Jessie’s dramatic confession exploded like a bombshell in the crowded restaurant. The place seethed with excitement. Lois sat up in her chair, her eyes aghast. Freddie was frozen stiff in his chair.
Bob Lanyard sprang to his feet. His arms encircled Jessie and he caught her tightly to him. “Jessie!” he cried in anguish. “You mustn’t! You’re over-wrought. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
Jessie began sobbing as if her heart was breaking. Her husband soothed her.
Chief Costello stood back uncertainly. It was obvious the social standing of these people impressed him, made him uncertain. Then he ordered his policemen to clear the restaurant.
Bob Lanyard’s soothing quieted Jessie. In two or three minutes she was able to pull herself together, although she still kept a handkerchief covering her mouth and most of her face.
The chief cleared his throat noisily. “I’m mighty sorry about this, Mrs. Lanyard,” he said. “But you understand …”
“You fool!” gritted Bob Lanyard. “Don’t you know she said that to shield me? Wesley was an old sweetheart. She knew I was intensely jealous of him and when she knew he was murdered, she naturally jumped to the conclusion that I did it.”
“Did you?” the chief asked, taken aback.
Quade almost held his breath, waiting for the answer he was sure would come. It did.
“Yes!” exclaimed Bob. “I killed him. I found the gun in Jessie’s dresser, took it to the dog show with me and killed him during the excitement of the dog fight. He—he was annoying Jessie again.”
“Bob!” That was Lois. “You—you couldn’t have! You were right behind me all that time.”
“No, you were with Freddie.” Bob Lanyard refused to accept the alibi offered him.
Freddie Bartlett blundered in. “Oh, come now, Bob, you know very well we were talking together when the excitement began and I remember your being with us when the dog fight was over.”
“Say, what is this?” cried the chief. “Two confessions inside of five minutes. Is there anyone else here who wants to confess?”
“If I wasn’t afraid you’d take me seriously I’d toss in my hat,” said Quade.
The Lanyards and Bartletts were wealthy local residents who could embarrass Chief Costello in his own bailiwick. He had to treat them with the utmost respect. But Quade, the chief knew, was an outsider and a mere book agent. Fair bait. He turned savagely upon him.
“That’s the last damn crack I’m takin’ out o’ you, fella!” he snarled. “You make just one more yip and I’ll not only throw you in the clink but I’ll see that you get worked over plenty with the rubber hose. Get me?”
“I get you, Chief.” Quade subsided, but his mind worked furiously over the problem. He had a strange hunch that this case had just begun. There had been a hundred or more people in the building at the time Wesley Peters had been killed. And the place had been in an uproar. No one had paid any attention to anyone else because of the commotion. Alibis weren’t worth a dime a dozen.
And Wesley was known in Westfield. There could easily have been a dozen people in the building at the time who knew, and perhaps disliked him. Jessie Lanyard was a neurotic. She might say or do anything under stress of emotion. Her husband was a moody, sensitive type.
Chief Costello made a sagacious deduction. “Maybe we’d better not decide anything just yet. All of us know each other and there’s plenty of time for getting together. Anyway, it would be much better for all of you to think things over and maybe discuss them with your families and lawyers. If you’ll give me your word not to leave town suddenly, I’ll make my report and we’ll get together later this evening.” He departed, taking his policeman with him.
Lois came over to Quade. “I’ve been greatly disappointed in you, Mr. Quade,” she said.
He flushed. “I’m sorry, Miss Lanyard.” He rose, turned stiffly and followed Charlie Boston out of the restaurant, although neither of them had been served yet.
Outside, Charlie Boston whistled softly. Quade turned angrily on him. “Cut it, Charlie.”
Boston stopped whistling. He walked beside Quade without saying a word. After a moment, however, Quade apologized. “Sorry, Charlie. Nerves. I made some fool plays and I’m sore about them.”
Boston grunted assent. “We’re out of our class, Oliver. That’s all that’s wrong. Shall we ditch the books and clear out? It’s only thirty miles to New York City. Once there no one from here’d ever find us.”
