“In the East, they call him the world’s greatest detective.”
“I can believe that. He’s been hanging around for two days trying to bother me. I’ve refused to talk to him. Or any private detective. My life’s an open book. Every time I open my mouth a newspaperman’s around to print what I say.”
“They’re probably outside, right now,” said Quade. “They’ll want to know everything about—”
“And I want to know something,” Slocum flared up. “I hired you for tomorrow. What the hell are you doing around here today?”
“Giving you good advice,” said Quade. “You’re going to need it in a little while. When Lieutenant Murdock gets—”
The door of Maynard’s private office was jerked open and Lieutenant Murdock stabbed his hand in Tommy Slocum’s direction. “Mr. Slocum, I want to ask you some questions.”
“Think fast,” murmured Quade.
Slocum glared at Quade, then went toward Murdock. Quade walked casually behind him and got into the other room without being noticed by Lieutenant Murdock.
Christopher Buck was pacing up and down, his hands clasped behind his back, a deep scowl on his face.
“Mr. Slocum,” Lieutenant Murdock said, “I understand you’ve been having trouble with Maynard. What was the nature of this trouble? What I’m getting at is a motive for suicide.”
“I haven’t had any trouble with Maynard,” Slocum declared. “He worked for me. He was my right hand man.”
Buck stopped his pacing and confronted Slocum. “Then why did Maynard telephone me in New York and have me fly out here? He was going to sue you for a million dollars.”
A cop stuck his head in the door. ‘“Lieutenant, the medical examiner’s man is here.”
“All right. Have him come in. I’m through here.”
Quade stepped forward and caught the lieutenant’s arm. “Just a minute, Lieutenant, you’re making a mistake. Maynard didn’t shoot himself.”
“What the—” Murdock began angrily, but Quade whispered in his ear. “Look at the direction the bullet took. Quick, before the medical examiner tells you what’s what and makes a chump out of you.”
A heavy-set man came into the room, followed by a white uniformed man carrying a black bag. The heavy-set man made a clucking sound with his mouth as he regarded the dead man.
Murdock stepped swiftly around the medical examiner and peered over the desk at dead Stanley Maynard. He straightened.
“It isn’t suicide, Doctor,” he said loudly. “It’s murder. Take a look at the course the bullet took and see if you don’t agree.”
The doctor made his examination, studied the dead man’s face and throat carefully, then turned and frowned. “The bullet entered his mouth from above, then cut through the bottom of the mouth and entered the throat from outside—”
“Could he have done it himself, Doc?” asked Murdock eagerly.
“Umm,” said the doctor. “There are powder burns which indicate the gun was held closely, but—no, he would have had to hold the gun over his head and point it downward at himself to inflict such a wound. Not impossible, but decidedly improbable. And exceedingly awkward.”
“Thanks, Doc,” said Lieutenant Murdock. He nodded in satisfaction and shot a swift look at Quade. Quade was deliberately avoiding Slocum’s angry stare.
Buck pounced down. “So, it’s murder! I knew it! Well, Mr. Slocum, what have you to say to that, now?”
Slocum drew himself up. “I say, to hell with you. And you, too, copper. If you want to ask any more questions, talk to my lawyer.”
“I don’t have to do that, Mr. Slocum,” said Murdock angrily. “I could take you down to Headquarters, you know.”
“You want to arrest me?” snapped Slocum. “Go ahead and see what happens.”
Murdock shook his head. Slocum was a Hollywood tradition. You don’t arrest a Hollywood tradition offhand, especially not if the tradition has several million dollars behind him.
Murdock said, “I suggest you telephone your lawyer, Mr. Slocum. I’m afraid I will have to ask you a few questions later on!”
“Fine! I’ll be in my office.” Slocum slammed out of the room, throwing a dirty look at Oliver Quade as he passed.
A woman’s sobbing in the other room reached the inner office as Tommy tore out. Quade moved toward the door. Murdock headed him off. “Just a minute!” he said.
Quade spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I helped you out of a tight spot a minute ago,” he reminded. “Saved your face.”
