Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia

by Gruber, Frank

  “And it’ll be dark in an hour! It’s starting to snow now.”

  It was. The sky had been overcast all day. Only a few flakes were coming down now but they were big.

  “It’s a God-forsaken country!” said Quade. “We haven’t seen anyone for two hours, but there must be farmhouses around somewhere. It’s a cinch we can’t stay in the car all night. It’s getting colder. We’d freeze stiff.”

  “Ollie,” said Charlie Boston, “I feel like a man on a desert island who finds a pot full of gold. I’ll trade my share of that silver fox for one bowl of hot chili. And for a warm bed I’d toss in my chances of heaven.”

  “Well,” said Oliver Quade, “in a pinch we can move into the woods and build a fire. We’ve got matches.”

  “Let’s try walking first.” Charlie put up the big collar of his overcoat, climbed out of the car. Oliver Quade’s tweed coat was lighter than Boston’s. He wore a light suit underneath. The prospect of a long walk was not cheering. He climbed out of the car on his side, then reached back and picked up the dead fox by the tail.

  “I’m willing to desert the car, but not this,” he said. “And look, Charlie, the going may be rough, but, just in case, would you take the valise with the books. We might get an opportunity to make a few bucks. You can’t tell.”

  Charlie Boston went around to the trunk, unlocked it and took out a small, heavy valise. He locked the trunk again. “I hate to leave the two hundred, but these twenty’ll get us on our feet. Let’s go.”

  They started up the road. The snow was coming down thicker now. The flakes were cold and powdery, not wet which would have indicated warmer weather.

  Stunted, snow-laden tamaracks grew to the edge of the road on each side. Interspersed, like sentinels, were white birch. On the higher spots a few lean, tall poplars stood like green sticks stuck into the snow.

  “I still think we ought to have had dogs instead of the jalopy,” groused Charlie Boston.

  “Nah,” said Quade. “The dogs would have scared away the fox. What’s a bit of snow when we’ve got meat for the pot?”

  “Hey! You’re not figurin’ on eating that fox, are you?” There was genuine alarm in Boston’s tone.

  Quade chuckled. “Only figuratively. This is a prime pelt and ought to bring us fifty or sixty dollars. We can buy a lot of beefsteaks for that amount. Charlie, do you see smoke over there to the right?”

  Boston’s eager eyes followed Quade’s finger. “Umm, I’d almost swear I can smell it, too. Let’s cut over.”

  “Looks like a small tote road up here, Charlie.”

  It was. And it had been traveled recently. Quade and Boston started up it briskly. Before they had gone a hundred yards along the narrow road that wound in through the trees their steps quickened. They not only saw smoke now, but they saw a house, a large one. In a moment they saw several buildings, clustered around a five-acre clearing.

  “Oh, boy!” exclaimed Charlie Boston.

  Swiftly they approached the main house. It was built of logs, but it wasn’t just a big cabin. It was a lodge, reinforced with stone and lumber. Paths were shoveled in the snow all around, and a thick column of smoke was coming out of a stone chimney.

  They pounded up to a veranda and stamped their feet. Quade rapped sharply on the door with his gloved knuckles. The door was opened almost instantly and a heavy-set man with a close-cropped beard was framed in the doorway.

  “Hello,” Quade said, cheerfully. “Our car broke down up the road a piece. We wondered—”

  “Sure, sure, come in!” said the man. His face broke into a smile. And then suddenly the smile gave way to a fierce scowl. “What have you got there?” he snapped.

  Quade turned around and looked at Charlie Boston. He saw nothing out of the way. He turned back to the bearded man and saw his eyes fixed on the fox he was dangling in his own hands.

  He held up the dead animal. “This? Why, it’s a fox we ran down. I thought we’d pelt it.”

  “You ran down that fox! And you t’ought you’d pelt it?”

  Charlie Boston cut in. “Sure, buddy, why not? We’re trappers, see? I’m Dan’l Boone and this is my pal, Kit Carson.”

  “You!” choked the bearded man. “You t’iefs! You kill my fox, and you have the nerve to bring him here!”

  “Your fox?”

  “Of course, it’s my fox. All foxes around here are mine.”