“It’d probably be the smartest thing we could do, but you know how I am. I’m too stubborn to quit something I’ve started.”
In the dining-room of the Westfield Hotel, Quade and Charlie discussed the case.
“That thousand dollars Peters had, that worries me. It’s too much money for him,” Quade said between bites.
“I wouldn’t know myself,” replied Boston. “But I’ve heard there’s lots of folks have a thousand dollars.”
“Not ham actors. I read Variety, and I know that Peters hasn’t been in a show for four years or more. I wish I knew how he got his money. He dressed well.”
“Is that the important thing in this case? Seems to me some of those people haven’t told all they know.”
“Some of them don’t know any more than we do, if as much. Hmm, wonder who that is?”
The head waiter was pointing out Quade to a man who had just come into the dining room. He would have been more at home in a Greenwich Village bar than the Westfield Hotel. He was perhaps thirty, tall and hollow-cheeked. There was a three days’ growth of beard on his face. His cinnamon-colored coat didn’t match his trousers and his shirt had evidently been washed in some communal bathroom and worn unpressed.
He came up to Quade’s table. “Mr. Quade? My name’s Renfrew, Felix Renfrew. I read in the afternoon papers about—about Wes Peters and came out here.”
Quade said, “Have a seat; you interest me.”
Renfrew sat down. “Wes Peters,” he declared, “was my best friend. The minute I heard he had been killed I grabbed a bus and came out here.”
“You may have been Peters’ best friend,” said Quade, “but I bet you didn’t hear about Peters’ death in the city.”
Renfrew glared for a moment, then shrugged. “All right, I came out with Wes this morning. What difference does it make? Wes was killed, his body found in your booth. There’s a lot of talk going around town about your knowing something.”
“I do know something. More than you ever will. What’d you come to me for?”
“To find out who killed Wes, that’s why!” snapped Renfrew. “Wes was the best pal I ever had and I’m going to stick around until his murderer is found.”
Quade gave Renfrew the once over, his eyes insolently staring at the unmatched suit and unpressed shirt. “You were Peters’ pal, eh? Roommate perhaps?”
Renfrew flushed. “No, we didn’t room together. But—”
“You live in Greenwich Village?”
“Yes, but what’s that got to do with it?”
“Perhaps nothing. Wes Peters, if you’ll pardon the inference, put on the dog. And when he was found this afternoon he had a thousand dollars on him. Would you be knowing how he got that much money?”
Renfrew shrugged. “Peters always had money. We didn’t live together but he paid my rent and visited at my place a lot.”
“Why?”
“Why? Well, because there was always something doing there. I’m a playwright, you know.”
“I didn’t know. What plays have you written?”
Renfrew scowled. “I’ve written eight or ten, but none have been produced. But they’re good plays. Only the capitalistic—”
“Oh, so it’s like that. Anyway, you always had a crowd of the Village folks at your diggings. Poets and writers and artists. And Peters liked to pose as a big shot. So he paid your rent and hung aro
und your dump. Right?”
“Something like that.”
“And you’re worried because your patron has shuffled off? Kinda puts you on the spot. Tell me, where’d Peters get his money?”
“He never told me.”
“Where’d he come from originally?”
“I don’t know. New York, I guess. I’ve only know him four or five years. But I always guessed that he got his money from relatives. Who else would send him money regularly?”
“Ah, he got it regularly?”
“Yes, I happen to know because at times he was broke but he didn’t worry about it. And he didn’t work. Not for the last four years. Before that he was on the stage. He played the juvenile lead in Hidden Faces, I know.”
“Jessie Lanyard played in that, too, didn’t she?”
Renfrew looked puzzled. He said: “I don’t know her.”
“Well, that wasn’t her name then. She’s the woman who fainted when Wes Peters was found dead. Or weren’t you around then?”
Renfrew flushed. “No, I left right after—well, right after you got through selling books.”
“Because you saw Wes Peters coming in and didn’t want him to see you around?”
