Black Mask (Vol. 22, No. 2 — Mary 1939)

Funny Man by Frank Gruber

Oliver Quade plays havoc with a Hollywood murderer.

Charlie Boston grabbed Oliver Quade’s arm. “Look,” he said, “a movie studio!”

Quade twisted the wheel to the right, stepped on the brakes. The motor of the dilapidated jallopy expired with a wheezing sigh.

Quade looked across the street. “All right, it’s a studio,” he said. “They do have studios in Hollywood, you know.”

“The sign by the gate says Slocum Studios.” Charlie Boston’s voice was eager. “Do you suppose this is the place where Hedy Lamarr works?”

“And if it is, would she want to see you? Come on, we’ve got things to do. We’ve got to get located. After all, we were lucky to make it from San Bernardino on three gallons of gas.” He looked hopefully at Charlie Boston. “I don’t suppose, Charlie, you’ve got a stray quarter — or even a dime, somewhere about you?”

“You know damn well I haven’t. You got my last cent in Arizona.”

“In that case, I guess I’ve got to go to work. Before I’m even a half-hour in Hollywood.”

“Where can you work around here?”

“Right there,” said Quade, “Where all those people are hanging around the studio gate. If I work fast I won’t need a peddler’s license.”

He opened the door of the flivver beside him and it came away in his hand. “If we ever get any money, Charlie, we’ll buy a new car and send this one to China.”

He walked across the street toward the studio gate. Before he quite reached it he turned to the right and stopped with his back against the stucco wall.

He raised his hands dramatically and began talking in a voice that rolled out over Wilshire Boulevard and drowned out the noise of the traffic.

“I’m Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia!” he boomed. “I know the answers to all questions. I know the distance to the moon and the sun. I can name all the presidents and vice presidents. I can recite the batting averages of every major league baseball player. I am the Human Encyclopedia, the walking compendium of human knowledge.”

There were twenty or thirty people already hanging around the gates when Quade began talking. Inside of thirty seconds the number had doubled. A crowd draws a larger crowd. This is true, anywhere. In Hollywood it is doubly so. Hollywood has more freaks than any other city in the country; and they always have time to listen to another freak.

Quade thundered on: “I know the answers to all questions. I bar no holds. I’ll answer any question on history, science, mathematics, business or sports. Try me out, someone. Make me prove what I say. Ask me a question!”

“Is it going to rain today?”

“It hasn’t rained here in 224 days,” Quade retorted. “So the chances are it won’t rain today. But that’s not a fair question. The answer to it doesn’t require any encyclopedic knowledge. I’m not a fortune teller and can’t make guesses. I’m an exponent of learning. Any question anyone can ask me—”

“I’ve got a question!” someone yelled. “Referring to a number of animals, would you say, a herd of lions, a flock — or what?”

Quade’s eyes brightened. “Now, that’s the type of question I like. It would stump practically anyone in this audience. But, ladies and gentlemen, it doesn’t phase me. The answer is — a pride of lions. And just for fun, I’ll give you extra measure. In referring to geese you would say a gaggle of geese; pheasants, a nide of pheasants. Try those on your friends, sometime... All right, someone else ask me another question, any subject at all.”

It came instantly. “What are felt hats made of?”

“Rabbit fur,” Quade shot back. “The fur is sheered from the pelt, put through certain processes and emerges as ‘felt’... Next!”

A youth snapped: “A man boiling a kettle of water on top of Mt. Everest stuck his bare arm into the boiling water and wasn’t scalded. Why not?”

Quade cried, “You’re getting tricky now. The answer to that question is because of the low boiling point of the water at that altitude. The boiling point of water at sea level is 212 degrees, but it drops one degree for every five hundred feet of altitude. Therefore, the boiling point of water at the top of Mt. Everest, which is 21,000 feet, would be only 172 degrees — not enough to scald a person.”

They came fast and furious after that.

“Who was Machiavelli?”

“How far is it from the earth to the moon?”

“Who won the heavyweight championship from Tommy Burns?”

Quade tossed back the answers swiftly and accurately. The game continued for ten minutes, then Quade called a sudden halt.

“That’s all, folks. Now, I’m going to tell you how you, each and everyone of you, can learn the answers to every question that was asked here today — and ten thousand others. Any question anyone can ask you at any time. They’re all here!” He held out his hand and Charlie Boston, who had lugged a valise from the car across the street, tossed him a book.

Quade ruffled its pages. “Here it is, The Compendium of Human Knowledge. The knowledge of the ages, condensed, classified, abbreviated, all in one volume. A complete high school education, available to every man, woman and child in this audience.

“Yes, I’m selling this amazing book, the compendium of all knowledge acquired by man since the beginning of time. But what am I asking for this college education in one book... $25.00? Cheap at the price! But no! Not even $5.00, but a mere, paltry insignificant $2.95!”

Charlie Boston stepped up beside Oliver Quade and hissed: “Scram, Ollie! A cop.”

A man in a blue uniform pushed through the crowd. “Hey, you,” he said, “Mr. Slocum wants to talk to you about that voice of your’n.”

Oliver Quade drew himself up to his lean height and fixed the policeman with an icy stare. “Since when is a citizen of this glorious country denied the right of free speech? Are you not a servant of the people? So by what right do you dare order one of your employers not to speak!”

The cop grinned sickishly. “I’m not complaining about your talk. It’s Mr. Slocum. He wants to see you in his office, right away.”

Quade waved his hands to the audience. “You see, ladies and gentlemen, that’s what happens to a humble citizen when one of our millionaire movie moguls turns his thumb down. My voice raised in honest speech, in a humble endeavor to earn a livelihood, annoys Mr. Slocum, yonder in his plush-lined office and so I am arrested.”

“Who said anythin’ about arresting anyone?” the policeman demanded. “I only said Mr. Slocum wants to talk to you. He heard your voice and sent me out to bring you in. Hey, you didn’t think I was a regular cop, did you?”

Quade brightened. “Of course not, my good man! I see it all now. Mr. Slocum is a motion picture producer; he heard my resonant voice and — yes, of course. He wishes to talk contract with me. Lead on, officer! I’ll talk to your Mr. Slocum.”

The crowd was already dispersing. The policeman pushed his way through and Quade followed. Behind him came Charlie Boston, still protesting at walking into a lion’s den.

The main studio building was a maze of corridors and private offices. The uniformed man led Quade and Boston down the row of offices and finally opened the door of an office that only a Hollywood mogul or a blue-sky promoter could afford.

There were two or three girls in the office and a couple of sleek-haired young men.

“Miss Hendricks will announce you to Mr. Slocum,” said the policeman to Quade. “Miss Hendricks, this is the man from outside, the man whose voice Mr. Slocum heard.”

A woman who looked like a middle-aged schoolteacher said, “Mr. Slocum will see you.”

“Wait here, Charles,” Quade said, and passed through the portals of Mr. Tommy Slocum’s inner sanctum.

He went into a room that looked like a newspaper morgue. A short slight young man, who wore baggy trousers and a soiled shirt, got up from behind a littered desk and snapped at Quade:

“Can you bark?”

Quade had seen and heard many things in his life. He was almost never surprised. But his mouth fell open, now. “Can I bark?” he repeated, inanely.

“Yeah, sure. Like a dog. Let’s hear you.”

Quade’s eyes hardened. “You mean like this?” He barked “Arf! Arf!”

Tommy Slocum sawed the air impatiently. “No, no, no! Bark like the biggest, maddest dog you ever heard in your life. Put feeling into it!”

Quade fixed the little man with a deadly stare, took a deep breath... and barked. He barked like a St. Bernard dog whose tail had been stepped on by a fat man.

Tommy Slocum cried, “Splendid! I thought you had the stuff when I heard you bellowing out there on the street. You’ll do, fella, you’ll do!”

Deliberately Quade looked about the room. “Where’s the keeper?” he asked. “This is the crazy house, isn’t it?”

Tommy Slocum guffawed. “Don’t you know? This is the Slocum Studios. We make the Desmond Dogg animated cartoons.”

Quade looked sick. “Desmond Dogg! And I... I barked like Desmond Dogg?”

“Sure, that’s why I wanted you. Pete Rice, who usually dubs in the voice for Desmond, has laryngitis and won’t be able to bark for three-four days. We need the voice tomorrow. Come in here at nine o’clock. It’ll only be a couple of hours work and you’ll get fifty dollars. Oke?”

