Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia

by Gruber, Frank

  “George Grimshaw!” he gasped.

  “You know him?” snapped Captain Roletti.

  “Of course,” replied Mills. “He’s got a stable here.”

  Captain Roletti whirled on Kleinsmith. “What’s this? He’s running horses here and you don’t know him?”

  “Of course I know him,” replied Kleinsmith.

  “Why the hell didn’t you say so then?”

  “You didn’t ask me. I just took it for granted you knew. Everybody knows him around here.”

  “I’m not a race-track cop,” snarled Roletti. He turned to the plain-clothes track lieutenant. “You knew him too, Gilroy?”

  Gilroy nodded. “Yes. He owned the horse that paid off because of the foul—Rameses.”

  “That’s just fine,” Roletti said, sarcastically. “You, Mr. Mills, where do you come in on this, except for throwing away a hundred-dollar ticket?”

  Mills saw Quade now and brightened. “Say, you’re the chap found my ticket. Darned decent of you to return it.”

  Quade looked bitterly at him. “Glad to do it again some time. Like hell,” he added under his breath.

  There was a commotion at the door of the club house. “Let me in!” cried the voice of a girl. “Let me in. They say it’s my father!”

  “It’s Miss Grimshaw,” said Lieutenant Gilroy.

  Roletti said, “All right, boys, let her in!”

  The policemen at the door stood aside and a tall, slender girl came running into the room. A tall, well-built young man followed her. The girl’s face was already wet, but when she saw the body of George Grimshaw she cried out and broke her stride. Quade reached out quickly and caught her.

  “Easy, Miss Grimshaw,” he said soothingly.

  Her body was shaking violently, but she made a tremendous effort to recover control of herself. After a moment she said, “Thank you,” and released herself from Quade’s grip.

  The tall young fellow nodded curtly to Quade. He took the girl’s arm. “All right, Helen?” he said.

  Helen Grimshaw turned to Lieutenant Roletti. “He’s been murdered!”

  Roletti looked at her thoughtfully. “What makes you say that?”

  “It’s apparent, isn’t it?”

  “He’s been shot, but …” Roletti cleared his throat.

  “No,” said Helen Grimshaw firmly, “he didn’t commit suicide.”

  Roletti shrugged. “I don’t think so either. But murder—well, that’s a serious charge. Er, perhaps you have a reason for saying that?”

  She bit her lower lip with sharp, white teeth. “Perhaps. Could I see if his wallet is in his inside coat pocket?”

  “It is,” replied Roletti. “I looked. It wasn’t robbery. Not in a club house with several thousand people.”

  “Look in the wallet,” said the girl. “See if there’s a letter in it.”

  Lieutenant Roletti knelt down beside the dead man and extracted a long wallet from his inside breast pocket. He got to his feet and opened the wallet. “There’s a slip of paper here, but it isn’t a letter.”

  Quade saw his nostrils flare.

  “It’s a receipt,” Roletti went on grimly. “It says: ‘Received from Herbert Mills, $10,000 in full payment for original letter written by Jesse James, dated Sherman, Texas, September 8, 1876.” The captain broke off. “Say, what’s this about?”

  Mills took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “That’s right. I bought the James letter from Grimshaw this afternoon, just before the last race.”

  “You paid ten G’s for a letter written by Jesse James!” snorted Captain Roletti. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “It was worth more than ten thousand,” Helen Grimshaw said tightly. “I—I happen to know that Father had once been offered fifteen thousand for it.”

  “Who—who’d make such an offer?” gasped Herbert Mills.

  “Guy Paley,” replied Helen Grimshaw. “In fact, Father was going to sell him the letter today.”

  “How about that?” snapped Roletti, looking at Mills.

  The fat man shook his head. “I don’t know anything about it. Except that Grimshaw approached me about a week ago, asked me to give him a price on the Jesse James autograph. Said he needed money. We dickered for a week over the price and finally, today, I bought the letter. I paid him the money just before the last race.”

  Captain Roletti bared his teeth. “Well, where is it? He hasn’t got it on him. I don’t like that. Not at all. And there’s something else I don’t like. This horse racing business. His horse comes in fourth in a race, then there’s a foul and the nag’s moved up to third place. What about that?”

