Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia

Oliver Quade at the Races

Oliver Quade put the napkin on the table and leaned back in his chair. “That,” he said to Charlie Boston, on the other side of the table, “is what I call a fine lunch.”

“I like their dinners better,” said Charlie Boston. “There’s more to them.”

Quade signaled to the waiter. “The check, please. And let me have your pencil.”

The waiter put down the check, but did not add his pencil. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but I have orders not to let you sign this check.”

Across the table, Charlie Boston winced. A light came into Quade’s eyes. “Well!” he declared. “If that isn’t something! Would you mind asking the dining-room manager to step over here?”

The waiter went off, but it was the manager of the hotel rather than the dining-room manager who came to their table. He said:

“Sorry, boys, but that’s all.”

“What’s all?” Quade demanded.

“All of everything,” the manager replied. He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. “You’ve been at this hotel four weeks, now. Your bill, including room, meals in the dining-room, telephone and incidentals, amounts to $424.38. I shall give you until six o’clock this evening.”

Oliver Quade frowned. “That’s rather short notice. Ah — I rather doubt if I can get the money by then.”

“That will be too bad — for you.”

“You mean you’ll lock us out?”

“No,” said the hotel manager, “you won’t be locked out. You will be locked up—in the city jail.”

“Shucks,” said Quade. “You can’t lock up a man just because he’s behind in his hotel rent.”

A glint came into the eyes of the hotel manager. “I think,” he said, “this can be called more than rent delinquency. Intent to defraud is a better phrase. You’ve been here four weeks, you’ve gotten advances, you’ve charged up all sorts of things, and you haven’t paid one cent. I shall give you until six o’clock this evening. Full payment by then, or…” The manager turned and strode out of the dining room.

Charlie Boston groaned. “We’re sunk, Ollie. We’ll never raise that much money by this evening.”

“I wonder,” said Quade, “how the food is in the city jail.”

A middle-aged man wearing pince-nez got up from a nearby table and came over. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I couldn’t help hearing what the manager said.”

Quade fixed the intruder with a cold stare. “So?”

The man took a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. “How would you like to earn that — for a half-hour’s work?”

Quade picked up the bill and scrutinized it. “What is the name of the man you want killed, and where can I find him?”

The other chuckled. “It’s not that bad. All you have to do is deliver a letter for me.”

“A letter?” Quade looked at the twenty-dollar bill. “A two-cent stamp will deliver it anywhere in town. Or, if you’re in a hurry, Western Union will deliver it for about forty cents.”

The man with the pince-nez shook his head. “There’s a little more to it than that. Did you observe those two men who were sitting at the table near the door?”

“The ones who are going out now? The rather large men?”

“Precisely. I believe those men will follow you and try to take the letter away. They surely saw me approach you.”

Quade screwed up his face. “A punch in the jaw — for twenty bucks? How about it, Charlie?”

Charlie Boston glowered. “I didn’t take a good look at them. But neither of them was eight feet tall, was they?”

“No,” said the man with the pince-nez. “Neither were that large. You’ll deliver the letter?”

Quade nodded.

The other reached into his breast pocket and drew out a thin letter. Quade took it and read the address: “Martin Lund, 98641 Sunset Boulevard. What do I do, wait for an answer?”

“No, just give the letter to Mr. Lund. But make sure he gets it personally.”

“Suppose he isn’t there? What do I do with the letter?”

“I’m registered at the hotel. My name is George Grimshaw. However, Lund will be at that address. He’s expecting me.”

Quade pushed back his chair. “We’ll go right now.”

At the door of the dining-room, the waiter caught up with Quade and Boston. “Your check!”

Quade bared his teeth, but gave the man the twenty-dollar bill he had just received. After a moment he got $18.30 in change. He tipped the waiter the thirty cents.

There were only a few people in the lobby and Quade had no difficulty in picking out the two men who had left the dining-room just before them. They were standing near the cigar counter.

“O.K., Charlie,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“They’re following,” growled Charlie Boston.

“Yes. It’s odd what man will do to make a living these days. Somehow, I’ve a feeling I’m going to get more than just a punch on the jaw out of this.”

They stepped out of the hotel door and their pursuers were directly behind them. There were two taxicabs parked nearby. Quade stepped up to the first and opened the door.

“All right, Charlie,” he said softly.

He whirled suddenly and sent a sizzling uppercut into the face of the foremost pursuer. He followed it up with a left to the stomach.

The man gasped and reeled back. But he returned instantly with a right that crashed through Quade’s guard and hit him a devastating blow just under the heart. Quade’s back hit the taxicab so hard he bounced away from it, straight into another punch that caught him in the mouth. He went back and again hit the taxicab. To cover up he dropped to his knees on the sidewalk.

But that was all there was to the fight. Charlie Boston panted: “Look at ’em run!”

Quade raised his head. The thugs were indeed running, were already past the hotel entrance and going strong.

“Hell, I hardly hit the one bozo,” snorted Boston. “Oh-oh, looks like you stopped a couple.”

Quade got to his feet and shook his head to clear the bees from it. “What a man’ll do for twenty bucks!” he said disgustedly. He jerked open the door of the taxicab and stepped inside.