“Mr. Slocum,” said Quade. “You sent a policeman outside to drag me in. You interfered with my legitimate business. Your cop scared away my customers. I didn’t complain. I came in here because I thought a motion picture producer had recognized my talents. And what do you do? You insult—”

“All right, what the hell’s money?” snapped Slocum. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”

Quade’s mouth twisted suddenly. “I’ll be here at nine in the morning.”

He turned abruptly and rushed out of Slocum’s private office. He burst out of the room and almost knocked the wind out of one of the tallest men that ever walked a street. He was as thin as he was tall.

“What the hell!” the man gasped. “Look, where you’re going!” Then his eyes popped. “Oliver Quade!”

“Christopher Buck!” Quade exclaimed. “The world’s greatest detective!”

The long, lean man winced and darted a look around him. “Nix!”

Quade looked innocently around the office. “Are you in disguise? Shadowing someone?”

“Still the clowner!” Christopher Buck spat venomously.

Quade chuckled. “What’re you doing here in movieland, Buck? Didn’t think you’d ever get across the plains.”

“I came in an airplane,” said Buck, coldly. “How did you come — riding the rods?”

“Ha-ha,” Quade laughed mirthlessly. “We do have great times together, don’t we? Say, Charlie, remember this beanpole? Our old friend, Christopher Buck.”

“I saw him when he came in.” Charlie Boston retorted. “I was hoping he wouldn’t recognize me.”

Christopher Buck reddened. Then his eyes suddenly narrowed. “What’re you fellows doing here?”

Quade shrugged. “Well, you know how it is, Buck, old boy. When Hollywood calls... I just signed a long-term picture contract.”

Buck looked suspiciously at Quade. “Quit clowning, Quade. You just came out of Tommy Slocum’s office. So he did hire you?”

“I just said so.”

“Sure you said so, but you didn’t say what he hired you for. Look, Quade, we worked together on a case once before. You helped me quite a bit—”

“I helped you, Buck?”

Buck smiled ingratiatingly. “Well, you were lucky, eh? Now, look, we’re both working on the same case. Maybe for different bosses. But what’s the difference? We can still work together. Pool our information, you know, and maybe split fees, huh?”

“If you did the splitting, Buck,” growled Charlie Boston, “we wouldn’t get a hamburger out of it.”

Quade brightened. He caught Boston’s eye and winked. “On the other hand, Buck, maybe there’s something in what you say. You in a hurry to see Slocum? If not, why not let’s go talk about this over a cup of coffee.”

Buck sighed. “Why not? Maybe I’ve got some things you can use and maybe you’ve stumbled across a bit or two that might clear something for me. Come on.”

The trio walked out of the studio, through the street gate. Boston turned toward their old jallopy across the street but Quade caught his eye in a warning look. He fell behind Christopher Buck.

Buck led the way to a Packard coupe. “Might as well use my car,” he offered. “Or shall we walk over to that restaurant on the corner?”

“Oh, the Brown Derby’s just up the street,” Quade said. “I like the atmosphere there.” He had never seen the Brown Derby in his life.

The three of them climbed into the coupe and Christopher Buck tooled it into the traffic. “How long’ve you been here, Quade?” he asked.

“Not so long. But long enough to pick up a few things.”

“What?”

“Now, now, Buck, you wouldn’t want me to tell what I know, before I know what the score is, would you?”

Christopher Buck scowled. “Cagy, as always, huh? Well, who’s your client — Tommy Slocum?”

“Who’s yours?” Quade asked.

“Stanley Maynard’s paying me. That’s why I was — ah, somewhat disconcerted to see you coming out of Slocum’s office. The way Maynard put it to me, Slocum wasn’t to know who was having the investigation made.”

“Oh, Maynard was trying to keep it dark? Does he think Slocum’s a chump?”

Buck sighed. “Well, it would have come out sooner or later... There’s the Brown Derby. They’ll probably charge you twenty cents for a cup of coffee. But — come on!”

They went into the restaurant and sat in a booth.

Quade picked up a menu. “It’s almost lunch time. This avocado salad sounds intriguing.”

“Long time since I ate an avocado salad,” agreed Boston. “I guess I’ll have it too. Shucks, Ollie, you’ve given me an appetite. Look, they’ve got a steak at a dollar and a quarter. Can you imagine getting a steak here for that? I think I’ll try it.”

“I’ll have one, too,” Quade said. “What about you, Buck?”

“I’m not as big an eater as you fellows,” grunted Buck. “But go ahead, I guess we’ve got time. I’ll just have a glass of buttermilk.”

“All right, now, Quade, just what does Tommy Slocum intend to do?”

“What he always does. Sit tight! The question is, what is Maynard going to do?”

“With the case he’s got and the proof, he’s going through with the suit. He’d be foolish not to. He’s got the goods on Slocum. It’ll cost him a million before it’s finished.”

Quade shrugged, pretending he knew what this was all about. “There’s a difference of opinion about that. That’s what makes a lawsuit. Slocum’s a tough customer. And he’s got plenty of money.”

“Maynard knows that. That’s why he’d rather settle out of court at a somewhat lower figure. The Wentworth dame coming in—”

“Ah, yes!” said Quade, still groping.

“Thelma Wentworth?” Charlie Boston cut in.

“There’s only one Wentworth,” Buck said. “Sure, Thelma Wentworth, who’d you suppose? The thing I can’t figure out is how a woman like her ever came to know Willie Higgins.”

“Higgins?” said Quade. Then he shook his head quickly. “He’s bad medicine. When they sent him to Alcatraz they really did something.”

Christopher Buck looked sharply at Quade. “You knew, of course, that he’s out?”

“Oh, sure,” said Quade. “I read the papers.” Which was a slight falsehood. He hadn’t read the papers in several days. He hadn’t known that Willie Higgins was out of Alcatraz. But he knew who Higgins was. Everyone knew that. His career, before he had finally been sent to Alcatraz six years ago, was known to everyone.

But what Higgins had to do with Thelma Wentworth, who seemed to be known to even Charlie Boston, but was merely a name to Quade, was something else. For that matter, Quade didn’t even know what Christopher Buck was talking about. He was merely cueing Buck. The lanky detective thought Quade knew something and it wasn’t Quade’s idea to disillusion him.

“So you see,” Buck went on, “the thing’s more complicated than you think. Tommy Slocum... Stanley Maynard... Thelma Wentworth and Willie Higgins, all mixed up. And maybe some others. There’s money in it, though, for a couple of good private detectives and if we work together and play it right, we ought to be able to nick them for say, five or ten grand.”

Quade chuckled. “Knowing you, Buck, the figure’ll be five times that.” Buck’s mouth twisted. “What’s Slocum paying you?”

Quade smiled deprecatingly. “Well, you know, Christopher, I’m not a professional detective. Money can’t usually buy my — uh, detective services. It has to be something unusual.”

“Ah,” said Buck, “so Slocum’s really paying you big sugar? That proves he’s worried about Maynard, after all. I had a hunch about that!”

“Buck,” sighed Quade, “that wasn’t cricket. You talked about cooperation and all you brought me here for was to pump me about what my boss is doing. I’m not going to say another word, now, until I have my coffee and steak and salad.”

A triumphant light gleamed in Christopher Buck’s eyes while Boston and Quade did justice to their food. When they finished, they talked each other into having pie ala mode for dessert.

Quade finally put down his fork. “Excuse me, a minute, now, Buck. I’ve got to make a phone call.” He got up and went to the washroom. He washed his hands, then returned to the booth. His eyes spotted the check that lay face down on the table near his own place.

He remained standing. “Something’s come up, Buck!” he said. “I’ve got to run!”

“Wait!” exclaimed Buck: “I’ll go with you.”

Quade took his hat from the hook. “No, no, I’d rather go alone.”

“But we haven’t settled yet how we’re going to work!” cried Buck. He squirmed out of the booth and was so anxious to follow Quade he grabbed up the check, and winced when he saw the amount. Quade was already moving toward the door and Boston was scrambling out of the booth.

Buck threw a coin on the table and followed. Quade waited just inside the front door. Buck hurriedly paid the check at the cashier’s stand.

“You’re going back to the studio, Quade?” he asked eagerly. “I’ll drive you there.”

“Well, all right.”

As they climbed into the car, Charlie whispered in Quade’s ear: “Well, it worked!”

They drove back to the Slocum Studios and Buck parked his car. At the gate, Quade and Boston fell behind Buck and allowed the tall detective to get them through the gate by showing his pass.

Once inside, Quade became reticent. “You run along about your business, Buck.”

