The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Unknown

  Quade had lost nothing by his bold answer to the girl’s question. The audience warmed to him and the questions came fast and furious.

  “Who was the eleventh president of the United States?”

  “What is the Magna Charta?”

  “Who was the 1896 Olympic 220-meter champion?”

  “How do you cure scaly legs in chickens?”

  “How far is Saturn from the Earth?”

  Quade answered all the questions put to him, with lightning rapidity. But suddenly he called a dramatic halt. “That’s all the questions, folks. Now let me show you how you can learn all the answers yourselves to every question that has just been asked—and ten thousand more.”

  He held out his hands and Charlie Boston tossed a thick book into them which he had taken from the suitcase they had brought with them. Quade began ruffling the pages.

  “They’re all in here. This, my friends, is the ‘Compendium of Human Knowledge,’ the greatest book of its kind ever published. Twelve hundred pages, crammed with facts, information every one of you should know. The knowledge of the ages, condensed, classified, abbreviated. A complete high-school education in one volume. Ten minutes a day and this book will make you the most learned person in your community!”

  Quade lowered his voice to a confidential pitch. “Friends, I’m going to astonish you by telling you the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard: The price of this book. What do you think I’m asking for it? Twenty-five dollars? No, not even twenty … or fifteen. In fact, not even ten or five dollars. Just a mere, paltry, insignificant two dollars and ninety-five cents. But I’m only going to offer these books once at that price. Two-ninety-five, and here I come!”

  Quade leaped down from his platform to attack his audience, supposedly built up to the buying pitch. But he was destined not to sell any books just then. Charlie Boston tugged at his coat sleeve.

  “Look, Ollie!” he whispered hoarsely. “He got the cops!”

  Quade raised himself to his toes to look over the chicken coops. He groaned. For the short man in the tan smock was coming up the center aisle leading a small procession of policemen.

  Quade sighed. “Put the books back into the suitcase, Charlie.” He leaned against a poultry coop and waited to submit quietly to the arrest.

  But the policemen did not come toward him. Reaching the center aisle, the man in the tan smock wheeled to the left, away from Quade, and the police followed him.

  Quade’s audience saw the police. Two or three persons broke away and started toward the other side of the building. The movement started a stampede and in a moment Charlie Boston and Quade were left alone.

  “Something seems to have happened over there,” Quade observed. “Wonder what?”

  “From the mob of cops I’d say a murder,” Boston replied dryly.

  The word “murder” was scarcely out of Boston’s mouth than it was hurled back at them from across the auditorium.

  “It is a murder!” Quade gasped.

  “This is no place for us, then,” cried Boston. “Let’s scram!”

  He caught up the suitcase containing the books and started off. But Quade called him back. “That’s no good. There’s a cop at the door. We’ll have to stick.”

  “Chickens!” howled Boston. “The minute you mentioned them at the hotel I had a hunch that something was going to happen. And I’ll bet a plugged dime, which I haven’t got, that we get mixed up in it.”

  “Maybe so, Charlie. But if I know cops there’s going to be a lot of questioning and my hunch is that we’ll be better off if we’re not too upstage. Let’s go over and find out what’s what.”

  He started toward the other side of the auditorium. Boston followed, lugging the suitcase and grumbling.

  All of the crowd was gathered in front of a huge, mahogany cabinet—a mammoth incubator. The door of the machine was standing open and two or three men were moving around inside.

  Quade drew in his breath sharply when he saw the huddled body lying on the floor just inside the door of the incubator. Gently he began working his way through the crowd until he stood in front of the open incubator door.

  The small group came out of the incubator and a beetle-browed man in a camel’s hair overcoat and Homburg hat squared himself off before the girl in the green hat and coat. The man in the tan smock, his head coming scarcely up to the armpits of the big man, hopped around like a bantam rooster.

  “I understand you had a quarrel with him yesterday,” the big man said to the girl. “What about?”

  The girl drew herself up to her full height. “Because his birds were dyed and the judge—the man behind you—refused to throw them out. That’s why!”