Renfrew chewed at his lower lip, then suddenly rose. “I’ve got to catch my bus back to the city.”
Quade did not try to detain him. When he was gone, Charlie Boston snorted. “Wonder what the hell Peters saw in that.”
“The only difference between Peters and Renfrew is that Peters had money these last few years. Before he got the money, I’ll bet, he was just like Renfrew. Dirty finger-nails and all. Well, I guess it was a tough blow to Renfrew at that. He may even have to go to work now.”
“It won’t hurt him,” growled Boston. “Say, what did you say that made him run out so sudden-like?”
Quade grinned reflectively. “I guess I got a little too close. Renfrew had gotten curious about Peters, or maybe, he hoped to find out how and where Peters got his money. So he followed him out here today but didn’t want Peters to spot him … You know, this Renfrew interests me.”
“Not me,” said Boston. “I can find his kind anywhere. What do we do now, go see a movie or something?”
“They’ve got a crime thriller at the Bijou,” Quade said. “But I don’t think it’ll be as interesting as the one we’re in ourselves. Instead, let’s go stir up the porridge a bit.”
“Back to the dog show?”
“No, I thought we’d brace some of the suspects and others in their own backyard. The Lanyard house.”
“Ouch! After the trimming we took from the Lanyards this afternoon?”
Lanyard, Senior, had money. He must have had scads of it, to keep up the estate that Quade and Boston entered a little while later. It was about a mile out of Westfield and was surrounded by a low, trimmed hedge. The house was Georgian style and contained at least twenty rooms. A smaller house nearby was evidently the servants’ quarters. There was also a four-car garage behind the house and a long, low building with wire-enclosed runs in front of it. A dog kennel.
There were a half-dozen cars on the graveled driveway leading up to the house; the smallest a Packard. The cars didn’t phase Quade, however. He squeezed his old flivver in between a Packard and a large foreign car and leaped lightly over the hingeless door.
And there was no hesitation in his manner as he rang the front doorbell of the big house. Charlie Boston had the good grace to hang back a bit.
“They got company, Ollie,” he protested. “Listen to the music.”
Quade had already heard the music, recognized it, too. Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. That and the several cars outside told him what it was. A wedding rehearsal. Evidently the scene in the restaurant hadn’t been allowed to interfere with the Lanyards’ plans.
The door opened and a liveried butler looked questioningly at Quade.
“Mr. Lanyard,” Quade said.
“Which Mr. Lanyard?”
“Senior. Tell him it’s Mr. Oliver Quade.”
“Very well, I’ll see if he’s at home.” The butler closed the door.
“It’s the suit,” Quade said. “I’ll have to get a new one. Can’t go around society homes with the checkerboard pattern.”
The door opened again and a dignified, gray-haired man with a short clipped mustache held out his hand to Quade. “Come in, Mr. Quade. I’ve heard about you. Glad you dropped out.”
Quade winked triumphantly at Boston.
“This way,” Guy Lanyard said, leading the way to a room on the right side of the foyer. Quade looked to the left where the organ was playing, but followed Lois’ father to the right.
In the library, Guy Lanyard said, “Have a seat, won’t you? I presume you want to talk to me about that affair this afternoon. Pretty bad, wasn’t it?”
“It was. This is Charles Boston, my friend.”
“Ah, yes, how are you, Mr. Boston? You were there too?”
“Me, I found the body,” Boston said proudly.
Guy Lanyard winced. “The children have told me about it. And our chief of police left me only a few minutes ago. He’s considerably disturbed about the matter. I’m glad to have this chance of talking it over with you, Mr. Quade. From what Lois and Bob told me about you, I gather that you’re a man of some—ah, perspicacity.”
Quade grinned at the blank look on Boston’s face. “Forsaking modesty for the moment, Mr. Lanyard, I’m probably the smartest person in this State. I’m the Human Encyclopedia.”