“Yeah, but that phone call,” protested Buck. “What’s come up?”

Quade waved a finger chidingly at Buck. “Now, now!”

Buck’s face contorted angrily for a moment. “All right, if that’s the way you’re going to be. But remember, Quade, I’m on the job, and I’ll be running into you.”

“Oh sure, no hard feelings. Eh?”

Buck went off and Boston asked, “So what’s it all about, Ollie?”

“We’re detectives again,” replied Quade. “Christopher Buck, the world’s greatest detective, came all the way from New York on a job. He thinks because I once got mixed in a case that he was on — and solved it — that I’m here as a detective.”

“But, hell, you don’t even know who those people are that he mentioned!” exclaimed Charlie Boston.

“We got a lunch out of it, didn’t we? How much was the check?”

“Three-forty!” chuckled Boston. “Which, for a tight-wad like Christopher Buck, was plenty.”

“He figured he was going to have a cup of coffee — on us!” Quade laughed. “Say, Charlie, who’s Thelma Wentworth?”

“Huh? Say, don’t you read the movie magazines, Ollie? She’s the new sensation in the films. Her and Hedy Lamarr. I knew about her, all right, but who’re Maynard and Higgins? Is that the Willie Higgins, who used to be Public Enemy Number One?”

“Yep! None other. Seems he finished his time on Alcatraz. Also he knows these people. Maynard, I haven’t placed. But he seems to think he’s got something on Tommy Slocum. I’m going to find out what.”

Charlie’s forehead creased. “You’re not serious in mixing in this detective stuff, are you? Not out here?”

Quade shrugged. “We’re broke. That is, we are today. Although tomorrow, Tommy Slocum’s giving me a hundred bucks.”

“What?” cried Charlie Boston. “He really gave you a job? Doing what?”

Quade said hastily, “Oh, just a job.”

“What the hell can you do around a studio?”

“Lots of things. They have producers and writers and such, in a studio, you know.”

“Not in this place, Ollie. This is where they make the Desmond Dogg cartoons. It’s all done by artists.” Boston looked suspiciously at Quade. “Why the mystery all of a sudden? You’re talking to me, you know.”

“Oh, hell!” said Quade disgustedly. “We’re broke and we’ve got to make a quick stake so... well, Slocum offered me this hundred bucks for just a couple of hours work and I accepted.”

“A hundred bucks for a couple of hours?” persisted Boston. “Doing what?”

Quade swore. “Barking, damn you! I’m going to imitate Desmond Dogg’s bark. Now laugh, you fool!”

Boston did laugh. He laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. But Quade heard only the beginning of the laughter. He walked off, muttering savagely to himself.

Oliver Quade jerked open the first door he came to and found himself facing one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen in his life. She was tall and slender and blond.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You startled me!”

“Sorry. I guess I got into the wrong place. Whose office is this?” He wondered why the girl looked so pale, why her lips were so taut. His sudden entry couldn’t have scared her that much.

She started around him, toward the door through which he had just entered. “I... I got into the wrong office myself,” she said, lamely. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone here.”

She stepped hurriedly past him, pulling the door shut behind her. Quade stared at the door. “I must have caught her doing something,” he said to himself. “She’s scared stiff.” He shrugged and glanced about the office. There was an inner door with a ground glass panel, on which was lettered the name: Mr. Maynard.

He walked across and opened the door. “Mr. Maynard,” he began, “I just dropped in to—” he stopped.

He was talking to a dead man.

He sat in a big chair behind a mahogany desk. His arms hung loosely at his sides and his head was thrown back. Blood was trickling from his mouth to the thick rug. It was dropping on a .32 caliber automatic that might have fallen from his limp hand.

Quade had seen dead men before. He was a man of the world and had seen many things in his time. He had never got used to death. A shiver ran through his lean body and he felt strangely cold. He backed out of Maynard’s private office and closed the door, softly. Then he walked swiftly out of the other office, into the corridor. And collided with Tommy Slocum.

The little producer said, “Excuse me,” and reached for the door through which Quade had just come.

Quade’s hand shot out and caught Slocum’s arm. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you, Mr. Slocum.”

“Why not? Who’re you to tell me where I can go? I’m Tommy Slocum and this is my joint. I’m the boss around here.”

“I know, but just the same, don’t go into Mr. Maynard’s office. Not yet. He’s — dead!”

“Dead, hell,” said Slocum and shoved against the door. Then, as understanding swept into his brain, he recoiled. “Dead!” he squeaked in a thin voice.

“With a bullet in his head. I think you’d better call the police.”

“Oh, my God!” moaned Tommy Slocum. “Stanley Maynard — dead? I don’t believe it.”

But he did believe it. And if he had known of Maynard’s death before Quade told him, he put on a very good act.

He snapped at Quade: “You found him? All right, stick around then. Hey, Hendricks!” he roared at the top of his voice. “Come out here!”

Miss Hendricks, the school-teacherish looking secretary, rushed out of her office. “Call the police!” Slocum yelled at her. “Tell them to hurry up. Stanley Maynard’s killed himself.”

Heads popped out of doors. Tommy Slocum roared at them. “Get back to your work! What do you think I’m paying you for? To gawk around? Somebody call the police department. Murder’s been done. Mr. Maynard’s killed himself.”

“What a man!” murmured Quade.

And now the human bloodhound, Christopher Buck, popped out of nowhere. “Maynard’s dead?” he hissed. “Where?” He saw Oliver Quade and clapped a hand to his skinny face. “You, Ollie, what do you know about this?”

“I found his body. He’s in there.” He jerked a hand toward the office door.

Christopher Buck slithered past them and little Tommy Slocum charged him. “You can’t go in there, you long drink of water. Stay out!”

Christopher Buck shook off the little man. “Maynard’s my client! I’m going in and no one can stop me.” And in he went.

Quade stepped in swiftly after him. Tommy Slocum yelled and followed. He sobbed when he saw the dead man with the sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.

“Stanley, old boy!” he moaned.

Buck, his head craned forward, was sniffing about the office. “Through the mouth,” he said, “and the gun’s here. I don’t believe it!”

“You don’t believe what, Buck?” asked Quade softly.

“That he’d kill himself. He was so sure of winning out. Damn, what a dirty trick! Now, I can whistle for my fee.”

Someone came up behind Quade and breathed on his neck. “I told you, Ollie!” exclaimed Charlie Boston. “We had no business butting in around here.”

“Oh, shut up, Charlie!” snorted Quade.

“The best friend I ever had!” said Tommy Slocum.

“Oh, yeah!” That was Christopher Buck, all detective, now. He had whirled on Slocum and was towering over him, his face grim and unforgiving. “If he was your best friend, why was he suing you for a million dollars?”

Slocum jumped. “Who’re you?” he cried. “How’d you get in here? What right have you got to talk that way to me? I’m Tommy Slocum and this is my studio. Get the hell out of here.”

Christopher Buck showed his teeth. “I’m Christopher Buck, the detective!” he announced. “Mr. Maynard employed me to — to uncover some evidence he wanted. I came out here from New York by plane. Mr. Maynard wanted me right away. Why, Mr. Slocum, why?”

“Hendricks!” roared Tommy Slocum. “Call the cops. Have this man thrown out of here. I don’t care if he is a detective... Hendricks!”

A studio cop rushed into the office. “Yes, Mr. Slocum, what is it?”

“Emil! Throw this man off the lot. He says he’s a detective, but I don’t believe him. Throw him off. He insulted me.”

The studio cop looked at the tall detective who was glowering at him. “I dunno, Mr. Slocum,” the cop said, hesitantly. “The city police just pulled up outside—”

“Here we are!”

They came in, a small army of them. A hawk-faced man with graying hair was in command. “I’m Lieutenant Murdock,” he announced. “What’s happened here?”

Slocum pointed a quivering hand at the dead man. “Stanley Maynard, he killed himself.”

“O.K.,” Lieutenant Murdock said, “We’ll take care of things. Just keep back... Johnson, clear this gang out of here. Outside, everybody. We’ll handle things in here.” Everyone cleared out.

Alone in an adjoining office, Quade sidled up to^-Tommy Slocum. “In a little while, Mr. Slocum, they’re going to discover that Maynard didn’t kill himself.”

The producer of the famous Desmond Dogg animated cartoons snapped: “What do you mean, he didn’t kill himself?”

“I mean he was murdered.”

“You’re crazy, the gun—”

“Was left by the murderer, in an attempt to make it look like suicide.”