Murdock reddened. “Yeah, but I want a word with you in a minute.” He was looking past Quade into the other room. Suddenly, he stepped around and went through the door. Quade followed.
A girl with gorgeous blonde hair was slumped in a chair, sobbing. A tall, clean-cut looking young fellow in his middle twenties, stood over her, awkwardly patting her hair.
“There, there, Thelma!” he was saying. “It’s tough, but nothing you can do about it!”
“What’s your name?” Lieutenant Murdock asked of the young fellow.
“Paul Clevenger,” was the reply. “And this is Miss Thelma Wentworth.”
The girl looked up and Quade inhaled softly. It was the beautiful girl he had encountered in this very room a minute before he had discovered the dead body of Stanley Maynard. The girl whose face had been so pale and who had evidently been so frightened. Her cheeks were tear-stained now, but fright was still in her eyes.
She was Thelma Wentworth, glamor girl. Christopher Buck had mentioned her name in connection with Stanley Maynard and Tommy Slocum—and Willie Higgins, former Public Enemy Number One!
She saw Quade now and her damp handkerchief went up to her face. “Oh, it’s too horrible!” she sobbed. “I can’t believe it.”
Lieutenant Murdock cleared his throat and Oliver Quade stepped unobtrusively out into the corridor. He sauntered down to Slocum’s office and went in. Slocum was seated behind his desk. He stopped biting his fingernails when he saw Quade. “You Judas!” he spat.
Quade grinned. “No, Mr. Slocum, I was getting myself in solid with Lieutenant Murdock. I told him something the M.E. would have told him inside of three minutes. I saved his face for him and he’ll remember it later—when I’m working for you.”
“You’ll never work for me,” declared Slocum.
“Oh, but you’ve forgotten. You hired me to be Desmond Dogg’s voice tomorrow.”
“Forget it. Foghorns are a dime a dozen.”
Quade shook his head. “You know there isn’t another voice like mine in all Hollywood. You picked it yourself. By the way, do you remember how you happened to hear it?”
“How could I help hearing it? You roared loud enough out there on the street.”
“Then you must have heard most of my pitch—the questions the people asked me, which, you’ll remember I answered correctly.”
“Yeah, sure. Trick stuff.”
“No, it wasn’t trick stuff. I can answer any question anyone can put to me. I’m the Human Encyclopedia.”
Slocum sneered. “All right, Human Encyclopedia, clear out. I’ve got work to do.”
Quade said, “Mr. Slocum, what do you know about Willie Higgins?”
Tommy Slocum jumped to his feet. “Willie Higgins!” he cried. Then he caught himself. “Higgins? That’s the gangster who’s serving time on Alcatraz Island, isn’t it?”
“He finished his term last week,” replied Quade. “Sit down, Mr. Slocum. You don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m working for you, remember?”
Slocum sat down and stared at Quade.
Quade went on: “You don’t have to answer any of my questions, but by this time it must be obvious to you that you’re in a jam. Stanley Maynard was murdered in your studio, just before he started a million-dollar suit against you. He’d already employed one of the highest
priced private detectives in the country to acquire certain evidence against you. So, what is the District Attorney going to say when he learns all that?”
Slocum said bitterly, “You cheap, loud-mouthed book agent!”
Quade’s nostrils flared. “Listen, Slocum, you make the best movie cartoons in the business. You know your stuff. But I know mine. I’m the greatest book salesman in the country. I’m broke today, yes. But I’ve made fortunes selling books! I can make them again, if I want to. You call me loud-mouthed; what the hell are you? Because you’ve had some success, you can bellow at some people and get away with it. But you can’t call me names. I’ve got more knowledge in my little finger than you have in that swelled head of yours.”
Slocum suddenly chuckled. “That’s the first time anyone has told me off in ten years!”
“You had it coming, then!” snapped Quade.
“Yeah, sure!” agreed Slocum affably. “I don’t mind it at all.” He sighed. “For ten years I’ve worked like a dog. Everyone’s fought me, tried to cut my throat. I’ve had to yell and fight them…. How’d you like to work for me, steady?”