The cab driver turned around in his seat. “Those lugs try to slug you?” he asked.

“No!” snapped Quade. “They wanted to play tag with us. We wouldn’t play…. D’you suppose you’ve got time to drive us out on Sunset?”

“Oh, sure. Sure!”

“Damn decent of you,” Quade said politely.

Boston sat down beside Quade and the cab zoomed to the corner. It turned right and the driver gunned the motor. A moment later they made another right turn on to Sunset Boulevard. Quade looked out of the rear window.

“They don’t seem to be following.”

The cab rolled west on Sunset for about ten minutes, then the driver pulled up to the curb. “Here you are!”

The bill was seventy cents. Quade gave the cabby a dollar and waited for his change. The man tried to make it in dimes and couldn’t. He finally gave Quade a quarter and a nickel. Quade gravely handed him back the nickel and received a dirty look in exchange.

“You’re very welcome,” Quade said icily.

The building before which they had stopped was a two-story affair, a row of small stores on the street level, and offices on the second floor. Quade found the entrance and consulted the directory just inside the door.

“Martin Lund, suite seven,” he said.

They climbed the stairs to a dimly lighted corridor. Suite 7 was at the far end. There was light behind the ground glass door and Quade pushed it open.

They found themselves in a small waiting room, furnished in bird’s eye maple. There was no one in it.

Quade coughed loudly. Charlie Boston called, “Anybody here?”

There was no reply. Quade scowled and stepped to the door of a private office. He pushed it open, stuck his head in — and stopped.

A man was sitting in a swivel chair. His head rested on a desk. There was a pool of blood on the desk. Some of it had dripped to the green broadloom rug on the floor.

Boston breathed down Quade’s neck. “Gosh!” he said softly.

“Twenty dollars!” Quade muttered. Then he shook himself and backed into Charlie Boston. “Let’s get out of here — quick!”

Charlie Boston was perfectly willing. He was already descending the stair when Quade was still halfway up the corridor.

Down on the sidewalk with the hot California sun beating down, Quade exhaled heavily. “Did you see a gun anywhere, Charlie?”

There was a film of perspiration on Boston’s forehead. “Uh-uh,” he said. “All I saw was the blood. That was enough. Let’s get out of here.”

“In just a minute.” Quade reached into his pocket and drew out the letter George Grimshaw had given him at the hotel. He looked at it.

“What you goin’ to do with it?” Boston asked.

Quade stuck his finger under the flap and ripped open the envelope. He drew out another envelope and a slip of paper. He looked at the slip and showed it to Boston.

The letter read:

Martin:

Can’t come to your place, but here it is. Meet me in the club house at the track.

G. G.

“What’s in the other letter?” Boston asked.

Quade felt it. “It’s not money, so I don’t think I’ll open it — not right now, anyway.”

“Well, what’re we going to do?”

Quade said, “We’ve got seventeen twenty-five left of the twenty. Do you think the manager of the hotel would take it as a down payment?”

Boston winced. “No, he looked like a guy who’d made up his mind to do something and was going through with it. That’s your fault, Ollie. You been ridin’ him pretty hard this past month.”

“I know,” Quade admitted. “I was counting on a break. It didn’t come. Well, we’ve got just one chance.”

“What’s that?”

“The race-track. Perhaps we can run this into enough to pay the hotel bill.”

Boston exclaimed. “But, Ollie! For years you been squawking about my playing the ponies. And now—”

“Now, it’s necessity. The seventeen dollars won’t stave off the hotel manager. A couple of hundred might. And what other way can we make a couple of hundred in a few hours?”

Boston looked suspiciously at Quade. “Say, that note! You want to go to the races because that fellow Grimshaw wrote Lund he was going there. That’s why you want to go.”

Quade said, “Tsk! Tsk! Such deduction!”

“That’s it,” persisted Boston. “You want to play detective again. That means we’re going to get knocked around some more. And when it’s all over you and me will be behind the eight ball again.”

“We’re there, now!”

“Huh?”

“Lund’s body is going to be found sooner or later. Three people, Grimshaw and the two thugs, knew we were going there this afternoon. No, four. The cab driver, too. How long do you think it’ll be before they have us down at the Fairfax Station?”

Boston winced. “Ow!”

Forty-five minutes later, Quade and Boston alighted from the special race-track bus. Ahead of them were the huge buildings of the grandstand and club house. Beyond the buildings was the track. They walked across the vast parking lot and approached the ticket windows.

“Club house, two-twenty!” snorted Boston. “Let’s go over to the grandstand.”

By way of reply, Quade stepped to the ticket window. “Two club-house tickets,” he said.

At the gate he spent fifteen cents for a program. When they were inside, walking up the long flight of stairs to the club house, Boston said:

“Fifty cents bus fare, four-forty for tickets, fifteen cents for programs. How much does that leave us?”

“You forgot the seventy-five cents taxi fare back to the hotel where we got the bus,” replied Quade. “That leaves us a total of eleven dollars and forty-five cents.”

“And you want to win enough to pay our hotel bill?”

“Oh, I’ll be satisfied with a couple of hundred profit. I leave that part of it up to you, Charlie. I may be the Human Encyclopedia, but one of the things I don’t know is how to pick horses. You’ve always been talking about your marvelous system. So go ahead, do your stuff.”