  The bantam sputtered. “She—why, that’s a damn lie!”

  The big detective turned abruptly, put a ham-like hand against the chest of the runt and shoved him back against the incubator with so much force that the little man gasped in pain.

  “Listen, squirt,” the detective said. “Nothing’s been proved against this girl and until it is, she’s a lady. Up here we don’t call ladies liars.”

  He turned back to the girl and said with gruff kindness, “Now, miss, let’s have the story.”

  “There’s no story,” declared the girl. “I did quarrel with him, just like I did with Judge Stone. But—but I haven’t seen Mr. Tupper since yesterday evening. That’s all I can tell you because it’s all I know.”

  “Yesterday, huh.” The detective looked around the circle. “Anybody see him here today?”

  “Yes, of course,” said a stocky man of about forty-five. “I was talking to him early this morning, before the place was opened to the public. There were a dozen or more of us around then.”

  “You’re the boss of this shebang?”

  “Not exactly. Our poultry association operates this show. I’m Leo Cassmer, the secretary, and I’m in charge of the exhibits, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I mean,” replied the detective. “You’re the boss. You know the exhibitors then. All right, who was here early this morning when this Tupper fellow was around?”

  Cassmer, the show secretary, rubbed his chin. “Why, there was myself, Judge Stone, Ralph Conway, the Wyandotte man, Judge Welheimer and several of the men who work around here.”

  “And Miss Martin—was she here?”

  “She came in before the place was officially opened, but she wasn’t around the last time I saw Tupper.”

  “Who’re Welheimer and Conway?”

  A tall, silver-haired man stepped out of the crowd. “Conway’s my name.”

  “And the judge?” persisted the detective.

  A long-nosed man with a protruding lower lip came grudgingly out of the crowd. “I’m Judge Welheimer.”

  “You a real judge or just a chicken judge?”

  “Why, uh, just a poultry judge. Licensed by the National Poultry Association.”

  “And you don’t hold any public office at all? You’re not even a justice of the peace?”

  The long-nosed chicken judge reddened. He shook his head.

  The detective’s eyes sparkled. “That’s fine. All that talk about judges had me worried for a bit. But listen, you chicken judges and the rest of you. I’m Sergeant Dickinson of the Homicide Squad of this town. There’s been a murder committed here and I’m investigating it. Which means I’m boss around here. Get me?”

  Quade couldn’t quite restrain a snicker. The sergeant’s sharp ears heard it and he singled out Quade.

  “And who the hell are you?”

  “Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia,” Quade replied glibly. “I know the answers to all questions—”

  Sergeant Dickinson’s face twisted. “Ribbing me, ha? Step up here where I can get a good look at you.”

  Quade remained where he was. “There’s a dead man in there. I don’t like to get too close to dead people.”

  The sergeant took a half step toward Quade, but then stopped himself. He tried to smooth out hi
s face, but it was still dark with anger.

  “I’ll get around to you in a minute, fella.” He turned belligerently to the show secretary. “You, who found the body?”

  Cassmer pointed to a pasty-faced young fellow of about thirty. The man grinned sickly.

  “Yeah, I got in kinda late and started straightening things around. Then I saw that someone had stuck that long staple in the door latch. I didn’t think much about it and opened the door and there—there he was lying on the floor. Deader’n a mackerel!”

  “You work for this incubator company?” the sergeant asked.

  The young fellow nodded. “I’m the regional sales manager. Charge of this exhibit. It’s the finest incubator on the market. Used by the best breeders and hatcherymen.”

  “Can the sales talk,” growled the detective. “I’m not going to buy one. Let’s go back on your story. What made you say this man was murdered?”

  “What else could it be? He was dead and the door was locked on the outside.”

  “I know that. But couldn’t he have died of heart failure? There’s plenty of air in that thing, and besides there’s a ventilator hole up there.”

  “He was murdered,” said Quade.

  Sergeant Dickinson whirled. “And how do you know?”

  “By looking at the body. Anyone could tell it was murder.”