Slocum’s eyes widened, “You were coming out of Maynard’s office when I bumped into you.”

“Uh-uh,” said Quade. “I never met Mr. Maynard while he was alive. Before today I had never even heard his name. I know nothing about him and had absolutely no motive for killing him. I can prove that. Can you?”

Slocum became strangely calm. “I don’t get you.”

“You heard what Christopher Buck said — that Maynard was suing you for a million dollars.”

“That’s news to me,” scoffed Slocum. “Why would Stanley want to sue me? He was working for me and we were friends.”

“Buck says otherwise.”

“Buck, Buck!” Slocum cried, impatiently. “Who is this Buck, who seems to know everything?”

“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 this 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 off-hand, 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 blond 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, glamour 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 unobstrusively 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 turkeys 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, egotistic 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 wrapped 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 jallopy 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 six-wheel 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 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 his 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—”

“Fine! I’ll try your car for a few days and if it operates as well as the others, I’ll no doubt buy it because I like the color better. Did you bring the keys up with you, Mr. Clayton?”

“Of course, but—”

“But what, Mr. Clayton? Oh!” Quade laughed heartily. “You don’t know me. Quite so. Well, well! I’m Oliver Quade of New York and this is Mr. Charles P. Boston. If you’re worried about us, why just stop down at the desk. Or, there’s the phone — call up my friend, Tommy Slocum.”

Mr. Clayton beamed. “Certainly, Mr. Quade, you drive that car as long as you wish. Take a week. When you’re ready, just call me. Thank you very much. I’m sure you’ll decide in our favor.”

“I hope so, Mr. Clayton. And good-day, sir!”

When he’d gone, Charlie said: “Ollie, you’re the bigest four-flusher in California.”

Quade winked at him. “Who knows? We may buy the car from him yet. Our jallopy’s on its last legs. Which reminds me, better run down there and get our things out of the car and see if you can’t get it dragged off the street. Here.” He tossed over the keys Mr. Clayton had left.

Boston started for the door. “What are you going to do?”

“Make a few phone calls.”

Boston went out and Quade reached for the telephone. “Get me Consolidated Studios... Consolidated? I want to talk to Miss Thelma Wentworth.”

“I’m sorry,” said an operator, “Miss Wentworth does not receive calls at the studio.”

“But this is a matter of vital importance.”

“I’ll connect you with the general office.”

Quade got the general office and was switched to three different persons. He used his most autocratic voice on them and finally got the ear of a Mr. Gould.

“Lou Gould,” the man said. “I’m Miss Wentworth’s agent. Just what is this matter of importance? I handle all of Miss Wentworth’s business matters. You can tell me what it’s about.”

“Then tell Miss Wentworth that Oliver Quade wants to see her right away. Tell her it’s the man she bumped into this morning at a certain place.”

When Gould’s voice came back on it sounded pained. “Miss Wentworth said she’d see you. If you’ll come over here—”

Knuckles rapped on Quade’s door and before he had a chance to say anything Christopher Buck’s lean face appeared. Quade snapped into the telephone. “I’ll call you back in five minutes. Stay at your phone.” He banged the receiver on the hook. “Buck,” he said, “how’d you get here?”

The tall detective came into the room and let himself down into a chair. He was so tall and lean the act was very much like an accordion folding itself.

“How come you ducked out of the studio, Quade?” he asked.

“Too many cops around — and sham-uses. So you followed me.”

“No. One of my operators did. I gave him the sign when you came out of Slocum’s office. I just saw your stooge downstairs. You’ve come a long way since New York. That’s an expensive car you’re driving these days.”

“I like a good car,” retorted Quade. “So what can I do for you?”

Buck nodded toward the telephone. “Did I interrupt an important call?”

“You did, but don’t let that worry you. What’s on your mind? You didn’t shadow me just so you could drop in for tea.”

“Slocum’s on the spot,” said Buck. “You know that. When I left the studio the D. A. was just about to have a warrant sworn out for him, on a first-degree homicide charge.”

“Nuts! He doesn’t dare do that to Slocum, not without evidence.”

“I’m cooperating with the D.A.,” said Buck.

“What for? Your client’s dead. Los Angeles County isn’t going to pay you the kind of fees you’re used to.”

“I’ve got another client.”

Quade looked sharply at Buck. “Who?”

“Thelma Wentworth.”

Quade’s eyes barely flickered toward the telephone, but Buck caught it. “Ha! So you were talking to her!”

Quade said tightly, “So she’s not your client. You’re lying. Look, Buck, you drew a rather crude picture this morning. Around Slocum, Maynard, the Wentworth girl and Willie Higgins.”

“You can see the picture though, can’t you? Maynard’s been knocked off. Maybe they won’t indict Slocum for that, just yet, but they will when I get through. I need just one little thing. When I get that—”

“And that little thing is—”

Buck grinned wolfishly. “The same thing Slocum wants you to get from Willie. Look, Quade, we’re both after the same thing. Why don’t we corner Willie together, then compromise, take the biggest fee and split?”

“Nuts!”

Buck coughed. “By the way, Lieutenant Murdock will be up to talk to you in a few minutes.”

“You told him where I was? Thanks, Buck. I’ll snitch on you, some time.”

“Oh, I didn’t do it. It was my operator, I’m afraid. Well, so you’re not with me?”

“No, Buck, I’m not.”

Buck uncoiled himself. “Lieutenant Murdock says you were the one who found Stanley Maynard.”

He took two strides toward the door and ducked out.

The Human Encyclopedia paced the floor for a minute, then went to the door. He was stepping out of the elevator in the lobby, when Lieutenant Murdock reached out and caught his arm. “I was going up to see you, Quade!”

“I was just going out.”

“I won’t take more’n a couple of minutes,” the lieutenant said, walking to the divan in the corner of the lobby. As he sat down Quade observed a man across the lobby watching them covertly over the top of an open newspaper. Buck’s man, no doubt.

Murdock said, “I understand you were the first to see Maynard.”

Quade shrugged. “The first you know of. Someone else might have gone into Maynard’s office after he was killed.”

“That sounds as if you think someone else had been in before you.”

“Not necessarily. I mean a half-dozen people could have gone in and out of his office and decided the best thing to do was keep mum.”

Murdock’s mouth twisted out of shape. “Dr. Lang said Maynard had died about twenty minutes before he examined the body. That would place the time pretty close to when you found his body. What were you going in to see Maynard about? I understand you’re not connected with the studio.”

“Oh, but I am. Slocum hired me just this morning.”

“Doing what? Buck claims you’re a book agent.”

“Ordinarily I am. I travel the highways and byways, selling books where I can, studying nature—”

“Nix on that stuff,” Murdock said crossly. “Answer my question. Why’d Slocum hire you?”

“To bark for him! The next time you hear the voice of Desmond Dogg on the screen, that, Lieutenant, will be me!”

Murdock’s face was comical to see. “You — the voice of Desmond Dogg!”

“What’s funny about that? Walt Disney dubs in the voice for Mickey Mouse and Rudy Ising is the growl you hear when the big bad bear gets mad.”

“I’ll be damned!” said the lieutenant. “Well, did you see anyone go in or come out of Maynard’s office?”

“Nope,” said Quade.

“Well,” Murdock got up, “listen, Quade, don’t leave Hollywood suddenly. I may think of some more questions to ask you later.”

“Any time, Lieutenant, any time.”

The lieutenant left the hotel. Quade sauntered over to the newsstand. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the man with the newspaper.

He grinned slowly, then suddenly headed for the side door of the hotel. He jumped through and rushed to the corner, forty or fifty feet away, made a quick left turn and popped into the Hollywood Boulevard entrance.

Inside the lobby he moved swiftly to a telephone booth and, leaving the door partially open so the lights would not go on, called the Consolidated Studios.

“General office,” he said. “Mr. Quade calling Lou Gould.”

“Sorry,” was the reply. “Mr. Gould waited for your call, but finally he and Miss Wentworth had to leave.”

Quade hung up and came out of the booth. He went to the Hollywood entrance, where a man was talking to the doorman. “Tell Buck I lost you,” he said as he passed.

The shadow gulped.

Quade walked a couple of blocks and entered a drug store. As he skimmed through a telephone directory he saw Buck’s operator getting a drink at the soda fountain.

Quade found a number and went into a booth. A moment later he said: “Hello, is this the Hollywood office of the Movie Fan Magazine? Well, this is Mr. Quade speaking. I’m the motion picture editor of the Omaha News-Bee. I’m in Hollywood doing a publicity story on Miss Thelma Wentworth, the new glamour girl. I want to check some facts in her history. Can you tell me her birthplace?”