Charlie Boston took the program from Quade. “What do you want to bet on the first race? Two dollars.”

“Why delay the agony? If your system’s good, it’ll be just as good for the entire amount, won’t it?”

Charlie Boston perked up. “That’s the way I like to play ’em myself. If you’re going to bet on the nags, bet on them right. That’s my system.”

By this time they were in the club house. Quade was somewhat disconcerted by the size of it and the crowd. “Never find anyone in this mob,” he grumbled. “You’d think people had other things to do than come to the races.”

A red-coated bugler on the track, put his instrument to his mouth and blew on it. The horses began parading out of the paddock.

“What about the bet, Charlie?” Quade asked.

“In just a minute. Hmm, yes, Rameses is my horse. Ten bucks to show. Come on, Ollie.”

They started back to the club house, to the pari-mutuel betting room. Quade caught Boston’s arm. “Why to show, Charlie?”

“Because that’s my system. I never bet a horse to win. Only to show. I never lose that way.”

“I’ll not say anything about last winter when we were in Florida,” Quade said, “provided you don’t lose today.”

“I won’t lose!” said Boston, emphatically. “This race is a cinch. There’s the window. Just tell him a ticket on Rameses, Number six.”

A minute later Quade rejoined Boston. He rubbed the ticket between his thumb and forefinger. “This is for the Lincoln Hotel,” he said.

“Come on!” exclaimed Charlie. “The horses are going to the post now. They’ll be off in a minute.”

The cry of “They’re off!” went up before they got back to the front side of the club house.

Thirty thousand people immediately went nuts.

Quade couldn’t even see the horses. There were too many people on their feet in front of him. But finally he found a spot, where, by standing on his toes, he managed to catch a diagonal view of the track.

A voice blared over a public address system.

“At the turn. Skyhigh… Betty May second by a length… Beefboy. Cold Water coming up on the outside… Rameses.”

“Rameses!” yelled Charlie Boston.

The announcer droned, “In the stretch, Beefboy and Skyhigh, neck and neck. Betty May third… and Rameses! Rameses coming up.”

“Come on, Beefboy!” screamed several thousand throats. And just as many roared. “Skyhigh!.. Betty May!.. Rameses!”

The horses thundered across the finish line, not a single length separating the first four animals. The announcer gave the result even as the numbers of the winning horses flashed on the tote board. “Beefboy, first, Skyhigh second and Betty May third!”

Oliver Quade took the ten-dollar pari-mutuel ticket from his pocket and tore it up. “Charlie,” he said, “just what is this system of yours?”

Charlie Boston winced. “Why, I wait until they parade the horses, then I pick the best looking of the black ones.”

Quade growled deep in his throat. “After all these years of listening to you blab about how you could pick them!”

The voice of the announcer exclaimed, “Hold your tickets, everybody. A foul has been claimed against the rider of Beefboy! Hold your tickets!”

Charlie Boston yelped, “Our ticket!” He stooped and began searching among the forest of moving legs for the ticket Quade had torn and thrown away. Here and there others who had thrown away tickets prematurely were also scrambling for them. A fat, perspiring man, moaned, “My ticket, my ticket!”

Charlie Boston came up with two halves of a pari-mutuel ticket. “Whew!” he panted, triumphantly. “That was close.”

The voice on the public address system droned, “The foul has been allowed. Beefboy is disqualified. The winner is Sky-high. Betty May is second and Rameses third.”

“Whew!” yelled Charlie Boston. “We win! I told you my system worked. It had to. There was only one black horse in this race.”

Oliver Quade snatched the pieces of pasteboard from Boston’s hands and raised himself to his toes to consult the tote board out on the field. He inhaled softly. “Nine-eighty to show!”

He turned and stumbled over the fat man who was down on his knees. The man exclaimed, “My ticket! My ticket!”

“Come on, Ollie,” Charlie Boston cried, “let’s go and collect.”

Oliver Quade gripped Charlie Boston’s arm. “Charlie, this ticket — it’s not ours!”

“What? You mean it’s no good?”

“I mean,” said Quade, “our ticket was for ten bucks. This one’s for a hundred.”

For an instant, Charlie Boston’s face was stricken. Then slowly the lines lifted and an expression of huge delight spread over the broad face. “And it pays nine-eighty!”

Quade shook his head. “No, Charlie. It isn’t ours.”

Charlie Boston showed his teeth. “No? Well, we had a ticket on Rameses. You threw it away. Somebody’s found it by this time. O.K., so we found someone else’s ticket. ‘Finder’s keepers, losers weepers,’ my grandmother always said.”

The fat man wailed, “My ticket, my ticket!”

Quade tapped him on the shoulder. “Mister, I threw away a ten-dollar show ticket on Rameses—”

“A ten-dollar ticket!” cried the fat man. “Hell, I threw away a hundred-dollar ticket!”

Quade clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Say, that’s tough, pal. Maybe if you’d offer a reward, someone might—”

The fat man rose to his knees. “That’s an idea. I’ll post a reward!”

“You win,” Quade snapped. “Here’s your ticket. I found it.”

