Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia

Death at the Main

Oliver Quade had perused both the Social Register and Bradstreet’s Journal on a number of occasions and he calculated mentally that there was easily a billion dollars worth of blue blood here tonight in this big renovated barn. Reggie Ragsdale, the host, was worth a hundred million if he was worth a cent; the average fortune of the two hundred-odd other men could be estimated conservatively at five million.

Long Island didn’t see many cocking mains. Cocking wasn’t a gentleman’s sport like horse racing and fox hunting. In fact, many of Long Island’s blue-bloods had shaken their heads when Young Ragsdale took up cock fighting. But they had eagerly accepted invitations to the Ragsdale estate to witness the great cocking main between Ragsdale’s birds and the best of the Old South, the feathered warriors of George Treadwell.

Ragsdale had cleared out this large barn, had built tiers of seats in the form of a big bowl surrounding the cockpit. The place was ablaze with lights, and servants in uniforms scampered about with liquid refreshments for the guests.

Oliver Quade had crashed the gate and was enjoying himself immensely. He’d heard of the cocking main quite by accident; and being a Southerner by birth and a cocking enthusiast, he’d “crashed.” He’d brought along a bagful of books, too. After a long and varied career he never knew when the opportunity might present itself to dispose of a few volumes and he wanted to be prepared for any contingency.

He chuckled at the thought of it. Two hundred millionaires protected daily by business managers, secretaries and servants; few of them had ever been compelled — or privileged, depending upon your viewpoint — to listen to a really good book salesman. And Quade was a good book salesman, the best in the country. Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia, who traveled the country from coast to coast, selling books and salting away twenty thousand dollars every year.

The fights had already been started when Quade bluffed the doorkeeper into letting him into the Ragsdale barn. For an hour he rubbed elbows with the Long Island aristocrats, talked with them and cheered with them while the feathered warriors in the pit fought and bled and died.

The score stood at eight-all now, with the seventeenth and last bout of the evening to come up, which would decide the superiority of Ragsdale’s Jungle Shawls and the Whitehackles of George Treadwell. Ragsdale rose to make an announcement as the handlers carried out the birds after the sixteenth fight.

“There’ll be a short intermission of ten minutes before the final bout, gentlemen.”

Quade’s eyes sparkled. This was his golden chance, the one he’d waited for all evening. Perhaps they’d throw him out, but Quade had been thrown out of places before. Chuckling, he climbed upon a bench. He held out his hands in a supplicating gesture.

“Gentlemen,” he cried out suddenly in a booming voice that surprised people who heard it issue from such a lean body, “give me your attention for a minute. I’m going to entertain you — something entirely new and different.”

A couple of attendants looked with surprised eyes at Quade. Reggie Ragsdale, on the other side of the pit, frowned. Quade knew that he’d have to talk fast — catch the interest of the audience before Ragsdale tried to stop him. He had confidence in his oratorical powers.

“Gentlemen,” he continued in his rich, penetrating voice. “I’m Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia. I have the greatest brain in the United States, probably the greatest in the world. I know the answers to all questions; what came first, the chicken or the egg; the population of Sydney, Australia; the dates of every battle from the beginning of history; the founders of your family fortunes. Try me out, gentlemen. Any question at all — any! History, science, mathematics, general interest. You, sir, ask me a question!”

Quade, knowing the hesitation of any audience to get started, pointed to a man close to him, whose mouth was agape.

The man flushed, stammered. “Why, uh — I don’t know anything I want to ask — Yes, I do! At what price did N.T.&T. close today?”

“Easy!” cried Quade. “You could read that in today’s newspaper. National Telephone and Telegraph closed today at 187 ½. A year ago today it was 153. Ask me something harder. You, sir,” he pointed. “A question; history, science, mathematics—”

“What is the distance to the moon?”

“From the center of the earth to the center of the moon the distance is approximately 238,857 miles. Next question!”

The game was catching on. Quade didn’t have to point at anyone now. The audience had gathered its wits and the next question came promptly.

“What is ambergris?”

“Ambergris is a greasy substance spewed up by sick whales and is used in the manufacture of perfumes. It comes in lumps and is extremely valuable, a chunk of approximately thirty pounds recently found in the North Atlantic bringing $5,200. Next!”

“How do you measure the thickness of leather?” That was evidently a wealthy shoe manufacturer, but his question didn’t phase Quade in the least.