“Certainly,” said a woman’s voice. “Miss Wentworth was born in Tasmania, the daughter of a British diplomat.”

Quade sighed. “I’m sorry, lady, I’m from Nebraska, but we’re not all farmers out there. Start all over. Where was Miss Wentworth born? Brooklyn?”

“Waterloo, Iowa,” was the reply.

“Fine,” said Quade. “Now give me the lowdown on Tommy Slocum. Where was he born and what did he do before he clicked in Hollywood?”

“Strangely,” said the informant, “Mr. Slocum also comes from Waterloo, Iowa. He was a sports-cartoonist on the Waterloo Independent before he went to New York.”

“One thing more — what about Stanley Maynard?”

“Stanley Maynard?” Quade detected the sudden change in the woman’s tone. “Say, what did you say your name was?”

“Shade, I’m the motion picture editor of the Omaha News-Bee. About Maynard—”

“I’m sorry,” was the reply, “but you’d better come to our office for further information.”

“Thank you,” said Quade and hung up.

When he came out of the booth, the shadow was thumbing through the magazines. Quade whistled pleasantly at him and went outside.

He sauntered down the street. In the next block he came to a combination magazine and cigar store. Racing tip sheets were displayed prominently on the rack. Quade went inside and said to the man behind the counter:

“Doc, I’ve got a really hot one at Santa Anita tomorrow. I want to place a big bet.”

The man stared blankly at Quade. “What do you think this is?”

“Phooey!” said Quade. “All you take in on cigars and magazines you can stick in your ear.”

“I never saw you before in my life,” protested the counterman.

“I just blew in from New York. Do I look like a cop?”

“No, but just the same, I don’t take horse bets. But I know a fella— How much was you figuring on betting?”

“Depends on the bookie. If the odds are right, maybe a couple of grand.”

The man’s eyebrows arched. “Just a minute,” he said. He went to a telephone booth and closed the door tightly. He emerged in a couple of minutes, mopping his forehead. He pulled a notebook from his pocket, wrote on a sheet and ripped it out of the book. “Go to this address. Ask for Jake.”

“Thanks, pal!”

The shadow was looking in the window of a shoe store next door. Quade signaled to a taxi on the corner.

Five minutes later he stepped out. As he paid with driver he shot a look at the taxi the had pulled to the curb a half-block away.

A sign on a store window said: “Argus Realty Company.” The walls inside were covered with pictures of houses, maps and insurance calendars.

A young chap got up from behind a desk.

“I want to see Jake,” Quade said. “Mr. Wolfson sent me over.”

A man in the rear of the realty store took his feet from his desk and slid his derby forward on his head. “You interested in a good house?” he called to Quade.

Quade went back. “Yeah, in Santa Anita.”

“How much you figure on paying?”

“That depends. If I can locate my partner.”

“Yeah?” Jake said.

“My partner’s name,” said Quade, “is Willie Higgins. Ever hear of him?”

Jake said, “You ain’t a cop. So, what’s your angle?”

“I want to have a talk with Willie.”

Jake shook his head. “I’ve seen the name in the papers, Mister, but I ain’t never seen the man himself. You’ll have to—” His face went slack. Quade, seeing the man’s eyes looking past him, whirled, just in time to see his shadow duck out of sight, outside the store.

The realtor-bookie swung on Quade. “What’re you tryin’ to pull?”

Quade was perplexed. “Nothing. I know Willie Higgins used to be a big horse player and since he’s in Hollywood I figured you might know where he was staying.”

“You lie like hell!” exclaimed Jake. “Get out and don’t come back.”

Quade shrugged and walked out. Outside, he looked around for the man who had been shadowing him, but the fellow was strangely out of sight now. Which gave Quade something to think about.

He took a taxi back to the Lincoln Hotel. A bright yellow sports model car was parked at the curb. When he got up to their suite, Charlie Boston asked, “You know a fellow by the name of Paul Clevenger?”

“Yes, why?” Quade said.

“He called up five minutes ago. Said he wants you to meet a friend of his tonight at the Sunset Club.”

Quade knew who that “friend” was. Paul Clevenger was the young fellow who had soothed Thelma Wentworth that afternoon in Stanley Maynard’s office.

Oliver Quade and Boston sauntered into the Sunset Club. In a far corner Thelma Wentworth was seated at a table with Paul Clevenger.

Charlie inhaled softly. “If I kill the guy with her, would she give me a tumble?”

“According to the Bill of Rights,” said Quade, “every man is equal.”

She was gorgeous. No, that was an understatement. In Hollywood, she was super-colossal. She wore a white evening gown that revealed. Her blond hair glittered. Her features were smooth and finely chiseled.

Her eyes were on Quade as he bowed slightly. “Good evening, Miss Wentworth. Allow me to present my friend, Mr. Boston.”

Young Paul Clevenger was rising. “Won’t you join us?” he asked.

Quade sat down opposite Thelma Wentworth. Beside him, Charlie Boston breathed heavily.

“It’s all right,” Thelma Wentworth said in a low voice. “Paul... knows.”

Quade regarded him deliberately. “You’re not in the picture business, are you, Mr. Clevenger?”

Young Clevenger laughed. “Hardly. Banking’s my racket.”

Quade saw the possessive look Clevenger bestowed on Thelma. He looked at the glamour girl for a moment and was rewarded by a slight frown.

“Paul and I went to school together,” she explained. “He’s out here for a visit.”

The boy from her home town. There’s always one. Sometimes they forget him. Thelma Wentworth hadn’t. Perhaps the fact that young Clevenger was in the banking business accounted for that. You can forget the boy from home if he’s a soda jerk or works in a filling station. If his father owns the bank — and many Iowa banks are wealthy — you don’t forget him. Bankers are nice people to know. Remarkably handy to meet.

“Stanley Maynard was from Iowa — too?” Quade asked.

She winced. “No.”

Paul Clevenger said, “Thelma didn’t even know him. She just happened to be at the Slocum Studio—”

“Why?” Quade interrupted.

Clevenger bristled. “Why were you there?”

“I have a job there. Miss Wentworth hasn’t.”

“But,” Thelma exclaimed softly, “I know Tommy Slocum as well as I know Paul. He used to live two doors up the street from us, in Waterloo.”

“I see,” said Quade. “So you were visiting Tommy and happened to go into the wrong room — Maynard’s. You didn’t know Stanley Maynard at all.”

“She never even met him, I told you,” snapped Clevenger.

“Did you know him?” Quade asked sharply.

“I got to Hollywood three days ago,” Clevenger said, angrily. “Thelma’s let me take her around. I knew Slocum slightly. That’s all. I never saw Maynard, dead or alive.”

Thelma’s eyes widened. She was looking past Quade. He turned. Tommy Slocum was bearing down on the table. He was scowling, furiously.

“Hello, chief!” Quade grinned. “Join us?”

“You get around!” Slocum said truculently.

Quade smiled. “You know Miss Wentworth and Mr. Clevenger?”

“Of course I know them. How’d you get to know them?”

“Why, I get around,” Quade quipped. “Shake hands with my assistant, Mr. Boston.”

Slocum looked coldly at Charlie Boston’s big hand. He sat down abruptly.

“You wouldn’t think it would get so cold in the evenings,” Quade remarked drily.

Tommy Slocum showed his teeth. “Did you say you were going home, Quade?” he snapped.

“Why, no, I just got here. I like this place. I’ve heard about it for years. When I left New York the Count said to me — my friend, Count Felix Rosoff, you know — he said to me, ‘Oliver, when you get to Hollywood you must see the Sunset Club.’ And Tommy, old man, he was right. Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Clevenger?”

“I’m not an authority on night clubs,” Clevenger replied, stiffly. “I’ve only been to New York twice in my life. This is the first time I’ve been in Hollywood.” Quade chuckled, pushed back his chair. “Excuse me a moment, Miss Wentworth? A business associate has just come in. I must tell him something.”

“Good-by, Quade,” Slocum said bluntly.

Quade smiled pleasantly at him and bowed to Miss Wentworth.

Boston followed him. “Buck,” he said. “In soup and fish! What a man!”

Christopher Buck’s face showed relief when he saw Quade and Boston. “Sit down, Quade,” he invited. “And tell me what’s new.”

“You damn well know because your shadow followed me all afternoon,” Quade said.