The man got up and fell against Quade. He tore the halves of the tickets from Quade’s hands. “Thanks, mister,” he babbled, “thanks a million.” He stumbled toward the club house and Quade had to spring after him and catch hold of his arm.

“Say, the reward!”

The fat man blinked. “Oh, sure, the reward.” He reached into a pocket and brought out a roll that would have choked Rameses, the horse. He peeled off two bills and shoved them at Quade. “There you are, sir, and many thanks!” He turned and wobbled away.

Quade looked at the reward, stunned.

“Two bucks!” Charlie Boston cried. “Two bucks for a ticket worth nine hundred and eighty! Quade, you—”

He staggered away, too stricken to continue his reproach.

Slowly, Quade folded up the two one-dollar bills and put them in his pocket. Then he walked into the club house, in the direction of the pari-mutuel betting room.

To reach it, he had to walk past the staircase leading up to the rooms of the Turf Club. As he came abreast of the stairs a man hurtled down and collided so savagely with Quade that he went sprawling to the floor. The man fell on top of him.

“What the hell!” Quade cried, angrily. He shoved at the man and wet sticky stuff smeared his hand. Startled, he jerked the hand around to look at it.

He saw blood on his fingers.

He got up from the floor then. The man who had knocked him down remained on the floor. He would never get up. He was dead. It was George Grimshaw.

A tall man in a gray uniform ran up. He looked at the man on the floor and paled. “He’s — dead!”

Quade nodded soberly. “He came tumbling down those stairs. Knocked me over.” His eyes went to the stairs. He started toward them, but the gray-uniformed man rushed past him and blocked Quade with his back.

“I see it!” he said. “And you — up there! Stay where you are!”

Two men and a woman were coming down the stairs. They stopped, puzzled. “What’s the matter, officer?” one of the men asked.

The special policeman shook his head. “Someone’s been hurt. Everyone will have to remain upstairs.”

A heavy-set man in his middle thirties came out of the betting room. He snapped, “What’s going on here, Kleinsmith?”

The uniformed man turned and relief swept across his face. “Hello, Lieutenant. This man,” he pointed to the huddled body on the floor, “came tumbling down those stairs. He’s dead and,” he pointed to the stairs, “there’s a gun lying there.”

The heavy-set man took a fat cigar from his vest pocket and stuck it between his teeth. He rolled it in his mouth and looked at Quade. “There’s blood on your hand, Mister,” he said accusingly.

“Yes,” Quade admitted. “He knocked me over when he fell down the stairs.”

The cigar made a complete circuit of the heavy-set man’s mouth. “Zat so? We’ll get into that in a minute. You, Kleinsmith, run up to the steward’s office. Tell him what happened, then phone the office. After that, come back here and bring some of the boys with you.”

The uniformed man turned to go.

“You forgot something,” Quade said. “The police.”

The heavy-set man scowled. “What do you think I am?”

Quade replied calmly. “Just a special policeman hired by the track. This is murder, man.”

“All right, Kleinsmith,” snapped the track police lieutenant, “call the cops, too. In the meantime,” he glowered at Quade, “let’s have your story. Why’d you knock him off?”

Quade walked deliberately to the stairs and sat down on the lowest step. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping the blood from his fingers.

“I’ll wait until a policeman comes,” he said.

And wait he did, even though the special detective snarled and stormed at him. Fortunately, the police came within a few minutes, an entire squadron of them, led by Captain Roletti. By that time there was a ring of spectators eighteen deep around the dead man. The police dispersed the crowd quickly, however, driving away everyone but Quade and the track policemen.

“Now then,” said Roletti, a black-haired, dapper man of about forty, “let’s start at the beginning. You, Mister, what’s your name?”

“Oliver Quade. I was on my way to the betting room and when I passed these stairs this man came tumbling down. He knocked me to the floor and fell on me. I pushed him off, and then discovered that he was dead.”

“How’d you know he was dead?”

“How do I know you’re alive?”

Captain Roletti grinned frigidly. “Oh, so it’s going to be like that? Fine! I haven’t had a good scrap all week. So he fell down the stairs and tumbled into your arms. Uh-hum, and where are your witnesses, the people who saw you walking along here when he came down?”

Kleinsmith, the special policeman, said, “I saw it.”

Roletti whirled on Kleinsmith. “Ah, Mr. Kleinsmith, The Eye himself. So you’re his pal, eh?”

Kleinsmith screwed up his face. “No, I never saw the man before in my life.”

“No? Then how’d you happen to be watching?”

“That’s my job. I’m supposed to keep an eye out for slickers and pickpockets.”

Captain Roletti smiled pleasantly. He purred, “Ah, so you were looking out for pickpockets and you were watching Mr. Quade. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Kleinsmith turned red in the face. “I didn’t say he was a pickpocket. I said that was part of my job. I happened to be watching him because, well — there was some mixup about the last race. The results were announced and some of the people who’d lost tore up their tickets. Then a foul was allowed, which made Rameses a winner. Mr. Mills had torn up a hundred-dollar ticket. This man found it and—”

“And tried to keep it?”

“No. He returned it to Mr. Mills.”

Captain Roletti snorted. “Diogenes! All right, Kleinsmith, get this Mr. Mills. You seem to know him.”