“By irons,” he shot back. “An iron is one seventy-second of an inch. The ordinary shoe sole is eight irons thick, although some run as thick as twelve irons and those on dancing pumps as thin as four irons — And now—”

Quade stooped, snapped open his suitcase and extracted a thick volume from it. He held it aloft. “And now I’m going to give each and every gentleman here tonight an opportunity to learn the answers themselves to any question that may arise, today, tomorrow or any time during the year. This book has the answers to ALL questions. The Compendium of Human Knowledge, the knowledge of the ages crammed into one volume, two thousand pages. Classified, condensed and abbreviated.”

Quade paused for a brief breath and shot a glance at Reggie Ragsdale. The young millionaire, who had assumed a tolerant, amused expression a few moments ago when he saw that Quade’s game was catching with the guests was frowning again. Entertaining the guests was all right, but selling something to them, that was different! Quade knew that he’d have to work even faster.

He launched again into his sales talk, exhorting in a vibrant, penetrating voice that was famous throughout the country. “The price of this magnificent volume is not twenty-five dollars as you might expect, not even fifteen or ten dollars, but a paltry two ninety-five. It sounds preposterous, I know, but it’s really true. The knowledge of the ages for only two ninety-five! Yes, Mr. Ragsdale, you want to ask a question before you purchase one of these marvelous books?”

“I don’t want to buy your confounded book!” cried Ragsdale. “I want to know how you got in here?”

Quade chuckled. “Why, your doorkeeper let me in. I told him I was a book salesman and thought this gathering would be ideal for selling books. Really, Mr. Ragsdale, that’s exactly what I told him and he let me in. Of course, if he didn’t believe me, that’s not my fault.”

A roar of laughter swept the audience. None doubted that Quade had actually made his entrance in that manner. His audacity appealed to the thrill-jaded aristocrats. Even Ragsdale grinned.

“All right, you can stay. But put up your books now; they’re coming in with the birds for the last fight. After it, you can sell your books. I’ll even buy one myself.”

Quade was disappointed. He’d made his pitch, built up his audience to the selling point and he didn’t like to quit before collecting. But he couldn’t very well cross Ragsdale — and sight of the handlers coming in with the birds was making the sportsmen turn to the pit. The best book in the world couldn’t compete against a couple of fighting roosters.

Quade closed his sample case, walked down to Reggie Ragsdale’s ringside seat and prepared to watch the last fight of the evening. Ragsdale grinned at him.

The handlers were down in the pit now. Ragsdale’s handler, Tom Dodd, carried a huge, red Jungle Shawl and Treadwell’s handler, Cleve Storm, a fierce-looking Whitehackle.

“Treadwell must have a lot of confidence in that Whitehackle,” Quade remarked. “He’s battle-scarred. Been in at least four professional fights.”

Ragsdale looked at Quade in surprise. “Ah, you know that cocks are at their best in their first fight?”

“Of course,” said Quade. “I was raised down in Alabama and fought a few cocks of my own. That Whitehackle must be one of those rare ones that’s improved with every fight instead of deteriorated. Ah!”

The referee had finished giving the handlers their instructions and Storm and Dodd retired to opposite sides of the sand-covered pit.

The referee looked at first one handler, then another. He hesitated a moment, then cried, “Time!”

Both handlers released their birds. There was a fluttering of wings, a rushing of air from both directions — and a sudden rumbling of voices from the audience. For the Jungle Shawl faltered in his charge — turned yellow. An unforgivable weakness in a fighting bird.

It cost the Shawl his life, for with a squawk and flutter of wings the Whitehackle hurtled through the air and pounced on his opponent. His vicious beak hooked into the hackle of the Shawl and for a second he straddled the bird, then the two-inch steel gaffe slashed down — and the Jungle Shawl was dead!

“Hung!” cried Tom Dodd.

Both handlers rushed forward. Quade looked at Reggie Ragsdale. The young millionaire was rising to his feet, his lips twisted into a wry grin. Quade looked across the cockpit at George Treadwell — and gasped.

Treadwell was still seated, but his arms and head hung over the top of the pit and even as Quade looked, his hat fell from his head and dropped to the sandy floor. At the distance Quade could see that Treadwell’s eyes were glassy.

“Treadwell!” Reggie Ragsdale exclaimed. He, too, had glanced across the pit.

Ragsdale brushed past Quade and hurried around the pit to Treadwell’s side, Quade following. Other spectators saw Treadwell then and a bedlam of noise went up.