Guy Lanyard didn’t seem to know just how to take that, but finally he grinned. “Maybe I’m saying the wrong thing, but if so, forgive me, because I’ve never met a Human Encyclopedia before. But as I have this opportunity now I’d like to take advantage of it. Can you tell me if Mid-City Service is a good buy right now?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Quade replied. “I’m not a fortune teller. I impart only knowledge, and the devil himself couldn’t tell you if Mid-City Service is a good or bad buy right now. I can tell you that it was a good buy a year ago. That’s a matter of knowledge. Anything else I could help you on?”
Guy Lanyard’s eyes snapped. “Yes. Who killed Wesley Peters?”
Fortunately Quade was spared answering the question. Lois Lanyard burst into the room. “Dad!” she cried and then came to a stop when she saw Quade.
“Hello,” she said.
“I didn’t know you were having a dress rehearsal,” Quade apologized. “I wouldn’t have come out.”
“Quite all right,” replied Lois. “We’re finished now. Dad, the reason I burst in—don’t you think Honolulu would be more interesting than Europe?”
“Borneo is charming at this season,” Quade volunteered.
Lois Lanyard sighed. “We’re at it again. Well, let’s entertain the others, too. Come along, Mr. Quade.”
Guy Lanyard frowned but Quade was willing. “Fine, I’d like another chance to talk with Freddie Bartlett.”
Lois passed him in the doorway. She whispered fiercely, “Don’t start any more trouble. I’ve had enough for one day.”
The large living-room was full of people; a half-dozen girls, the minister and several well-dressed young men. And Mrs. Lanyard, an older edition of Lois, who still retained most of her youthful beauty. The years had endowed her with added warmth and charm.
Bob Lanyard was walking in and out of the crowd, his ascetic face strained in a frown. His beautiful wife, Jessie, seemed to have quite recovered from the afternoon, for she was chatting gaily, surrounded by several young men.
Freddie Bartlett was in an expansive mood. With most of the girls around him he was expounding on the merits of different honeymoon spots. “Honolulu,” he was saying, “has become too common. Singapore is the place today. A month there, then Yokohama in cherry-blossom time.”
“How about the county jail?” Quade
asked. “I’ve been told that it’s charming at this season.”
Freddie Bartlett scowled. “Ah, it’s you, Mr. Shade. Always clowning. How’s the—what do you call it in the vernacular—the pitching business?”
“Fair to middling,” Quade shrugged. “I’ve forsaken it for the nonce. I’m in the detecting business now.”
“Then you’ll be interested to know you’ll have some competition tomorrow. Bob has engaged a famous sleuth—Christopher Buck.”
Quade’s eyelids lowered thoughtfully. Christopher Buck had a reputation that was more than local. He had a good press agent too, for there was seldom a week that some mention of him didn’t appear in the newspapers.
Quade drifted over to Bob Lanyard. “I understand you’ve hired Christopher Buck to do some investigating for you,” he remarked casually.
Annoyance came into young Lanyard’s eyes. “Yes, with all due respect to Chief Costello, I don’t believe he knows what it’s all about and I don’t believe he’ll ever find out who killed this—this Wesley Peters, do you?”
“Not unless the murderer confesses voluntarily.”
Bob Lanyard winced.
“I’m sorry,” Quade apologized quickly. “I forgot.”
“It’s all right. But that’s just why I phoned to the city and engaged Mr. Buck. Unless the case is solved beyond a shadow of a doubt a few people will still have ideas—and I don’t want any reflection to hang over Jessie.”
Jessie must have heard her name mentioned for she suddenly excused herself from her circle of admirers and came over.
“Oh, Mr. Quade, I’m so glad you dropped in. You know I’ve been thinking about you.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, you know I was in the show business before I married Bob. Your little spiel out at the dog show this afternoon; have you ever thought of going on the stage?”
Quade’s lips peeled back in a wide smile, too wide. “No, and I’m sorry to say that no Hollywood scout has approached me either.”
Jessie Lanyard didn’t catch the sarcasm. “Why that act—you know that question and answer stuff—that’s great. Properly handled it should be a wow on the stage. I’ve a friend in Mr. Kent’s office and, if you like, I’ll give you a note to him.”
Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia Page 13