“Oh, yes, he’s a member of the Turf Club.” Kleinsmith went off.

Captain Roletti scowled at Quade. “You’re lucky, Mister. But don’t go yet.” He climbed the stairs and, stooping, examined the gun. Finally, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to pick the gun up by the muzzle. He came down the stairs and handed it to a blue-uniformed policeman.

“Take this to the steward’s office, Cassidy. Blake will be out in a little while with his stuff. He’ll go over it for prints.”

Special Policeman Kleinsmith came back with the fat, perspiring man whose name was Mills. The fat man took a look at the body on the floor.

“George Grimshaw!” he gasped.

“You know him?” snapped Captain Roletti.

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

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

“Of course I know him,” replied Kleinsmith.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Easy, Miss Grimshaw,” he said soothingly.

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

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

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

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

“It’s apparent, isn’t it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quade saw his nostrils flare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So it’s a flophouse tonight!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A deep voice replied, “Mr. Quade?”

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

Quade walked to the door and opened it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quade inhaled softly. “What letter?”

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

Charlie bared his teeth and growled deep in his throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think you will,” Quade said.

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

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

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

“Rats!” said Charlie Boston.

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

“Who’s he?” Quade asked.

“An autograph collector. Lund’s customer.”

“Lund was an autograph dealer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who says so?”

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

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

Roletti glowered. “You delivered the letter?”

Quade said, “No, he didn’t show up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roletti said, “Nuts! Give me the letter you didn’t deliver to this — Paley, did you say?”

“I didn’t say.” Quade thrust a hand into his inside breast pocket. Then he let his eyes widen. Quickly he thrust his hands into other pockets. “Why, I haven’t got the letter. I must have lost it. Or had my pocket picked.”

Captain Roletti yelled, “Damn you, Quade! I’ve got a good notion to run you in. You know a hell of a lot more about this than you’re letting on.”

“Why, Captain! I don’t know anything. The manager of the hotel must have told you that I never saw Grimshaw until he came up to me in the dining room. What reason would I — well, why shouldn’t I deliver a letter when a man pays me twenty dollars? Especially, when I’m broke.”

Suspicion was still ripe in the captain’s eyes. But after a moment he shifted to Mills, the fat man. “What’s your part in all this?”

Mills drew himself together. Then he took a card from his pocket. “I’m Herbert Mills,” he said stiffly. “Victor Mills and Son, Brokers. I’m the son, you know.”

Captain Roletti looked at the card. “I’ve heard of the company. Rates pretty high, doesn’t it?”

Mills shrugged an admission. “You must know my father. He’s a friend of the mayor, you know.”

“I know. But let it stop there. All right, you coming?”

Mills moved quickly to the door.

“Thanks for the reward, Mr. Mills,” said Charlie Boston.

Mills popped out of the room. Roletti turned and delivered a parting shot: “Don’t leave town, Quade!”

Quade stepped after him. “Say, tell that to the manager on your way out, will you?”

The door closed, but Quade signaled to Boston to remain quiet. He waited a moment, then jerked the door open. The hallway was empty. He closed the door.

“Charlie,” he accused his friend, “that was highway robbery!”

“Oh, was it?” grinned Boston. “Why, the fat so-and-so. Fifty-two bucks reward isn’t too much for giving him nine hundred and eighty. And say, that Mills guy knows a lot more than he lets on. About Grimshaw and Lund, both.”

“You’re telling me, Charlie. He lied like the devil. A Custer autograph wouldn’t be worth as much as he intimated. Custer wrote plenty of letters. Articles for magazines, too. His autograph is pretty common.”

“I don’t get that autograph stuff at all, Ollie,” said Boston. “Hell, I read a piece in the paper a while ago which said that Greta Garbo’s autograph was only worth two bucks.”

“She’s still alive, Charlie. The value of an autograph increases with age, provided also that it isn’t too common. The autographs of some of the signers of the Declaration of Independence aren’t worth over fifty bucks, but one of them, that of Button Gwinnett, is worth fifty thousand.”

“Holy smokes!” exclaimed Charlie Boston. “I never even heard of the guy.”

“Not many people are familiar with his name, today. In fact, if he hadn’t been one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence no one would even want his autograph… Shame to be wasting all my Human Encyclopedia knowledge on just you.”

“But this Jesse James stuff. Why should his autograph be worth so much? He’s only been dead about fifty years or so.”

“That’s right. But if you’ll remember your dime novels, you know Jesse James wasn’t in the habit of writing letters. At least not with his own name. He was an outlaw from the time he was fifteen until he was killed nineteen years later. And his name today is known to more people than the names of any of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Yes, I’d say that an authentic autograph of Jesse would be worth quite a sum of money. I think I’d like to talk to Miss Grimshaw about that.”

“The girl whose father was knocked off? Where’ll you find her?”

“Why, her father was here at the hotel, so I imagine this is where Miss Grimshaw will be. A lot of the race-track crowd make this their headquarters. I’ll see.” He walked across the room and picked up the telephone.

“Hello, operator, can you tell me in what room Miss Helen Grimshaw is registered?”

“Ten-fourteen,” was the reply. “Shall I ring it?”