  The tall young man who had remained quiet up to now, said bluntly, “Why don’t you ask the horses about that?”

  Captain Roletti whirled. “And who’re you, wise guy?”

  “My name’s Jack Forester,” said the young man. “I run a few horses here.”

  “Oh, yeah? Maybe one of those nags in the last race belonged to you?”

  “That’s right. Beefboy, the horse that was disqualified.”

  Captain Roletti put his tongue into his cheek. “Your horse won this race, then it was disqualified and Grimshaw’s won. And then he was killed. Tell me some more, Forester. I’m getting interested in you!”

  The track policeman cut in. “Mr. Forester is one of the wealthiest men in the state.”

  Captain Roletti’s eyebrows arched. He started to say something, but his words were suddenly drowned out by approximately thirty thousand throats roaring, “They’re off!”

  Roletti looked toward the track and scowled. There was no use continuing his questioning until the race that had started was finished. Races are run, murder or no.

  And bettors rushed to collect their winnings. Roletti found that out a minute later, when the winning horses crossed the wire and a stampede of winners, hundreds of them, charged into the room.

  “Hey!” Roletti cried to his policemen. “Keep ’em out.”

  As well try to stop an avalanche. The excited winners brushed aside policemen, swarmed over them and carried them along on the tide, toward the pari-mutuel room. Quade was engulfed and when he finally emerged he found himself in the pari-mutuel room.

  Order came quickly now as ticket holders lined up before the cashiers’ windows. Quade took the opportunity to make his escape.

  He slipped out of the club house and, just outside the door, Charlie Boston grabbed his arm. “Ollie! I been watching for you. Were you pinched?”

  “Nope. But I don’t want to tempt the captain too much. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Swell. I don’t like it at all. That fellow—it was Grimshaw, wasn’t it? The guy who had us deliver the letter.”

  Quade nodded. “If they’d searched me, I’d have been sunk. I didn’t tear up that letter we were supposed to take to Lund.”

  “Ouch!” exclaimed Boston. “Better ditch it right now.”

  “I can’t. I’ve discovered that it’s worth ten thousand dollars. It’s one of the rare specimens of Jesse James’ handwriting.”

  “The old-time bank robber? For Pete’s sake! Who’d want to pay that much for his autograph? Anyway, Ollie, you’ve got to get rid of it. It’s dynamite.”

  “To that I agree,” said Quade. “I’m going to get rid of it right now. Over there.”

  They crossed the street and Quade went into a drugstore and bought an envelope and stamp. He addressed the envelope and, outside, dropped it into a mail box.

  In the bus going back to town, Boston lamented, “This is our unlucky day. I pick a winning horse and you throw the ticket away. Everything else’s been going wrong, too. I’m going to bed and stay there until tomorrow.”

  “In what bed?” asked Quade. “You don’t think the Lincoln Hotel is going to let us into our rooms, d
o you?”

  Boston’s face fell. “What’re we going to do? We’re flat broke, aren’t we?”

  “Not quite. We had a dollar and forty-five left after buying our ticket. Then I got the reward.” He winced. “I spent a nickel in the drugstore and fifty cents for bus fare.”

  “So it’s a flophouse tonight!”

  Quade shrugged. “The day isn’t over yet. Something may turn up.”

  Boston looked sharply at Quade. “You’re not going to stick your neck out on this, are you?”

  “It’s out now,” said Quade. “How long do you suppose it’ll be before the cops tie up the deaths of Grimshaw and Lund? Remember, the dining-room waiter at the Lincoln Hotel saw Grimshaw give us money. And there’s our friends, the pugs, who tried to take Grimshaw’s letter away from us.”

  The race-track bus dropped them in front of the Lincoln Hotel. Quade and Boston went into the lobby. The manager of the hotel was behind the desk with his clerk. He looked at Quade, then turned his eyes deliberately to a clock on the wall.

  “Hello, Mr. Meyer,” Quade said cheerfully. “I have good news for you.”

  Meyer’s face broke into a pleasant smile. “The rent?” he said, hopefully.