“Don’t anyone leave!” thundered Ragsdale, his bored manner gone. “Treadwell is dead!”

“He’s been murdered!”

The three words rang out above the rumble of noise. Quade looked down into the pit at the awe-stricken face of Cleve Storm, Treadwell’s handler.

“Don’t be a fool, man!” he cautioned. “You can’t make an accusation like that! Mr. Treadwell probably died of heart failure.”

“He’s been murdered, I tell you!” cried Storm. “There wasn’t nothin’ the matter with his heart.”

Ragsdale straightened beside Quade. “Doctor Pardley!” he called.

A middle-aged man with a grey-flecked Vandyke came up. He made a quick examination of George Treadwell, without touching the body. Then he frowned at Ragsdale. “Hard to say, Reggie. Might have been apoplexy — except that he’s not the type.”

Ragsdale blinked. “He was a dead-game sportsman — I’ll see that his widow receives my check at once.”

“That ain’t gonna bring him back to life!” cried Cleve Storm. “I–I warned him not to come up here.”

“Why?” snapped Ragsdale testily.

Cleve Storm looked around the circle of hostile faces, for most of the men here were personal friends of Ragsdale. He gulped. “Because he didn’t have a chance — not against your money. You — you always win.”

Ragsdale winced. It was the deadliest insult any man could have hurled at him: to accuse him of not being a real sportsman. His lips tightened.

Quade came to Ragsdale’s assistance. “I’d advise you to keep your opinions — for the cops.”

Ragsdale flashed him a wan smile of thanks. “That’s right, we’ve got to call the police. And when the newspapers hear of this!”

Quade knew what he meant. Cock fighting was an undercover sport. A murder on the Ragsdale estate — cock fighting. The tabloids would have a scoop.

Ragsdale signaled to a steward. “Telephone for the Charlton police, Louis,” he ordered. “Tell them someone died here — might possibly be a murder.” He did not spare himself.

Quade looked at his leather case full of books and shook his head. Well, this shattered his hopes of making sales. The prospective customers wouldn’t be in the mood now for buying books, even if Quade had the bad taste to try selling them with a corpse just a few feet away.

Wait — a thought struck Quade. The police! They’d be here in a few minutes. This might be a murder after all and everyone here knew everyone else — except Quade. He was a gate-crasher — and he was not a millionaire. Why — why, he might even have some very bad moments trying to explain his presence here.

The police came, four of them, led by Chief Kells. With them came the county medical examiner. There was deference in the chief’s manner as he approached Ragsdale.

“Cock fighting, sir? It’s going to make quite a stir in town. It’s — it’s against the law!”

“I know,” replied Ragsdale wearily. “Go ahead, do your duty.”

The chief looked importantly at the medical examiner who was already going over the body of George Treadwell. “Very well, sir, you might begin by telling me just what happened.”

Ragsdale sighed. “Our birds were fighting in the pit — the last bout. My bird lost. When I looked across the pit, there was Treadwell, head hanging over the railing, dead.”

“Who was beside him?” asked the chief.

Ragsdale shook his head. “I don’t know, several of my guests, I suppose. I know only that I was directly opposite him across the width of the pit. But no one — excepting myself — had any motive for wishing his death.”

“And why yourself?” The chief pounced on Ragsdale’s self-accusal.

“Because I had a bet with Treadwell and lost.”

The chief looked worried, but just then the medical examiner came up. He, too, was frowning. “Not a mark on him,” he said. “Yet I’d swear that it wasn’t apoplexy or heart failure. Symptoms indicate he’s been poisoned, but I can’t find anything on him. I’ll have to do a post-mortem.”

Cleve Storm, who had released his Whitehackle in the pit and come up, sprang forward. “I knew he was poisoned. I knew it.”

“How did you know it?” asked Chief Kells sharply. “And who are you anyway?”

“He was Treadwell’s trainer,” explained Ragsdale. “A loyal employee.”

Kells shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. “It would have to be murder. All right, Mr. Ragsdale. I’ve got to do some questioning. How much money did you have bet on the final outcome of these cock fights?”

“Ten thousand — no, wait. Thirty-five thousand altogether. Ten thousand with Treadwell and twenty-five thousand with a man down in the South.”

“Who? Is he here?”

“No, and I really don’t know the man except by reputation. The bet was made through correspondence. A cocking enthusiast who lives in Nashville; C. Pitts is the name.”