Buck’s face was blank. “Why?”

“That was my question,” Quade retorted. “Why? Anyway, I let him tag along. I could have lost him easy enough. Did once. He tell you that?” Buck glowered at the table across the room. “Is she paying you, Quade?”

“She is not. And don’t go getting ideas, Christopher. You might get burned.”

“One of the biggest society women ever heard of, back East, shot a guy once,” said Buck. “Any woman’s a potential murderess. This Wentworth—”

“Is the second most important actress in Hollywood,” Quade said. “And Hollywood protects its own. Get what I mean, Buck?”

“A client is paying me money,” Buck said, doggedly. “I’ve never let down a client.”

A stocky man with sleek black hair and a shaggy tweed suit was standing behind Tommy Slocum’s chair, patting the producer’s shoulder and talking over his head to Thelma Wentworth. He turned and showed Quade a mouthful of gleaming teeth.

He left the table, came toward Quade. He stuck out a fleshy hand. “Howdy, Mr. Quade. I’m Lou Gould. Like to talk to you a minute.”

Buck cut in: “You’re Lou Gould, the actor’s agent? I tried to get you at Consolidated this afternoon.”

Quade clung to Gould’s hand and started pulling him away. Buck shot up to his tremendous height and pushed his long, lean arm in between.

“I’m Christopher Buck,” he said.

Gould gave Buck his ten per cent personality. “Yeah, sure, we’ll have to get together. Give me a jingle at the office, some time.”

“Well, I’ve got to be going,” Quade said. “Thanks for the drink, Christopher. Good-night, Mr. Gould.”

Lou Gould was quite willing to be rescued from Christopher Buck, but Quade knew that that would be an impossibility. When Buck got his teeth into someone, fire or water wouldn’t make him let go.

“I’m going to slug Buck some day,” Boston said as they left the Sunset Club.

“Some day I’m going to let you slug him,” Quade retorted.

They got their bright yellow car from the near-by parking lot and drove to the hotel, where they turned it over to the doorman. “Don’t get the paint scratched,” Boston cautioned the man.

The lights were on in their suite when Quade unlocked the door.

The shadow who had followed Quade all afternoon was sitting in the most comfortable armchair. He was a rather slight fellow with an unhealthy complexion.

Quade said, “Are we intruding?”

“Not at all,” the man replied. “This is your room. And my name’s Higgins.”

Charlie Boston went back a step. “Willie Higgins!”

“You know,” said Quade, “I just guessed that out a little while ago. I couldn’t figure out why the real estate fellow got so scared when he got a glimpse of you through the window. I thought at the time you were one of Christopher Buck’s ops.”

Higgins nodded thoughtfully. “Understand you been looking for me.”

Quade sat down across the room from Higgins. Charlie Boston remained standing near the door, decidedly uncomfortable.

Quade said, “Tommy Slocum wants to see you.”

Higgins shrugged. “So?”

“That’s all. Tommy Slocum asked me to bring you to him. He didn’t tell me why.”

Higgins regarded Quade thoughtfully. “How much will he pay?”

Quade became suddenly annoyed. Ever since morning people had been giving him hints of things, had taken for granted he knew what they were talking about. He had played up to them, fishing out scraps of information. But as far as knowing anything definite was concerned, he was completely at sea. In a dead calm that seemed to presage the coming of a hurricane.

He said, testily: “I don’t know a damn thing. Tommy Slocum seemed to think I did; so did Christopher Buck and Thel — and someone else. I don’t know anything.”

“From the way you talked this morning you knew everything,” Willie Higgins said. “You said you were a human encyclopedia, or something, didn’t you?”

“But I’m not a mind reader! All I know is that you’ve got something, or know something, that Tommy Slocum wants. And it has some bearing on Stanley Maynard’s murder.” He shot a speculative look at Higgins. “Would you be knowing anything about that?”

“I would not. The only thing I know, Quade, is that you’re a damn liar.”

Charlie Boston growled deep in his throat. Higgins glanced at him and Boston became quiet. Higgins went on:

“Not that it’ll do you any good, but I was down at the Slocum Studios this morning. I saw you come up with a rattle-trap flivver. And now you’re driving a big yellow bus that cost. So...”

“So why does Tommy Slocum want you?” Quade snapped.

“Maybe because he killed Stanley Maynard.”

“I don’t think he did,” Quade said, slowly.

“I think he did.”

Quade sawed the air impatiently. “All right, how much do you want for — it? I’ll tell Slocum your proposition; that is, if you won’t go and talk to him yourself.”

“I won’t,” said Higgins. “At least, not in his place. But you can tell him that the price is a half million.”

He got up and grinned crookedly. Charlie, seeing him approach, stepped hastily away from the door. With his hand on the knob, Higgins turned. “And if you’re figuring on putting me at the studio when that business happened, don’t waste your time. I’ve got four different alibis.” He went out.

Charlie Boston shivered. “I could hear wings flapping!”

“Oh,” said Quade, “he didn’t look so tough.”

“No? What about that bulge under his coat? You suppose that was a ham sandwich?”

“A half million,” Quade said, thoughtfully. “And Maynard was going to sue for a million.”

“For what?”

“That’s one of two things I don’t know. The other thing is — who killed Stanley Maynard?”

Slocum studios’ gateman was so impressed by Quade’s yellow car that he permitted him to walk through the gates without a pass. Boston went to park the car somewhere on the street.

Quade sauntered into Miss Hendrick’s office. “Morning,” he said pleasantly. “Can you tell me where the sound room is? I believe they’re waiting there for me.”

“Studio Twelve, on the second floor,” replied Miss Hendricks.

Quade nodded. “Say, if my secretary, Charlie Boston, the big lug who looks like a heavy-weight wrestler, comes looking for me, keep him here.”

He went out and climbed a flight of stairs. Studio Twelve was a large room, soundproofed.

“I’m the new voice of Desmond Dogg,” Quade told a young fellow.

“It’s about time you got here,” the fellow snapped. “We were just getting ready to go out and find another sap.”

Quade showed his teeth in a cold smile. “Bring on your dog!”

Several men were gathered around a microphone and a layout of crazy objects. The young fellow snatched up several sheets of music.

“I’ll explain what we’re doing,” he said crisply. “Desmond Dogg’s a St. Bernard. In this particular scene he’s pulling the old rescue scene. Christopher Cat—”

“Christopher?” Quade asked.

“Yes, Christopher. And don’t interrupt. Christopher Cat’s lost in the snowstorm. Desmond Dogg has this keg of rum tied about his neck and is leaving the hospice to rescue Christopher. The wind’s howling — that’s Felix — and it’s snowing like hell. Desmond — that’s you — is running down the mountain.”

“With the keg of rum around my neck?” Quade asked.

“Yes, and don’t interrupt again. You’re galloping through the snow. You bark, woof-woof, and then you sing: ‘Here I come with a keg of rum.’ All right, Felix — wind!”

A skinny fellow with a big Adam’s apple stepped up to the microphone and whistled softly. Amplified, the sound was very much like the howling of a blizzard.

“O.K.,” said the young director. “Now, you, Oscar — Desmond’s feet crunching the snow.”

Another man brought a bowl of baking soda up to the microphone, stuck an iron pestle into it and twisted it. The result was a sound like feet crunching on snow.

“Swell,” said the director. “Now, we’ll get together on it. Felix, wind! Oscar, snow! And, you, whatever your name is, you bark, ‘Woof-woof,’ and sing — in a dog’s voice!”

The wind howled and the snow crunched under Desmond Dogg’s feet and Quade barked and sang in a tone that might have sounded like a dog’s if a dog could sing.

When they finished the director held out his hand to Quade. “My name’s Needham. You did that better than Pete Rice. He just couldn’t get that dog quality into his voice.”

“I’m a success!” Quade murmured.

“Sure, why not? I’ll talk to Tommy Slocum and have him give you a contract. Now then, Miss Phillips! Come over here and do your meowing!”

Miss Phillips, imitating Christopher Cat, was good enough to stampede a convention of rats, Quade thought.

They rehearsed the scene a half-dozen times, then recorded it. Needham, the director, put them through two more scenes, then called a halt. “That’ll be all until this afternoon. I want to see the film run off again.” He turned to Quade, “Like to come to the sweat box?”

It sounded interesting, so Quade went along. The room they went to was a miniature theater; a couple of dozen chairs in the rear, a projection room and a screen.

“You know how these cartoon pictures are made, don’t you?” Needham asked Quade.