  Quade nodded. “Yes. Well, not exactly all of it, but I expect to have the balance by six o’clock. You gave me until then, didn’t you?”

  Meyer, the manager, frowned. “Yes. Uh, do you want to give me, now, the amount you have?”

  “N-no, I think I’d rather wait and give it all to you at once. Let’s see, it’s three-thirty now. A friend is coming to my room in a little while to give me the balance.” He grinned and held out his hand.

  Meyer hesitated, then turned and took a key out of a cubbyhole. He gave it to Quade. “Very well, at six o’clock then.”

  As they walked to the elevators, Boston said out of the side of his mouth, “What do you mean, you raised part of the rent?”

  “Sure,” Quade replied. “About one two-hundredth.”

  They rode in the elevator to the eighth floor. They turned a corner and stopped before the door of Room 810. Quade unlocked the door and they entered their suite. It was a suite. There was nothing cheap about Quade. He’d reasoned that it would be just as difficult to raise the money for a single room as a suite.

  Charlie Boston dropped into an easy chair. “Well, we’ve got two and a half hours.”

  Knuckles rapped on the door they had just closed. Quade called, “Yes?”

  A deep voice replied, “Mr. Quade?”

  Charlie Boston leaped up from his chair. “What the hell!” he exclaimed. He caught up a straight-backed chair and stepped to the side of the door. There was a glint in his eye.

  Quade walked to the door and opened it.

  Mills, the fat man whose ticket Quade had returned at the track, stood in the doorway. His eyes widened when he recognized Quade. “Say, you’re the chap—”

  “I am,” said Quade grimly. “I’m the lad who found your hundred-dollar ticket. Remember? You gave me a nice big reward.”

  “Yes, of course. Say—I had no idea!”

  Quade nodded to Boston and the latter brought his chair down. He almost slammed it on Mills’ feet. “Won’t you come in?” he snapped.

  Mills nodded and came into the room. “This is really an awfully pleasant surprise,” he exclaimed. “I was afraid—what I mean, it’s always so hard to do business with strangers. And when I heard about you, why I—”

  “Skip it,” said Quade. “You came to increase the reward?”

  Mills looked blank. Then his thick lips made a huge O. “Oh, that! Why, yes, if that’s the way you want to do it, of course!”

  “Fine!” said Quade. “I tore up a ten-dollar ticket of our own. Ninety-eight dollars. Give me ninety-six more and we’ll call it square.”

  “And cheap at the price,” growled Charlie Boston.

  Mills nodded thoughtfully. “Quite so. I’ll even make it an even hundred—if you’ll let me have the letter.”

  Quade inhaled softly. “What letter?”

  “Why, the letter Grimshaw gave you. To deliver to Martin Lund, you know.”

  Charlie bared his teeth and growled deep in his throat.

  Quade said quickly, “Oh, that letter. So sorry. But I didn’t deliver it. You see, a couple of thugs attacked us as we left the hotel.”

  Mills gasped. “What?” Then his fat face tightened until his piggish eyes became mere slits. “But they didn’t take the letter from you.”

  Quade’s nostrils flared. “No, they didn’t. And you wouldn’t know that unless you’d hired them! Hold on, Charlie, I’m first!”

  He sunk his fist six inches into Mills’ flabby stomach, then crossed with a left that bounced off the fat man’s jaw. Charlie Boston’s fist swished over Quade’s shoulder and smacked against Mills’ left cheekbone.

  Mills slipped away from in front of Quade, dropped to the floor. He landed on hands and knees and remained there, whimpering.

  Quade stepped back. “All right, Mills, let’s hear some talk from you.”

  “Let me hit him just once more,” Boston begged.

  Quade motioned Boston back. “What about it, Mills?”

  Mills remained on the floor, but raised his flabby face. A trickle of blood ran from his mouth down his chin. “I’ll call the police,” he said thickly.

  “I don’t think you will,” Quade said.

  Boston took a threatening step forward and Mills scrambled to the side. He climbed to his feet and looked longingly toward the door. “I didn’t do anything,” he said.

  “Maybe not,” said Quade grimly. “But the lads you hired knocked me around. You didn’t get any more now than I got from them. Come on, spill it, before we give you another working over.”