“I wouldn’t work for anyone, steadily. I like to move around, see things and people. I’ve spent fifteen years reading the encyclopedia from cover to cover, not once but four times. And I’ve got a trained memory. That stuff outside this morning, it wasn’t faked. I can answer any question anyone can ask me.”
“What was the first motion picture cartoon?”
“Krazy Kat,” replied Quade.
Slocum’s eyes narrowed. “Any question, you said. All right. I was raised on a farm, so I know this one. Maybe it’s not fair, but you said any subject. How many breeds of domestic turkey are there?”
“Six. Bronze, Bourbon Red, Narragansett, White Holland, Slate and Black.”
Slocum’s mouth fell open. “I thought that one would get you. Even the average turkey raiser doesn’t know how many different breeds there are.”
“I know. Now, Slocum, what do you know about Willie Higgins?”
Slocum winced. “You get back to that. Well, I’m not going to answer you.”
“Christopher Buck’s going to ask you that same question.”
“That long-legged lug who calls himself a detective?”
“Yes. And let me repeat, don’t underestimate Buck. He’s conceited, egoistic and publicity mad. But he’s got a very fine detective agency in the East and a good many men who underestimated him are in various penitentiaries. I’ve had dealings with Buck before.”
Slocum bit his nails again.
Quade said, “And what is Thelma Wentworth to you?”
“Damn!” swore Slocum. “What’s she got to do with this?”
“You slammed out of Maynard’s office too quick to see her. She was in the outer room with a man named Paul Clevenger. She was crying.”
Slocum’s eyes blazed. “The fool! Why’d she come around at a time like this? She’ll get smeared all over the papers.”
“She was here earlier,” Quade said. “Before you got on the scene. Before I found Maynard, she came out of his office!”
Slocum choked. “Quade, I want you to do something for me. I’ll pay you plenty. What do you say?”
“That’s what I’ve been getting at, Mr. Slocum. Murdock isn’t going to tackle you just now, but he’ll report to the D.A. and he’ll get after you. And with Buck on the other side spilling things you’re going to have to have some mighty good answers.”
“I know,” said Slocum. “I’ve known that for fifteen minutes. Moody, my lawyer, will have to stall the D.A. for a while until you deliver.”
“Anything special you want me to do?” Quade asked.
“Yes. I want you to find Willie Higgins.”
“Then you do know him?”
“I’m not going to tell you one single thing. But if you find Higgins and bring him to me before anyone else finds him—and I mean the police, this Buck, or anyone, I’ll pay you two thousand dollars.”
Knuckles rapped on Slocum’s door and Miss Hendricks stuck her head inside. “Mr. Slocum, District Attorney Nelson is here.”
Slocum reached for his phone. “All right, Quade. Go to it!”
Quade nodded. “I’ll get him for you, if I can, Mr. Slocum. But just one thing more. I’m going to be too busy to get it otherwise, so how about a ten-dollar advance?”
Slocum squinted at Quade, then thrust his hand into a pocket and produced a crumpled bill which he tossed at Quade. “Now, I’ll see the D.A.”
Quade saw that the bill Slocum had thrown at him was a hundred dollar note. He stuck it in his pocket and went out.
In the corridor, Charlie Boston was holding up the wall. Quade walked briskly past him and Boston fell in behind. “We all right?” Boston whispered. “We gonna stay outa trouble?”
“If we get out of here.”
They cleared the studio building and got out into the open lot. “That does it,” sighed Quade.
They came out on the street and Boston nodded to the stalled jalopy across the street. “What about that? We’re still broke.”
Quade waved at a passing cab. “Taxi!” Brakes screeched. “Inside, Charlie,” Quade ordered. “The Lincoln Hotel!”
Ten minutes later, they climbed out of the taxi in front of one of the most expensive hotels in Hollywood.
Quade tendered the hundred-dollar bill to the cabby. The man exclaimed, “I haven’t got change for anything like that!”
Quade turned and waved the bill at the doorman who was hovering over them. “Get this changed and pay the driver. I’ll be at the desk, inside.”