  “Oh yeah? Maybe you’ll tell me how he was killed. There ain’t a mark on his body.”

  “No marks of violence, because he wasn’t killed that way. He was killed with a poison gas. Something containing cyanogen.”

  The sergeant clamped his jaws together. “Go on! Who killed him?”

  Quade shook his head. “No, that’s your job. I’ve given you enough to start with.”

  “You’ve been very helpful,” said the sergeant. “So much so that I’m going to arrest you!”

  Charlie Boston groaned into Quade’s ears. “Won’t you ever learn to keep your mouth shut?”

  But Quade merely grinned insolently. “If you arrest me I’ll sue you for false arrest.”

  “I’ll take a chance on that,” said the detective. “No one could know as much as you do and not have had something to do with the murder.”

  “You’re being very stupid, Sergeant,” Quade said. “These men told you they hadn’t seen Tupper alive for several hours. He’s been dead at least three. And I just came into this building fifteen minutes ago.”

  “He’s right,” declared Anne Martin. “I saw him come in. He and his friend. They went straight over to the other side of the building and started that sales talk.”

  “What sales talk?”

  The little poultry judge hopped in again. “He’s a damn pitchman. Pulls some phony question and answer stuff and insults people. Claims he’s the smartest man in the world. Bah!”

  “Bah to you!” said Quade.

  “Cut it,” cried Sergeant Dickinson. “I want to get the straight of this. You.” He turned to Cassmer. “Did he really come in fifteen minutes ago?”

  Cassmer shrugged. “I never saw him until a few minutes ago. But there’s the ticket-taker. He’d know.”

  The ticket-taker, whose post had been taken over by a policeman, frowned. “Yeah, he came in just a little while ago. I got plenty reason to remember. Him and his pal crashed the gate. On me! First time anyone crashed the gate on me in eight years. But he was damn slick. He—”

  “Never mind the details,” sighed Sergeant Dickinson. “I can imagine he was slick about it. Well, mister, you didn’t kill him. But tell me—how the hell do you know he was gassed with cy—cyanide?”

  “Cyanogen. It’s got prussic acid in it. All right, the body was found inside the incubator, the door locked on the outside. That means someone locked him inside the incubator. The person who killed him. Right so far?”

  “I’m listening.” There was a thoughtful look in the sergeant’s eyes.

  “There’s broken glass inside the incubator. The killer heaved in a bottle containing the stuff and slammed the door shut and locked it. The man inside was killed inside of a minute.”

  “Wait a minute. The glass is there all right, but how d’you know it contained cyanogen? There’s no smell in there.”

  “No, because the killer opened the ventilator hole and turned on the electric fans inside the incubator. All that can be done from the outside. The fans cleared out the fumes. Simple.”

  “Not so simple. You still haven’t said how you know it was cyanogen.”

  “Because he’s got all the symptoms. Look at the body—pupils dilated, eyes wide, froth on the mouth, face livid, body twisted and stiff. That means he had convulsions. Well, if those symptoms don’t mean cyanogen, I don’t know what it’s all about.”

  “Mister,” said the detective. “Who did you say you were?”

  “Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia. I know everything.”

  “You know, I’m beginning to believe you. Well, then, who did the killing?”

  “That’s against the union rules. I told you how the man was killed. Finding who did it is your job.”

  “All right, but tell me one thing more. If this cyanogen has prussic acid in it, it’s a deadly poison. Folks can’t usually buy it.”

  “City folks, you mean. Cyanogen is the base for several insecticides. I don’t think this was pure cyanogen. I’m inclined to believe it was a diluted form, probably a gas used to kill rats on poultry farms. Any poultry raiser could buy that.”

  “Here comes the coroner’s man,” announced Detective Dickinson. “Now, we’ll get a check on you, Mr. Quade.”

  Dr. Bogle, the coroner’s physician, made a rapid, but thorough, examination of the body. His announcement coincided startlingly with Quade’s diagnosis.