  “I didn’t hire anyone to take the letter from you. Grimshaw told me about you. I saw him at the track. He said a couple of tough-looking men had been following me around and when he heard the hotel manager threaten to dispossess you here, he thought—”

  “Rats!” said Charlie Boston.

  “It’s the truth,” insisted Mills. “Grimshaw was playing another customer against me. Fellow named Paley.”

  “Who’s he?” Quade asked.

  “An autograph collector. Lund’s customer.”

  “Lund was an autograph dealer?”

  Mills bobbed his head. Then he jerked it up, suddenly. “Was?”

  “Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t know Lund was dead,” Quade said.

  Creases appeared on the fat man’s broad forehead. “I—well, I suspected it. I went to Lund’s office from the track, but there was an ambulance and police car at the curb. That was as far as I went. In fact, I’d already suspected something was wrong. Because Grimshaw was so darned anxious to sell me the letter.”

  “You’re lying,” said Quade. “If you bought the letter from Grimshaw, what do you want now?”

  Mills’ piggish eyes popped open to a full eighth of an inch. “Don’t you know? The Custer letter. I thought you knew. That was the one Grimshaw was sending to Lund.”

  A fist banged on the door. “Open up!” yelled an authoritative voice. Then without waiting, the man outside pushed open the door. It was Captain Roletti.

  He looked around at the three occupants of the room. “Been havin’ a little fun, boys?” he snarled.

  Quade looked at Mills. The fat man dabbed at his chin with a handkerchief. “Mr. Quade did me a favor today,” he said. “I came here to—to reward him.”

  “Yeah,” said Captain Roletti. “I remember. He said something about finding the ticket you’d thrown away at the track.”

  Charlie Boston brightened. “Mr. Mills was just going to slip us a reward. Thanks a lot, Mr. Mills.” He extended an open hand.

  Mills looked at Boston’s hand, then at Captain Roletti. Reluctant
ly he reached into his pocket.

  “Mr. Mills threw away a hundred-dollar ticket that paid nine-eighty,” Charlie Boston said. “Me and my pal found it.”

  Mills pawed his thick roll of bills. Finally he held out two twenties and a ten. “Fifty be all right?”

  Quade started to wave away the money, but Boston took the bills from Mills’ hand. “Thanks, Mr. Mills,” he said.

  Captain Roletti watched the proceedings. “Cut it out!” he snapped, suddenly. “You’re not kidding anyone. This isn’t a lovefest. These bozos were knocking you around, weren’t they, Mills?”

  Quade’s eyes looked steadily at Mills. “Uh, no, Captain,” Mills said, “of course not. I fell down as I got off the elevator a few minutes ago.”

  Roletti growled. “All right, call it that.” He turned to Quade. “Your name’s Quade, isn’t it?”

  Quade nodded. “That’s the name. Same as I told you at the track.”

  Roletti snorted. “You acted up, out there. But I been doin’ a little checkin’ on you. You were out on Sunset Boulevard before you came out to the track.”

  “Who says so?”

  “The manager of the hotel. He told me some things about you. For instance, that George Grimshaw slipped you a twenty to deliver a letter for him.”

  “Oh, that! Of course. Mr. Grimshaw was in a hurry to get out to the track and had made an appointment to meet a man in front of the Mirabeau Hotel on Sunset. He couldn’t make it, so he sent me out to take him a note.”

  Roletti glowered. “You delivered the letter?”

  Quade said, “No, he didn’t show up.”

  “How do you know he didn’t? You know the man by sight?”

  “No, but Mr. Grimshaw said he’d be wearing a white linen suit. There wasn’t anyone around at all wearing a white linen suit.”

  “So what’d you do with the letter? Did you return it to Grimshaw?”

  “No, I never saw Mr. Grimshaw after that. I mean—not alive.”

  “Ah,” said Roletti, “now we’re getting down to things. You knew that was Grimshaw who was shot in the club house at the track. Why didn’t you say out there that you knew the man?”

  “Why, you didn’t ask me. Remember? You made that mistake with Kleinsmith, the track cop, too.”