“No, thank you. I’ll run up. She’s expecting me.”

“I’ll bet she is,” snorted Boston. “Is she expecting me too?”

“You stay here and hold down the fort. As long as one of us is here, the manager won’t lock the door on us. I’ll be back in a little while.”

Oliver Quade climbed two flights of stairs to the tenth floor. Outside of Room 1014 he paused. A rumble of voices came to his ears, but he could not make out the words. He rapped on the door.

There was silence inside the room for a moment, then a feminine voice called, “Come in!”

Quade pushed open the door. Helen Grimshaw, looking pale and drawn, sat in an easy chair facing the door. She clutched a handkerchief in her fist. Standing nearby, a scowl on his handsome face, was young Jack Forester, the wealthy horseman.

Quade said, “I’m Oliver Quade. Remember me?”

Jack Forester snapped, “What do you want?”

“Why, I’m interested in autographs,” he said. “I understand your father had a fine collection of Custer items.”

Jack Forester cut in sharply. “Say, is this a time for that? Can’t you see Miss Grimshaw has suffered a severe shock?”

“I’m all right, Jack!” said Helen Grimshaw. “After all, I’m going to need money. Plenty of it. Yes, Mr. Quade, Father owned some Custer letters. Not many, however. Are there any particular ones you are interested in?”

“Yes. Any he wrote while in Washington during ’76? During the time he appeared as a witness before the Federal Board of Inquiry.”

Helen Grimshaw shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I know Father had no letters written during that period.”

Quade sighed. He half turned away, then said, casually, “By the way, Miss Grimshaw, did you ever meet an autograph dealer named Martin Lund?”

The girl shook her head. “No, but Father had dealings with him. He bought and sold several items for Father… It’s — it’s been a shock. Both of them killed on the same day.”

“Will you get out of here?” cried Jack Forester, unable to restrain himself any longer.

Quade nodded, then opened the door and stepped out. He was immediately flanked by the two thugs who had attacked him and Charlie Boston that morning. Each grabbed an arm and, to make it more effective, the bigger of the two showed Quade a .32 caliber automatic.

“How’s about it?” he asked cheerfully. “You want some of this?”

“I ought to have it, I guess,” Quade said bitterly, “for being so stupid. I should have known you boys would be around again. Well, what is it?”

“We want to talk over some things with you. Let’s go down to your room — by the stairs.”

The man put the gun in his coat pocket, but kept his hand on it. “We’ll make off we’re pals if we meet anyone on the way.”

“Sure, pal,” Quade said and started for the stairs with the two thugs crowding his heels. On the eighth floor he said, “You know I think you boys are making a mistake. I don’t—”

“Keep your mouth shut!” snarled the man with the gun, taking it from his pocket and jamming it into Quade’s spine. “You’re not going to give any signal to that big stooge of yours.”

Quade relaxed. He pushed open the door of his suite. Charlie Boston was lying on one of the twin beds in the bedroom. He lifted up his head, said, “That you, Ollie?” Then he saw the men behind Quade.

He sprang up from the bed. By that time the man with the gun had stepped around Quade and pointed the gun at Boston. “Lay down again, mutt,” he sneered.

Charlie Boston sat on the bed. “What’s the idea?”

“Search me,” said Quade flippantly.

The man with the gun took up that remark. “That’s just what we’re going to do. Search you. You can save yourself a lot of trouble by kicking through with that letter.”

“Oh,” said Quade, “you want a letter. Sorry. I haven’t got one. But I’ll be glad to write you one.”

The thug showed Quade the gun, then whipped it up suddenly and laid it along the side of his jaw. It was a cruel blow and sent pain streaking through Quade’s head.

Charlie Boston leaped to his feet again, snarling. The gunman quickly threw down on him. “Come ahead, monkey!” he invited.

Quade said steadily, “I still haven’t got that letter.”

The man with the gun said, “Search him, Tony!”

Tony made a good job of it. He even took off Quade’s shoes. But he didn’t find the letter. “She ain’t here, Henry,” he said.

“Try the other lug.”

Boston bristled, but relaxed under the threat of the gun. Tony searched him thoroughly. Then he went through the drawers of the dresser in the bedroom; in the sitting room. Finally he tackled the closets and even peeled back the rugs on the floors.

He finally conceded defeat. “It ain’t here.”

Henry, whose face had been growing darker during the search, turned to Oliver Quade. “I’m going to ask you just once more for that letter, and then I’m going to take this gun and break every bone in your head. And I’ll do it without noise. Now, where’s the letter?”

Quade saw the determination in Henry’s eyes. “I mailed it to myself. It won’t be here until morning.”

Consternation spread across Henry’s face. “You mailed the letter to yourself?”

“Yes. You boys know what happened at the track. I was questioned by the cops. I had a hunch they’d be after me again and I couldn’t risk having it found on me, or in this room. I mailed the letter to myself.”

“Jeez!” cried Tony. “He’s lyin’!”

Henry sighed wearily. “No. The letter isn’t here. That’s just about what a smart guy like him would do. Well, we’ve got to stick here until morning. You’ll have to go out and tell the boss.”