  “Prussic acid or cyanide. He inhaled it. Died inside of five minutes. About three and a half hours ago.”

  Quade’s face was twisted in a queer smile. He walked off from the group. Charlie Boston and Anne Martin, the girl, followed.

  “Do you mind my saying that you just performed some remarkable work?” the girl said admiringly.

  “No, I don’t mind your saying so.” Quade grinned. “I was rather colossal.”

  “He pulls those things out of a hat,” groused Boston. “He’s a very smart man. Only one thing he can’t do.”

  “What’s that?”

  Boston started to reply, but Quade’s fierce look silenced him. Quade coughed. “Well, look—a hot dog stand. Reminds me, it’s about lunch time. Feel like a hot dog and orangeade, Anne?”

  The girl smiled at his familiarity. “I don’t mind. I’m rather hungry.”

  Boston sidled up to Quade. “Hey, you forgot!” he whispered. “You haven’t got any money.”

  Quade said, “Three dogs and orangeades!”

  A minute later they were munching hot dogs. Quade finished his orangeade and half-way through the sandwich suddenly snapped his fingers.

  “That reminds me, I forgot something. Excuse me a moment.…” He started off suddenly toward the group around the incubator, ignoring Charlie Boston’s startled protest.

  Boston suddenly had no appetite. He chewed the food in his mouth as long as he could. The girl finished her sandwich and smiled at him.

  “That went pretty good. Guess I’ll have another. How about you?”

  Boston almost choked. “Uh, no, I ain’t hungry.”

  The girl ordered another hot dog and orangeade and finished them while Boston still fooled with the tail end of his first sandwich.

  The concessionaire mopped up the counter all around Boston and Anne Martin and finally said, “That’s eighty cents, mister!”

  Boston put the last of the sandwich in his mouth and began going through his pockets. The girl watched him curiously. Boston went through his pockets a second time. “That’s funny,” he finally said. “I must have left my wallet in the hotel. Quade …”

  “Let me pay for it,” said the girl, snapping open her purse.

  Boston’s face was as red as
a Harvard beet. Such things weren’t embarrassing to Quade, but they were to Boston.

  “There’s Mr. Quade,” said Anne Martin. “Shall we join him?”

  Boston was glad to get away from the hot dog stand.

  The investigation was still going on. Sergeant Dickinson was on his hands and knees inside the incubator. A policeman stood at the door of it and a couple more were going over the exterior.

  Quade saluted them with a piece of wire. “They’re looking for clues,” he said.

  The girl shivered. “I’d like it much better if they’d take away Exhibit A.”

  “Can’t. Not until they take pictures. I hear the photographers and the fingerprint boys are coming down. It’s not really necessary either. Because I know who the murderer is.”

  The girl gasped: “Who?”

  Quade did not reply. He looked at the piece of wire in his hands. It was evidently a spoke from a wire poultry coop, but it had been twisted into an elongated question mark. He tapped Dickinson’s shoulder with the wire.

  The sergeant looked up and scowled. “Huh?”

  “Want this?” Quade asked.

  “What the hell is it?”

  “Just a piece of wire I picked up.”

  “What’re you trying to do, rib me?”

  Quade shrugged. “No, but I saw you on your hands and knees and thought you were looking for something. Thought this might be it.”

  Dickinson snorted. “What the hell, if you’re not going to tell me who did the killing, let me alone.”

  “O.K.” Quade flipped the piece of wire over a row of chicken coops. “Come,” he said to Boston and Anne Martin. “Let’s go look at the turkeys at the other end of the building.”

  Boston shuffled up beside Quade as the three walked through an aisle. “Who did it, Ollie?”

  “Can’t tell now, because I couldn’t prove it. In a little while, perhaps.”

  Boston let out his pent-up breath. “If you ain’t the damnedest guy ever!”

  Anne Martin said, “You mean you’re not going to tell Sergeant Dickinson?”

  “Oh yes, but I’m going to wait a while. Maybe he’ll tumble himself and I’d hate to deprive him of that pleasure … What time is it?”