The chief’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds screwy. You mean this Pitts guy just up and sent you twenty-five thousand as a bet?”

“Not exactly. Pitts sent the money to the editor of the Feathered Fighter,” explained Ragsdale. “I gave my own check to Mr. Morgan when he arrived here.”

“That’s true,” said a heavy-set man, stepping forward. “I have both checks in my pocket right now.”

Kells bit his lip. “You know this Pitts fellow?”

“Not personally,” said the magazine man, “but by reputation. He bets on many of the cocking mains and I’ve held stakes for him before. The arrangements have always been made by mail.”

Kells grunted. “How long you been raising roosters, Mr. Ragsdale? I thought horses was your game.”

“They are, but a few months ago Treadwell got me interested in game cocks. To tell you the truth, I’ve only raised a few birds and they’re still too young to fight. All the cocks I fought here tonight were purchased specially for the occasion. It’s quite ethical, I assure you.”

Quade perked up his ears. This was ironical indeed. Ragsdale with millions at his command and intensely interested in winning in everything he did, had probably spent an enormous sum for his fighting birds — and yet they’d lost, against ordinary fighting birds raised by Treadwell himself. Quade began to take a more serious interest in the situation. There might be something here yet that would prove interesting, perhaps afford Quade an opportunity to use that marvelous brain of his.

“From whom did you buy your roosters?” Kells again.

“Terence Walcott, who lives in the state of Oregon. Tom Dodd brought the birds East and handled them for me, during the fights. Dodd!”

Tom Dodd came forward. He was a little bandy-legged man of about forty.

“You the chap who raises these roosters?” questioned the chief.

“Yes, I work for Mr. Terence Walcott of Corvallis, Oregon. I been working around game cocks all my life.”

“Where were you when Treadwell was kil — died?”

“In the pit, of course.”

Kells looked at Ragsdale for confirmation. The latter nodded. “That’s right. He was down in the pit. In the opposite corner from Treadwell. Treadwell’s handler, Cleve Storm, was in the other corner, just under Treadwell’s seat. Federle, the referee, was all around the pit.”

“And everybody was watching them? That sorta lets those three out. Well, who was close by Treadwell at the moment?”

“I was,” a lean, middle-aged man spoke up. “I was right beside him on his left. I was so excited over the fights down in the pit, however, that I didn’t even know anything had happened to poor George Treadwell until Ragsdale came dashing around.”

The chief looked at the man with suspicion-laden eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Ralph Wilcoxson. Treadwell was my business partner. Treadwell & Wilcoxson, Lumber.”

The chief looked even more hostile than before. “And who was on the other side of him?”

“I was,” said Morgan, the editor of the Feathered Fighter.

The chief snorted in disgust. “Hell, everyone here is a friend of someone and respectable as a deacon. What chance have I got?”

Louis, the steward, who was standing behind his master, coughed. “Pardon, sir, everyone here isn’t a friend. I–I let the gentlemen in at the door — and one of them didn’t have a card.”

Quade swore softly. Ragsdale, the sportsman, hadn’t seen fit to betray him, but the servant who’d been the butt of Quade’s harmless joke awhile ago, couldn’t take it. This was his revenge.

“He means me, Chief,” he said, beating the traitorous steward to the punch.

The chief’s shoulders hunched, and his teeth bared. Here was someone who didn’t belong. “Who are you?” he asked, in a voice that almost shook the rafters.

Quade grinned impudently. “Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia, the man who knows the answers to all questions.” The introduction rolled glibly off Quade’s tongue. It was part of his showmanship.

The chief’s mouth dropped open. “Human Encyclopedia! What the hell you talkin’ about?”

“Just what I said. I’m the Human Encyclopedia who knows everything.”

“Ask him who killed Treadwell,” called out a wag in the crowd.

Quade winced. His wits had been wool-gathering, otherwise he’d never have left himself open for that. The chief pounced on it, too. “All right, Mr. Encyclopedia — who and what killed Treadwell?”

Quade gulped. “Ah, now, Chief, you’re not playing fair! Even Human Encyclopedias have a code of professional ethics. We don’t go into competition with other professions. You wouldn’t think it fair for cops to take in laundry on the side or sell moth tabs from door to door?”

Chief Kells tried to look stern but made a failure of it. “So you’re not so smart after all.”