  “How about the wolves?” Charlie Boston shot in. “And the squirrels and the hummin’ birds—they yours too?”

  “Wait, Charlie, I think I understand. You raise silver foxes, is that it?”

  “Of course!” snapped the bearded man. “I’m Karl Becker.”

  “Ah,” said Quade. “Of course, Becker, the silver fox breeder. I’ve read about you. Well, I’m afraid we owe you an apology, Mr. Becker, but, of course, we didn’t know. And couldn’t have helped it, if we had. The fox ran right in front of the car.”

  Karl Becker seemed mollified by Quade’s confession. “Come in,” he invited.

  Quade and Boston were quite willing. They almost leaped into the lodge, and the hot air was like California slapping them in their faces. They moved toward the roaring log fire in a huge fireplace.

  “I’m awfully sorry about the fox,” Quade apologized again.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Karl Becker said. “I was a leedle sore at first, but I know they get through the wire now and then. Usually they come back when they’re hungry, but this time—well, let’s say, it couldn’t be helped, yah?”

  Karl Becker took the dead animal from Quade and carried it back to the door. He opened the door and tossed it outside on the veranda. Charlie Boston scowled.

  “And you said the Recession has receded, Ollie!”

  Quade nodded significantly to the valise Boston had set down near the fireplace. Boston brightened.

  “How far is it to the next town, Mr. Becker?” Quade asked.

  “Spooner? About thirty-one miles. I don’t think you make it the way the snow’s coming down.”

  “We’ve got to make it, Mr. Becker. But unfortunately, we ran out of gas. I was wondering if you had a couple of gallons around here?”

  “Yeah, sure. I got lots of gas. I be glad to sell you a few gallons.”

  Charlie blinked at Quade. Quade cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, we’d be glad to pay you for the gasoline. On the other hand, you really think we’d have trouble getting to Spooner?”

  “Yes, the road isn’t so good. Maybe you better stay here, overnight. I got lots of room, and I’ll be glad to put you up. Reasonable, too.”

  Charlie gasped. Quade’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Karl Becker through the slits, then let out a slow sigh. “That would be kind of you, Mr. Becker. By the way, I’m interested in your foxes. You raise quite a few here, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, sure. I pelt three-four t’ousand every season. But the business. It’s lousy; not like it used to was.”

  “So I’ve heard. Too many breeders raising silver foxes these days. Over-production. You take the hosiery business now …”

  “You in that business?”

  “No, but I know a little about it. Just like I do everything else.” Oliver Quade pursed up his lips and looked at Charlie Boston.

  Boston was looking at Karl Becker and a little grin played around his mouth. Becker had risen to the bait. He was staring at Oliver Quade with his head cocked to one side.

  “Ha, you know about everything, Mr.—?”

  “Quade, Oliver Quade. And this is Charlie Boston.”

  “Please to meetcha. But, Mr. Quade, did you said you was a smart man, you know everything?”

  “Yes, I know everything. I’m probably the smartest man in the entire state of Wisconsin.”

  Becker cleared his throat noisily. “Is that so? You’re smart maybe about foxes too?”

/>   “Oh, sure.” Quade attempted to look modest.

  Charlie Boston began to rub his hands together, slowly. His grin was widening. He knew Oliver Quade. He knew how he worked. Quade had been annoyed by that bit about selling them a little gasoline and putting them up for the night reasonably. He was out to get the fox raiser now. And no man had ever matched wits with Oliver Quade, successfully. For Oliver Quade was the Human Encyclopedia.

  Becker put both hands behind his rumble seat and walked up and down the living room. Then he stopped before Quade.

  “Mr. Quade,” he said. “You have made a statement to me, two statements. You have said you know everything. Furthermore, you have said you know smart things about foxes. You will excuse me, but I do not believe you. I am not a book man. I do not know things about this—well, maybe this Einstein t’eory. But I know foxes. I will bet you, Mr. Quade, dot you cannot answer one question I ask you about foxes. I will bet you five dollars.”

  “That, Mr. Becker,” said Quade, “is a bet.”

  Karl Becker pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. He peeled off one and held it out before him. “Here is my money.”