“Lot of drawings photographed, eh?”

“Ten to fourteen thousand for a single reel which lasts about eight minutes on the screen.” He held up a stack of celluloid rectangles.

“The animators make the original drawings on large pasteboard strips. There are forty to sixty scenes, or frames, to a picture. The animators draw these, put in the animals. The graduation of the movements is drawn on these celluloid panels. The photographer puts a ‘cel’ on the frame, photographs it, then puts down the next. The whole thing is speeded up, makes your movement.”

“And ten to fourteen thousand complete drawings are made?”

“Only of the animals in their movements. Girls do that, from the animators’ originals. Some girls do the tracing, others the filling in and the graduation of the movement. It’s expensive business. Some of our technicolor films cost as much as a complete seven-reel film put out by other studios.”

“Well,” said Quade, “some people prefer Desmond Dogg to Clark Gable.” Needham grunted, called toward the projection room. “O.K., Clarence!”

The little theater went dark and a moment later the projector threw a beam of white upon the screen.

The various screen credits followed:

Desmond Dogg appeared upon the screen — a St. Bernard, against a background of mountain and snow and a hospice almost toppling off a cliff.

Quade said, “I just remembered I’ve got to make a phone call,” and got up, groped his way in the darkness to the door, went outside.

He made his way to Miss Hendricks’ office. Charlie Boston jumped up from a chair. “Where you been all morning, Ollie?”

“Barking,” Quade retorted and pushed open the door of Slocum’s office.

The little producer looked up, scowled. “I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to come around.”

“Why not? You hired me to be Desmond Dogg’s voice. Hec Needham just told me I was better than Pete Rice. He wants you to sign me up on a contract.”

Tommy Slocum snorted. “Quade, no man ever talked to me like you have, or did the things you’ve done to me.”

“Why. I haven’t done anything to you.”

“You know damn well what I mean. What were you trying to pull on Thel— Miss Wentworth?”

“Oh,” sighed Quade. “I saw Willie Higgins. He said the price is a half million — for it.”

Quade was watching Slocum closely. The half million made no unusual impression.

He exclaimed, “If you found him, why didn’t you bring him here?”

“He wouldn’t come. Doesn’t trust you.”

“He doesn’t trust me — and asks for a half million? He’s got a crust.”

“Still, I can see his point,” Quade said. “He’s one week out of Alcatraz and he’s nervous about being seen within two miles of a place where a man is murdered.”

Slocum nodded, then looked up suddenly. “Which reminds me, that cop, Murdock or whatever his name is, called up here a while ago. Said you’re to be sure and be at the inquest at three this afternoon.”

“What do you think the verdict of the coroner’s jury will be?”

Slocum’s face twisted. “What the hell you gettin’ at?”

Quade shrugged, walked toward the door. “What’ll I tell Willie?”

“Tell him he’s crazy. He can’t shake me down for a half million.”

“He thinks he can,” Quade said.

The telephone on Slocum’s desk rang at the same instant the door opened under Quade’s hand. Lieutenant Murdock came in and said:

“Mr. Slocum, the D.A.’s given me orders to take you in on suspicion of murder. I’ve got a warrant for your—”

Slocum howled and jerked the receiver off the ringing phone. He yelled, “Yes!” listened for a moment. Perspiration suddenly appeared on his forehead. “All right,” he said in a meek tone and hung up.

“A warrant for your arrest!” Lieutenant Murdock repeated.

Christopher Buck’s head appeared over Murdock’s. “Hello, Quade!” he said in a better-to-eat-you-with tone.

“Buck,” said Quade, “you certainly can put your big feet into things.”

“Yah!” jeered the self-styled world’s greatest detective. “You got on the wrong boat this time!”

Slocum got up from behind his desk. “O.K., Sergeant!” he said.

Lieutenant Murdock said, grimly: “And you, smart boy, be at the inquest at three o’clock!”

Quade nodded.

When they were gone, Quade went out to Miss Hendrick’s office. She was white around the gills. “They’ve arrested Mr. Slocum!” she gasped.

“But they can’t make it stick,” Quade said.

Charlie came over. “Buck looked like he’d just won screeno!”

“Yeah, but when he goes up on the stage to get the money, he’ll find he’s missing one number.” Quade turned to Miss Hendricks. “You know, I’m working for Slocum. I want to make two or three long distance telephone calls. Will you have them put through?”

Wide-eyed, she nodded and Quade slammed into Tommy Slocum’s private office, sat down in the producer’s chair and reached for the telephone.

“Get me the Waterloo Morning News,” he said. “Yes, Waterloo, Iowa.”

Twenty minutes later Quade made his final telephone call. “Consolidated Studios? I want to talk to Lou Gould, the actors’ agent. Is he hanging around there?”

“No, he isn’t. Any message?”

“There is,” Quade said. “You tell him to have Miss Thelma Wentworth at the coroner’s inquest at three o’clock this afternoon. That’s an order!” He slammed the receiver on the hook.

Charlie Boston, draped on the office couch, said, “I wouldn’t believe it of a girl like her! But if I’ve got to die I’d like her to knock me off.”

“You’re goofy,” Quade snorted. “Come on, let’s be bait for Mr. Willie Higgins.”

Charlie Boston said, “Ouch!”

When they got out to the street, Boston said, “What’re those paper tags on the jallopy? That cop’s going to get writer’s cramp.”

The yellow sports job was parked on the side street. When Quade climbed in behind the wheel, Willie Higgins came out of a drug store near-by.

“Hi,” he greeted Quade.

“Hello, Willie,” Quade said. “Squeeze in.”

Charlie muttered, but moved over against Quade. Willie Higgins climbed into the car. “You fix it?”

“Yeah, where’ll we go?”

“Your hotel’s all right with me.”

Quade started the car. As he swung out into traffic, Higgins said, “They pinched Slocum, huh?”

Quade nodded. “Yeah, but you can square that, I guess.”

Higgins grunted, said nothing. But when they got to Quade’s suite, he said: “Where is it?”

“Do I look like I had a half million on me?” Quade asked.

“They could be big bills,” Higgins said. His eyes drew together. “You trying to pull something funny?”

“The jam Slocum’s in, he can’t afford to. But it’s going to take him a couple of days to raise the money. In the meantime — where is it?”

Higgins started for the door. “You’ll get it when I get the money.”

“Charlie!” Oliver Quade snapped.

Higgins’ right hand darted under his left coat lapel. Charlie’s fist smacked against his jaw and Quade caught the man from Alcatraz as he catapulted back. He let him down gently to the floor.

“I thought you were afraid of him, Charlie,” Quade said, cheerfully.

Boston dropped to his knees, reached into Higgins’ coat and brought out a .32 caliber automatic. Quade went quickly through Higgins’ pockets. He tossed a sheaf of bills on the rug beside Boston. Boston’s eyes popped. He picked up the bills, ruffled them.

“Grands!” he said, softly. “Forty-eight thousand bucks!”

“He’s a quick spender,” Quade commented. “Two G’s in one day. Guess he dropped it on the races.” He poked at the various objects he had taken from the unconscious ex-convict’s pockets. “I guess I was right, after all.”

“What’d you find?”

“Nothing,” Quade said. “Nothing but the money. If I’d found something else, I’d have been wrong. Put the money back.”

“Back? Why, that’s more money than I ever saw in my life.”

“It’s small change to what Willie had before the G-boys started in on him. His trial cost him a hundred thousand. His back income taxes ran almost to a million. And I imagine the fifty-thousand-dollar fine he had to scrape up before they let him off The Rock just about broke him.”

“Except for this change.”

Quade shook his head. “He’s made this since he got out... Ah!”

Higgins was twitching. Charlie backed away hastily, darted into the other room of the suite and came back without the automatic. He winked at Quade.

Higgins sat up and held his jaw. “You lug!” he spat at Charlie.

Boston grinned. “No hard feelings?”

“I’ll let you know about that later!”

Higgins got to his feet and, still holding his jaw, started for the door. Quade shook his head at Boston and the latter blocked Higgins.

“I want to ask you some questions, Willie,” Quade said.

Higgins suddenly thought to look in his pockets. He pulled out the bank roll, ruffled it and nodded in satisfaction.

“Why didn’t you light out with the fifty thousand, Willie?” Quade asked.

“I was going to,” said Higgins, “until you said Slocum wanted to see me. Up to then I was hanging around — just in case.”

“Just in case someone tried to pin a murder rap on you, eh? All right, you didn’t bump Maynard. Who did?”

