid. Too smart. He finished university at the age of nineteen and found himself mentally the equal of many men years older. But physically he was still a boy, and business men offered him a boy’s job and a boy’s salary. I imagine Danny’s father told him after he’d put him through college he’d have to shift for himself. But Danny didn’t like the idea of a boy’s job and boy’s salary. Somehow or other, probably by accident, he got wind of Thompson and—”
“Accident, hell!” snarled Danny Dale. “I used my head. My father’s a bookkeeper with the Horgan Packing Company himself. I heard all about Harold Miller and I outsmarted the cops. I went to Miller’s rooming house and went through the trash bins in the basement. I found a map of this section, torn into bits. I came to Hilltown and did some asking around. I found this joint. Accident, hell. I used my brains,” he bragged.
“Was it necessary to kill him, though?” asked Quade.
“Of course it was. The fool recognized me. He’d seen me only once, two years ago when I visited the old man at the office. I had to knock him off.”
“Just like that, Danny?” asked Quade. “Then why the hypodermic needle? Did you just happen to have that with you? And did the snake just happen to come around conveniently when you killed Thompson—or Miller?”
“I figured it all out before I came here. Even the stuff in the needle. It’s not snake poison either. Something like it but faster. McClosky, the lousy old snooper, found the hypo in my room so I had to knock him off.”
“You’re very handy about this knocking off business,” said Quade.
Danny Dale whirled on Quade. “I’ve had about enough of you. I’m giving you the—”
He never got out the last word. He had made a fatal mistake. He had challenged Bonniwell to go for his gun and then had taken his eyes from him. No one could be that careless with Lou Bonniwell.
The outlaw chief dropped the package of money and in the same movement went for his automatic. Danny saw the quick movement and tried to turn his gun back on Bonniwell. He was too late. Bonniwell’s gun thundered.
The big slug lifted Danny clear off his feet and hurled him back to the ground, his head almost blown off.
“He was too young to be that mean,” said Bonniwell, softly.
Oliver Quade walked away from the veranda. Bonniwell fell in beside him.
“It’s all fixed,” he said. “The posse’s coming up here with their guns in their fists. They’re going to give us three minutes head start.” He raised his gun in the air and fired three shots.
Almost immediately Quade could hear automobile gears grinding. A moment later the nose of a car showed around the turn in the road. It came up in second gear. Behind it came another car. Both of them came into the clearing, but drew off to one side.
Men began climbing out, all of them armed to the teeth. Bonniwell and his men gathered cautiously at the side of their touring car. Their own guns were in their hands. Quade stood beside them.
Bonniwell counted the members of the posse. “Twelve. That’s right.”
The leader of the posse, a stocky man with a badge on his vest, said, “After you git in your car you got three minutes head start.”
“Three minutes?” Bonniwell chuckled. He reached into his coat pocket and brought out a large, egg-shaped object.
“A hand grenade!” cried the sheriff.
“Don’t get your dander up, Sheriff,” cut in Bonniwell. “This ain’t for you. Just for the road—after we pass it. I figure we need more’n three minutes start. Wanta break the agreement?”
The sheriff looked at Bonniwell and his men, then at the resorters to one side. “No,” he said thickly. “Get going!”
Monk Moon climbed in behind the wheel. Heinie slipped in beside him. Over Monk’s shoulder he held a tommy gun, pointed at the posse. Jake Somers and Lou Bonniwell climbed into the rear of the car. They promptly poked out guns.
“So long, everybody,” Bonniwell cried as the car began moving.
The car rolled over the little clearing and began descending. The sheriff and his men did not move until Bonniwell’s car had gone around the turn in the road, out of sight. “Let’s go now, boys!”
Then there was a thunderous explosion down the mountainside.
Then all of them heard what Quade had been waiting for—the screams of several men. They came from down the mountain. Almost immediately afterward there was the crash of tin and metal, silence for a moment, then another terrific crash.
“They went off the road. They’re finished!”
“Went off the road?” cried the sheriff. “What kind of fool driver—”
“Not his fault,” said Quade. “The road’s steep and he was hurrying. One of the tires blew out.”
“How do you know a tire blew out?”
“Because I poured some stuff on it. A little mixture with an ether base. Ether dissolves rubber and a couple of simple ingredients make it work faster. Lord, I was afraid you’d hold him here too long.”
“Gawdalmighty!” The sheriff looked in awe at Oliver Quade. “You deliberately killed them?”
“They were killers,” said Quade. “They would have killed several more people before they were killed or taken. So I had to do it. Now I can get back to the encyclopedias….”
Dog Show Murder
The secretary of the Westfield Kennel Show said to Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia: “The price of a small booth is seventy-five.”
“No,” said Oliver Quade. “You misunderstood. I don’t want to rent this booth for the entire year. I want it only for the duration of the dog show—four days.”
“That’s what I quoted you on,” retorted the secretary. “Some of our larger exhibitors are paying as much as five hundred dollars. What are you exhibiting? Remedies, dog foods?”
“No,” said Quade. “Nothing commercial. Mine is an educational exhibit. That’s why I can’t pay any fancy p
rices for booth space. How about five dollars?”
Ten minutes later they compromised on twenty dollars. Quade paid the money and stowed away his receipt. Then he said to a burly man who had stood by patiently during the dickering, “All right, Charlie, prepare the exhibit.”
Charlie Boston picked up a heavy suitcase and started for the main part of the building. Quade followed along.
“Ollie,” said Boston. “You know I’m not terribly happy. I never am around dogs. I can’t for the life of me figure out why you want to work this dog show. Last week you wouldn’t work the Elks’ Convention in Buffalo. And now,” he shuddered, “look at that whole row of English bulldogs. Gosh, if they should get loose—”
“Nothing to it. The only way to handle a dog is to let him know you’re not afraid of him.”
“I tried that once. That was the time I lost the seat of my pants.”
The dog exhibit building had a small arena, containing about two hundred seats, built around a tanbark pit, where the dogs were put through their paces. The rest of the building was crowded with rows of stalls, separated by wooden partitions. Each stall contained a pedigreed dog. Around the outer edge of the room were commercial exhibits, dog remedies, foods, supplies, equipment.
Oliver Quade’s booth was wedged in between one displaying dog biscuits and another featuring a line of disinfectants and remedies.
Boston set the suitcase on the floor outside the booth. Oliver Quade stepped on it to the counter. Then he began talking.
“I am Oliver Quade,” he boomed in a stentorian voice that rolled out across the auditorium and bounded back from the far walls, “Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia. I have the greatest brain in the world. I know everything. I know the answers to all questions: What came first, the hen or the egg; the age of Ann; the batting and fielding average of every big and minor league baseball player; every date in history. Everything under the sun.”
A group of youths had stopped in the aisle before Quade the moment he had started to talk.
Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia Page 11