  Quade plunged his hand into his own pocket, fished around. He knew very well what it contained—a lone dime and two pennies. “Ask your question.”

  “Very well. What three major diseases are foxes afflicted with?”

  “Mr. Becker, those are really three questions. But it’s bargain day. I’ll give you the three for one. Foxes are greatly susceptible to worms—hook, lung and roundworms. They also get distemper and encephalitis. Encephalitis is sleeping sickness, or paralysis of the brain.”

  Karl Becker’s face was comical to see. Bewilderment was intermingled with chagrin and greed. Karl Becker thought no more of losing his five dollars than he did his right arm. He clung to the five dollar bill until Quade, grinning, stepped forward and plucked it out of his hand.

  Then he added insult to injury. “Mr. Becker, I’m a sporting man, myself. I’ll give you a chance to get even. I’ll bet this five dollars against a night’s lodging and three gallons of gasoline in the morning that I can correctly answer any question you can ask me on any subject!”

  Becker’s eyes glinted. “You fooled me once, Mr. Quade. With that act about the fox. You carried it like a dunderhead when you came in here. All right, you know foxes, but you don’t know everything. I take that second bet. And I ask you a question, a good one. In one minute.”

  He turned abruptly and went to a book-case. Charlie Boston yelped. “Hey, he’s lookin’ in an encyclopedia!”

  Karl Becker took a large volume from the shelf. “So?” he said. “Mr. Quade is smart. He said so. He didn’t said not’ing about not looking in no book. So I look for a good question. Ah!”

  He looked triumphantly at Oliver Quade. “So! What is … epicene?”

  “Epicene is a term in Greek and Latin grammar denoting nouns possessing one gender only, used to describe animals of either sex. In English there are no true epicene nouns but the word is used when referring to the characteristics of men who are effeminate and women who are masculine.”

  The book almost fell from Becker’s hands. “You!” he gasped. He slammed the book shut, sawed the warm air of the lodge with it.

  Someone battered the door on the outside. Karl Becker recovered from his agitation. “What? More visitors? The help don’t knock!”

  He strode to the door, opened it.

  A snow-covered man almost fell into the hot room. Quade and Boston sprang forward. There was a bandage about the newcomer’s face.

  “Airplane!” he gasped. “Crashed! Need help. Women—men hurt!”

  Quade whistled.

  “Pilot killed!” exclaimed the bandaged man.

  “I t’ought I heard something a while ago!” exclaimed Becker. “The plane, it passed over here and then I t’ought I heard the bang. But I wasn’t sure. And the men was busy …”

  “You’ve got employees here, Mr. Becker?” asked Oliver Quade tersely.

  “Yah, sure, three men. They help mit the foxes. Wait!”

  He went to the door, took hold of a cord dangling there and pulled on it twice. “They come. They go help!”

  The snow was beginning to melt on the man who had just come in from the outside. Quade stepped up to him. “Better take off your coat. You don’t look so good!”

  “I’m all right,” replied the hurt man. “I’m worried about the others, though. There’s six of us left alive. If there’s a sled or something around here—”

  “I’m a stranger here myself,” said Quade. “But Mr. Becker …”

  “Yah, we got sled. Soon’s Hugo comes. Here he is.”

  The door opened and a cupid-faced, stocky German of about thirty came in. He wore high boots, overalls and a gaudy, red mackinaw.

  “Hugo!” said Becker. “This man come from airplane what fell down near. You get the sled and Oscar and you go help, ja? Maybe Julius better go along, too.”

  “Charlie and I’ll go,” said Quade.

  Hugo ran out of the lodge. In a surprisingly short time Quade heard the tinkling of harness outside the door and caught up his thin topcoat. Boston grabbed up his own.

  Morgan, the co-pilot of the wrecked airplane, staggered to his feet. Quade pushed him back again. “You won’t be necessary. Just tell us which direction to go.”

  “Straight north, I think. I don’t really know. I better come along.”

  “Your tracks be enough,” said Hugo.

  “Let’s go!” Quade said.

  They charged out of the warm lodge. In the yard stood a bob-sled with a box on it. Harnessed to it were two snapping, black geldings. A man in a shabby bearskin coat stood up in the sled.