“I don’t know,” said Higgins. “I came out of The Rock without a dime. All I had was a chunk of — something. I sold it for fifty thousand. Then the guy got knocked off. Somebody might have said I did it. That long-legged shamus was nosing around. Maynard might have told him about me.”

“He had,” said Quade. “That’s how I got interested. Well, we won’t be seeing you around then?”

Higgins shook his head. “I guess I’ll see what South America looks like.” He started for the door and looked at Charlie. “Look me up if you come to South America, big boy.”

“I want to see America first,” retorted Boston. “No hard feelings?”

Willie Higgins shook his head and went out.

“I think,” said Quade, “we’d better hurry if we want to get down to that inquest.”

Lieutenant Murdock said to Quade: “I was just going to send out some boys for you.”

“You can always count on Quade,” Quade said, cheerily. “Well, I see everybody’s here. Got it all sewed up?”

Christopher Buck said, “In a knot, old man.”

“Can you tell now who’s paying your fee, Christopher?” Quade asked.

“Sure, why not? Young Clevenger. His old man owns a bank in Iowa. He wanted me to see that Miss Wentworth didn’t get mixed up. But she won’t be called to testify. The lieutenant said it wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Well,” said Quade, “if you don’t want to be shown up as a sucker in front of the newspaper boys, I suggest you call the principals into the next room.”

Murdock glared at Quade. “You’ve pulled enough jokes!”

“The joke’ll be on you,” said Quade, “if Tommy Slocum files a suit against you for false arrest.”

Buck’s eyes rolled. “What’s that, Quade?”

“I mean you didn’t hit the jackpot after all, Buck, old fellow. I just had a little chat with Willie Higgins.”

“Willie Higgins!” exclaimed Murdock. “The fellow who just got out of Alcatraz?”

“Yep. Remember Willie, Christopher? You’re the lad who told me about him yesterday.”

Buck fidgeted uneasily. “Maynard gave me a bum steer, there.”

“You mean you changed horses when your first one dropped dead. Well, you going to call them into the next room? Or would you rather have me spill it on the stand over there, Lieutenant?”

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to hear him,” Buck mumbled to Murdock. “He’s wrong, but—”

“Bring Slocum’s lawyer, too,” said Quade. “So he can get an idea for how much to sue.”

Murdock walked off and spoke to the various principals in the case: Slocum, Thelma and Clevenger. As they passed into another room Quade fell in beside Slocum. “I just left Higgins, Tommy. He was looking up the sailing schedules to South America.”

Slocum groaned. “You blithering fool! You let him get away?”

“Sure. He didn’t have what you wanted. But don’t worry. Desmond Dogg will save you.”

Murdock growled: “Mr. Quade has some things he wants to talk about.”

Quade nodded and began: “Mr. Slocum, how long have you been making Desmond Dogg cartoons?”

Slocum’s nostrils flared. “Six years. But I was doing other cartoons for three years before then. I don’t see though what that’s got to do with this.”

“This is the laundry,” Quade said. “Everything gets washed. I saw a preview of one of your Desmond Dogg pictures today. The screen credit says: ‘From the famous character created by Tommy Slocum.’ That isn’t quite so. You didn’t create Desmond Dogg, Slocum.”

Tommy Slocum remained quiet.

“As a matter of fact,” Quade went on, “Stanley Maynard, who was a cartoonist on the Waterloo Morning News some years ago, drew a little comic strip about a St. Bernard dog who was called Desmond Dogg. The strip didn’t go over very well. When he left the News, Maynard got a release from the paper and tried to peddle the strip to a syndicate. They didn’t take it on. Probably because Maynard wasn’t such a good cartoonist and his ideas weren’t so hot.

“But when you got going good out here in Hollywood, Maynard submitted his Desmond Dogg to you, Slocum. You bought it from him.”

“Nothing wrong about that,” said Slocum. “I bought all rights to Desmond Dogg. I put him across. I gave Maynard a job at a big salary. He didn’t complain.”

“Not until recently. He didn’t know that a... a party somehow got the contract in which he signed Desmond Dogg over to you.”

Slocum sighed, wearily. “All right, Quade, if you’ve got to have it all. I wasn’t so prosperous five years ago. I got into a roulette game over in Willie Higgins’ club and lost a pile of dough. I gave the contract to Willie Higgins. That is, I signed over a transfer to him.” Slocum paused. “Of course, it was a gambling debt,” he smiled nervously, mopped at sweat, “and Willie agreed to keep the whole thing quiet until I could buy the contract back. Meanwhile, he went to jail.”

Quade held up his hand. “Let me tell the rest, Mr. Slocum. You transferred the contract to Willie. But Willie was no slouch. He made it very legal. He had witnesses, and a notary public. There was nothing mentioned about it having been a gambling debt.”

Slocum said, “I—”

“Take it easy,” Quade snapped. “All of this comes around into a nice little pattern and I’d like to round it out while it’s hot. When Willie got out of jail he still had the contract. You hadn’t bought it back. So he sold it to Maynard for fifty thousand dollars. All legal and everything. Maynard in turn put the bee on you. He was going to sue you and take over your business, now that he had the contract.”

“He was suing for a cool million,” Buck offered.

“Sure,” Quade said, “and you, Slocum, you were holding out, rather futilely, against Maynard. Your only action was based on the ground that the contract had gone to Willie on a gambling debt. And gambling debts in California are illegal. Therefore, you said a court would figure the contract was still yours. That threw Maynard for a while. But Willie had cinched the contract with a notary and witnesses. If Maynard could produce these, prove the contract was not transferred as a gambling debt, he would win the suit against you. But the transfer to Willie was old, so Maynard hired Chris Buck to find the notary Willie had, and the witnesses. They had scattered out, couldn’t be located. That’s the way things stood when Maynard was killed. Naturally, it looked as though you had done it, Mr. Slocum.”

“But, I—”

“No, you didn’t kill him,” Quade smiled. “I’ve done a little digging around. Since you aren’t guilty of murder there’s no point in my exposing any of the more sordid details of your life at this inquest. I won’t mention the names of the women and all, but the fact was that Paul Clevenger was blackmailing you. Isn’t that true?”

Slocum blanched. “I — yes.”

“He knew a lot about you. From Waterloo, and here in Hollywood. He’d been in town longer than he claimed.”

“It’s a damned lie!” Clevenger shouted.

“It isn’t,” Slocum snapped, “and you know it isn’t. I have your correspondence to prove it!”

Chris Buck grabbed Clevenger. The kid’s face was white, his eyes dilated.

“Well, there it is,” said Quade. “Clevenger had Slocum lined up for a cinch shake-down. For how many thousands I don’t know. That’s immaterial. What’s important is this: Clevenger knew that if Maynard won his suit against Slocum — and Maynard couldn’t help win it once the witnesses were found — Slocum would be stony broke. He wouldn’t have the dough to pay off a blackmail shake-down. In a nutshell, Clevenger would be out of luck. So he killed Maynard, hoping to squelch the whole thing, or at least to stop it long enough so that he could collect from Slocum. Clevenger was broke. His old man had turned him out. The kid was pretty desperate and—”

“Let me at that guy!” Clevenger screamed. “Let me at that son of a—”

Buck hit Clevenger in the mouth. The kid recoiled, put his hand to his lips, looked at the blood on his fingers. Then he seemed to collapse like a deflated balloon. He nodded his head, looked longingly at Thelma, then dropped his eyes again. The girl just stared at him.

Quade concluded: “As for Willie — he was a little stir-whacky. When Maynard was bumped, he figured the contract reverted to him. He was trying to shake half a million out of Slocum for it on sheer bluff.”

Murdock snapped cuffs on Clevenger’s wrists. Clevenger roared helplessly when Thelma put her hand on Slocum’s arm.

Buck said, “Nuts,” and strode out.

“Quade,” Slocum said, “you said Needham wanted me to give you a contract to be Desmond Dogg’s voice. I’ll give you a contract, but it’ll be for Maynard’s job.”

“Ollie!” cried Charlie Boston, standing by the window. “The car! Some hit-and-run driver smacked it!”

The yellow sports job had been hit. One headlight was gone, a fender and running-board crumpled and the hood badly damaged.

Quade looked at the car and turned to go out the door after Chris Buck.

“Where you going, Mr. Quade?” asked Thelma.

“To hunt up Mr. Christopher Buck. He admired this car yesterday. I’m going to sell it to him, now, at a bargain. Sight unseen!”