“Holy cats!” said Boston as they walked into the luxurious lobby. “Where’d you get that fish skin?”
“My client,” said Quade. “And there’s more where that came from. Hollywood’s rolling in money.”
He stepped up to the desk and said to the clerk, “I want a nice suite, facing the boulevard. And rather high up, so I don’t get too much street noise.”
He signed the registration card with a flourish. “Oliver Quade and Charles P. Boston. New York City.”
The doorman came up from the cashier’s window with a handful of bills. “Here you are, sir.”
“Front!” said the clerk snappily. “Show these gentlemen up to Suite 831 and 832.”
In their suite Quade picked up the telephone book. Charlie Boston stared at him.
Quade picked up the phone. “Hello,” he said. “I want the Clayton Automobile Agency … Hello. Have you got a yellow sports job in stock? Well, bring it over to the Lincoln Hotel as soon as you can. Oliver Quade is the name.”
He hung up the receiver. “For the love of Mike!” groaned Charlie Boston.
“Tut-tut,” said Quade. “We’re mixing with moneyed people. We’ve got to act like money.”
“So you’re mixed up in the detective stuff again,” Boston shook his head. “I could smell it coming the minute I saw Christopher Buck. That means we’re going to take a lot of punishment again and wind up behind the eight-ball.”
“Not this time, Charlie,” Quade said cheerfully. “I’ve decided that this is one affair from which I’m going to emerge with both hands full of money. It’s lying around on all sides and I’m going to grab it.”
Boston threw up his hands helplessly. “There’s no use talking once your mind is made up. Who’re we working for—Slocum?”
“Right you are, Charlie. And at the moment we have to do only one little thing. Tell me, would you know Willie Higgins if you saw him?”
“If I saw him,” said Boston. “I guess I’d know him all right. So would anybody. His pan’s been in the newspapers often enough.”
“Old pictures. They don’t take pictures of their guests in Alcatraz. So what we’ve got to go by is a five-year-old likeness of him. Since then he may have gained a lot of
weight or lost it. He may have raised a mustache or a beard. No, not a beard. I don’t think they’d let him do that on The Rock.”
Boston said suspiciously, “Say, you don’t think Higgins is in Hollywood, do you?”
“I do. And what’s more, you and I are going to find him.”
“Do you want to commit suicide, Ollie? Willie Higgins is so mean he’d poison his own grandmother. Five years on Alcatraz has probably made him even meaner.”
“Oh, he can’t be so tough,” said Quade easily. “As I remember him from the pictures he was a little fellow. Even if he gained a lot of weight, he wouldn’t be up to your two hundred pounds.”
“Stop right there, Ollie! You’re not going to get me to tackle Willie Higgins. If he was a dwarf, I’d still keep out of his way. Higgins don’t fight with fists!”
The door resounded to a smart rat-a-tat. “Come!” Quade called.
A cheery-faced man came in. “Mr. Quade? My name’s Clayton. I understand you wanted to see one of our sport jobs.”
“That’s right,” said Quade. “Tell me, Mr. Clayton, is your car a better buy than the Packard?”
Mr. Clayton smiled deprecatingly. “We think it is, Mr. Quade. If you’ll come outside, I’ll point out a few salient factors.”
“I’ve seen your car, Mr. Clayton,” said Quade. “It looks O.K. The only thing I’m not sure of is how it operates. I mean by comparison with, say, the Packard and the Cadillac, both of which I’ve driven.”
“A demonstration, Mr. Quade—” began the automobile dealer.
“Exactly! But I don’t want one of your demonstrations. You’d look for the smooth streets and you’d whiz me around a corner with your foot touching the brake so I wouldn’t even know it. What I’m getting at, Mr. Clayton, is you can’t tell enough about a car with a test-tube demonstration. You’ve got to drive it yourself, for several days. Now, I’ve promised both the Packard and the Cadillac people that I’d try only one more car and then decide among the three of you. Is that satisfactory, Mr. Clayton?”
“Certainly, sir! We’ll back our car against any on the market, in any price range. Of course—”
Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia Page 30