  Quade, Charlie and Hugo piled into the sled. Quade nodded with satisfaction when he saw the blankets in it. And the jug in the corner.

  “In fact,” said Charlie Boston, who saw the jug, “I’m a victim of the snow myself.”

  “Nix,” said Oliver Quade. “That’s a stimulant for medical purposes.”

  “I feel sick!” said Boston. He picked up the jug, pulled the cork and with practiced movement tilted the jug. He swallowed lustily.

  “Ah!” he said. “Rum. I’m a well man already.”

  “Mr. Becker see you take that drink,” said Hugo, “He charge you for it.”

  “Nice lad, that boss of yours,” said Charlie Boston, “but he’s not really a German, is he?”

  “Yah, sure, he is, a plattdeutcher! He likes money. He is probably the stingiest man in the whole country.”

  “I’ll give him more territory than that,” said Quade. He fingered the five-dollar bill in his pocket.

  Oscar, the driver of the bob-sled, had turned the horses into a lane leading through a patch of poplars. The snow didn’t seem to be falling so heavily here. But it was cold. Quade looked longingly at the jug. But he knew if he touched it Boston would hit it again, and there were sick people out there in the snow.

  A mile through the woods and they burst suddenly into a clearing. “There they are!” cried Hugo.

  Quade saw the wrecked plane, the passengers. They had built a small fire in the snow and were huddled around it.

  Mona, the air hostess, was the first to reach the sled. She ran alongside it back to the wreck. “Did Bill Morgan send you?”

  Quade nodded. “Yes. He’s all right, too. There’s a lodge about two miles from here.”

  He leaped out of the sleigh to the snow. Quickly he, Boston and the two Becker men loaded the survivors of the air crash into the sled. They wrapped them up in blankets, passed the jug of rum around to them. Then they laid the dead passenger on the sled, leaving, however, the pilot’s body in the plane.

  “Hurry!” cried a flaxen-haired woman. “Or we’ll be late.”

  “For supper?” asked Quade sharply.

/>   She looked at him haughtily. A roly-poly man who was waiting on the flaxen-haired woman, bristled at Quade. “See here, my man, do you know who this is?”

  “Florence Nightingale?” guessed Quade.

  The little man sputtered. “This is Olga Larsen, the Olga Larsen, Queen of the Ice.”

  Quade thought he’d seen her face. She was one of the most publicized women in America; but he would have expected to see her in the Madison Square Garden in New York, the Coliseum in Chicago, rather than up in the Wisconsin wilds. Yet, he was himself going to the ice carnival in Duluth. Olga Larsen was the star attraction there, the magnet that would bring thousands to the city.

  There was a tall, pasty-faced man standing to one side of Olga Larsen. His face was familiar, too. He was Gustave Lund, Olga’s skating partner.

  The lean passenger, McGregor, signaled to Oliver Quade. “Better take a look inside the plane,” the lean man murmured.

  Quade looked sharply at the man, then walked to the plane. He dropped to his knees and scuttled through one of the broken windows. It was dark inside. He crawled a few feet in the litter of wreckage, put his hand on a sliver of glass, and grunted. He fumbled in his pocket for matches. He struck one and saw the open door leading to the cockpit. He went forward and then he saw the thing the lean survivor of the crash had hinted about. The murdered pilot …

  The match scorched his glove, and he dropped it. He crawled back to the snow outside and found that the sleigh was moving away. He ran after it.

  The survivors of the plane wreck hurried into the warm air of the lodge. Becker’s workman, Julius, had prepared hot coffee and for a few moments there was a bustle of excitement.

  Quade drank his coffee and, while he did, sized up the others in the room. McGregor, the lean man, kept to one side, but Quade noticed that he did not miss anything that was going on. Olga Larsen had ensconced herself in the center of a sofa and was permitting her little manager, the roly-poly Slade, to fuss over her. Mona, the hostess, and the wounded co-pilot, Morgan, were off to one side sipping coffee and talking together in low tones.

  Charlie Boston came over to Quade. “This Larsen dame,” he said, “she don’t look so good like she did in Queen of the Ice.”