“Before he goes,” said Quade, “let me give you a friendly warning about something. My room rent’s overdue. At six o’clock the manager comes to lock me out. It’s five-thirty now.”

Alarm shot into Henry’s eyes. “What the hell?”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Quade chuckled, “Of course, if you were to pay the bill…”

“How much is it?”

“Four hundred and twenty-four dollars.”

Henry exclaimed, “For the love of Mike!”

“He’s stringing us,” snapped Tony. “No guy could run up a hotel bill of four twenty-four.”

“There’s the telephone,” said Quade. “Ask the manager how much my bill is.”

Henry looked at the phone. “You pick it up. Ask him about the bill. I’ll hold the receiver and get the answer. Here, Tony, hold the rod.”

Quade picked up the phone, while Henry put the receiver to his ear. Quade said, “Let me talk to the manager, Mr. Meyer.”

Henry nodded. After a moment, he nodded again. “Mr. Meyer,” Quade said, “will you tell me again how much my bill amounts to?”

Henry listened for a moment, then reached over suddenly and covered the mouthpiece. “He wants to know if you’ll pay by six o’clock. Tell him, yes — quick!”

“Yes, Mr. Meyer, at six-sharp. Thank you,” Quade said.

Henry put the receiver on the hook. “Tony, you’ll have to run out and tell the boss. We’ve got to stay here until the morning mail comes in. If we don’t pay that money, they’ll come up here. Hurry, tell him the money’s got to be here before six.”

Tony returned Henry’s gun and scooted out of the room. Henry moved to a position just inside the door. He glowered at Quade. “This is a lousy mess.”

“Isn’t it?” Quade asked pleasantly. “But you can cheer yourself up by thinking of the letter.”

“I’ve been thinking about it already. And if it don’t come here, you know what’s going to happen to you?”

“The same thing that happened to Martin Lund and George Grimshaw?”

Henry scowled. “We didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Rats!” jeered Charlie Boston.

Henry gave him a dirty look. “I ain’t never bumped a man—” he began and then when Charlie Boston took a step forward, a gleam in his eyes, he added hastily: “Except in self-defense. Sit down, bozo!”

There was a knock on the door. Henry leaped three feet toward Quade. “Keep your mouth shut!” he whispered frantically.

“It might be the maid,” Quade said. “If I don’t answer she’ll come in.”

“All right, answer!”

“Yes?” Quade called. “Who is it?”

“Herbert Mills,” was the reply. “Can I see you a moment, Mr. Quade?”

Henry’s eyes popped. “Let him come in, but don’t spill anything. Introduce me as a friend. Any damn name.”

“Come in, Mr. Mills,” Quade invited.

Herbert Mills, his fat face perspiring, came into the room, closing the door behind him. Quade, shooting a look at Henry, saw the gunman’s hands jammed deep in his coat pockets.

Quade walked toward Herbert Mills, held out his hand. “Glad to see you, Mr. Mills.”

He caught the fat man’s hand, whirled and slammed in the bolt on the door behind Mills. Then shoving Mills violently toward Henry, he cried, “Charlie!”

Mills yelped and jerked his hand out of Quade’s grip. The latter was surprised at the strength in the fat man. Henry cried out: “No, you don’t!” and then Charlie Boston slugged him from the side.

A fist banged on the door. “Let me in!” cried the voice of Tony.

Quade sunk his fist into Herbert Mills stomach. The fat man said, “Whoosh,” and folded forward. Quade chopped at his face, but Mills leaned forward too quickly and the fist hit his ear. He yelped in pain.

Charlie Boston was wrestling with Henry, now, trying to keep Henry from bringing the gun into the battle. Quade stepped back to deliver a finishing blow to the fat man. Herbert Mills, not half as far gone as he had pretended, suddenly lunged forward and rammed Quade in the stomach.

Quade was catapulted back against the wall. He recoiled from it into the ham-like swinging fists of Herbert Mills. One caught him flush on the jaw and he went down to his knees.

“Charlie!” he cried weakly.

“Coming!” roared Charlie Boston. He suddenly picked up Henry bodily and smashed him against the wall. The gun fell from Henry’s hand. Boston scooped it up and clouted Henry on the head with it. Henry fell limply to the floor.

Then Boston was on Herbert Mills’ back. He hit the fat man twice with the gun and Mills fell against Quade, almost crushing him to the floor. Quade scuttled out from under and took the gun from Charlie Boston’s hand.

He leaped to the door, shot the bolt and jerked it open. Tony was just disappearing around the corridor. Quade slammed the door shut.

The phone rang shrilly. Quade stepped around Herbert Mills, who was on his hands and knees, blubbering, and scooped up the phone.

“Mr. Quade!” said the angry voice of the hotel manager. “What’s going on up in your room? I’ve just received a complaint that you’re smashing furniture. Stop that instantly! I’m coming up with a policeman!”

“Bring two!” snapped Quade, banging the receiver back on the hook.

Herbert Mills got to his feet and sat down heavily on the bed. He put his hand to his head and brought it away, smeared with blood. He looked at the blood and glared at Quade.

“I don’t know what this is all about. I just came in to make you a larger reward for that Custer letter and you light into me. What for?”

“Oh, so that’s your story? You didn’t come in here because Tony came for you? Or for the Jesse—”

“I don’t even know who Tony is. And I’m not interested in any Jesse James letter. I’ve already got it, smart guy.”

“Yes? May I take a good look at it?”

Mills brought out a letter from his coat pocket. He unfolded it. “This is it.”

“It’s it all right,” said Quade, “but it’s not what you really want. This is a forgery. And you know it.”

“You’re crazy,” said Mills. “I guess I ought to know if it’s genuine.”

“Perhaps you should,” retorted Quade, “being a crook yourself. But that letter’s a forgery. And you know it. And anyone who knew anything about Jesse James would know it.”

Mills looked again at the letter. “I don’t get it.”

“The date!” cried Quade. “Sherman, Texas, September 8, 1876. On September 7, Jesse James, Frank James, the three Youngers and three other men, held up the Northfield, Minnesota, bank and suffered the most crushing defeat of their careers. Two members of the gang were killed in Northfield and the others were pursued for two weeks by more than two thousand possemen. Eventually, another member of the band was killed and the three Youngers captured. During those two weeks Jesse James most certainly was not in Texas, nor was he in a position to write any letters — even to his mother.”

Herbert Mills’ fat face became flabby as mush. “Who — who are you?” he asked weakly.

“Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia,” grinned Quade. “The man who knows—”

“What’s going on here?” cried the voice of Meyer, the hotel manager.

Quade turned. Meyer was storming into the suite. Behind him was Captain Roletti.

Roletti snapped, “Ah, so you chaps are together again. Good thing I happened to stay down in the lobby. Well, which one is it?”

“Him!” exclaimed Herbert Mills.

“Him,” said Quade.

Captain Roletti nodded at Mills. “I guess I’ll take you. I’d just about decided that, anyway. I thought I’d check up on everybody connected with this affair, just in case, and I discovered a little while ago that Herbert Mills and Son are broke. Junior’s been out of the firm the last three months. And he hasn’t been picking them very good — at the track, I mean. So he’s been dabbling a bit in autographs, mostly forgeries. A dealer named Lund made a beef to Headquarters about a Herbert Mills, only this morning!”

Herbert Mills groaned.

“Nice going, Captain,” Quade complimented. “Perhaps I can fit in the missing pieces. Mills had a customer for a Jesse James letter, but didn’t have the letter, because there was only one such letter in existence and Mr. George Grimshaw owned it. Mr. Grimshaw was willing to sell the letter, but, oddly, wanted money for it — which was something Mr. Mills didn’t have, in large enough quantities. He stalled around with Mr. Paley, the customer, gave him a glimpse of a forged letter maybe. He didn’t dare really sell the forgery though, because Mr. Paley, while he might only make a casual examination of a letter, would give it a real good going over before he laid out big money.”

He paused and looked at Herbert Mills. The fat man’s stricken face told him that he was on the right track. He went on:

“In the meantime, Mr. Paley went in to see Martin Lund, a dealer in autographs. Mr. Lund promptly told him that there was only one letter in existence and George Grimshaw owned that. Paley told him to make a dicker with Grimshaw for it.

“About that time I came into the picture. Grimshaw brought the letter to town this morning to take to Lund, but discovered suddenly that a couple of thugs were following him. He guessed the reason, and hired Charlie Boston and myself to make the delivery of the letter.

“We got by the pugs all right — and then discovered that Martin Lund had been murdered. I went out to the track because there was a note with the letter informing Lund of Grimshaw’s whereabouts.

“Mills was ahead of us at the track. He knew where the original was because his monkeys had reported to him. He’d killed Lund because Lund knew too much about him — though he got to Lund too late. Lund had already reported Mills’ forgeries to the police, but Mills didn’t know that.”

“That’s right,” the captain said. Quade went on:

“Mills needed the money the James letter would bring. He not only had to get his hands on it, but he had to get Grimshaw out of the way. If he sold it with Grimshaw alive, Grimshaw would be on his neck for stealing it.

“So Mills killed him and stuffed the phoney receipt in Grimshaw’s pocket. That was to throw Grimshaw’s heir, his daughter, off the track. That disposed of Lund and Grimshaw and left Mills free to resume his original negotiations with the customer, Paley. Except for one small thing — obtaining the original Jesse James letter. He’s been working very hard to get that. Haven’t you, Herbie?”

Herbert Mills scowled.

Meyer, the hotel manager, cut in: “It’s six o’clock, Mr. Quade. If you haven’t got that money, you’ll have to go—”

“O.K.,” Quade sighed, “We’ll go.”

“Uh-uh,” Charlie Boston exclaimed. “Here’s the dough!” He took a huge roll of bills from his pocket.

Mills cried out. “That’s mine! He stole it from me.”

“You’re crazy!” exclaimed Boston. “Me and Ollie won this at the races. We had a hundred-dollar show ticket on Rameses. Didn’t we, Ollie?”

Quade looked at Mills, then at the adamant face of the hotel manager. “That’s right, Charlie. We certainly did have a ticket on that horse.”

Captain Roletti coughed, then winked at Quade. “You’re right. I heard you did.” He passed Quade and said out of the side of his mouth, “Where he’s goin’ he won’t need it, anyway.”