“Well,” said Quade, “it’s against union rules, but I’ll help out a bit.” He pointed at the body of Treadwell. “Notice how the arms are hanging over the pit. I suggest you look at the hands!”

The medical examiner sprang forward, reached down and picked up Treadwell’s limp arms. He exclaimed almost immediately. “He’s right. There’s a tiny spot of blood right in the palm of his right hand. And it’s inflamed. Looks like he’s been struck with a hypodermic!”

The chief whirled and leveled a finger at Cleve Storm. “You — you’re the man!”

The cock handler’s jaw dropped and his eyes threatened to pop from his head. “Me!” he cried.

“Yes, you! You been doing all the hollering about murder around here and you’re the only one could have done it!”

“I could not!” screamed Storm, suddenly panic-stricken that the tables had been turned on him. “I was down in the pit when he was killed.”

The chief nodded grimly. “That’s why I’m accusing you. Look,” he pointed at the body of Treadwell. “He’s hanging over the pit right over the side where you was waiting while the roosters were fighting. Dodd was over on Ragsdale’s side, so it couldn’t have been him. And the referee was moving all around, which lets him out.”

The chief’s reasoning was sound, but the expression on Cleve Storm’s face caused Quade to pucker up his brow. Storm didn’t act like a murderer — and if he really was, he’d been damned dumb awhile ago to insist on murder when everyone else was willing to let it go as heart failure.

He looked down into the cockpit. The Whitehackle was still down there and was now quietly scratching away in the sand, hopefully trying to find a worm or bug. But where was the Jungle Shawl’s carcass?

Chief Kells spat out a stream of tobacco juice. “I’m arresting you, Storm. If I find a hypodermic anywhere around here you’re as good as burned right now. Oscar!” He signaled to one of his policemen. “Go over that pit down there, inch by inch. Look for a needle or hypodermic. You, Myers and Coons, you go over this place with a fine-tooth comb!”

Kells turned to Reggie Ragsdale. “I don’t believe there’ll be any more now, Mr. Ragsdale. Of course you know I got to bring charges about the cock fighting. That’ll mean maybe a small fine or suspended sentence. You’ll be notified when to appear in court.”

Ragsdale nodded. “Of course, Chief, and thanks for the way you’ve handled things here. I’ll speak to the board of council-men about you.”

The chief’s eyes glowed. He rubbed his hands together and began shouting orders. Men bustled around. The body of Treadwell was carried out on a stretcher. Cleve Storm, still protesting his innocence, was led out. Guests began to leave.

Quade gathered up his bagful of books and topcoat. He walked over to Ragsdale. “Sorry about the trouble. Hope everything will work out all right.”

“Thanks.” The young sportsman smiled wanly.

Quade nodded and swung around. His topcoat caught on the top of the railing. He gave it a jerk and it came away with a slight ripping sound. Quade swore softly. The coat was only about a year old. He reached out to touch a nail on which the coat had caught.

He stopped his fingers an inch from the point and his eyes narrowed suddenly. It wasn’t a nail on which the coat had caught, but a needle. It stuck up about a sixteenth of an inch from the top of the flat railing. This was the exact spot behind which Treadwell had sat.

At that moment one of the policemen down in the pit yelled. “I’ve found it!” He held aloft a shiny hypodermic needle. The medical examiner hurried down into the pit and took the needle from the policeman’s hand. He sniffed at it. “Not sure,” he said, “but it smells like curare, that stuff the South American Indians put on their blow-gun arrows. Kills instantly. Figured it was something like this that killed Treadwell,” he said triumphantly.

Quade shook his head. Curare at a cock fight! Things were getting complicated. A scrap of information in the back of Quade’s head bothered him. He had a habit of filing away odd bits of information in his encyclopedic brain, and when he had time, marshaling them together like the pieces of a crossword puzzle. A marvelous memory and this faculty of fitting together apparently irrelevant bits of information was largely responsible for his nickname — the Human Encyclopedia.

Quade deserved that name. Fifteen years ago he’d come into possession of a set of the Encyclopedia Americana, twenty-five large volumes. Quade read all the volumes from A to Z and then when he had finished, began at A again. He was now at PU on the fifth trip through the volumes. Fifteen years of reading the encyclopedias, plus extensive reading of other books had given him a truly encyclopedic brain.

What was this odd bit of information that puzzled him? It had something to do with the mix-up here tonight — something he’d observed or heard. Storm? No, because Quade was quite sure Storm was innocent. Something about the birds?

He hesitated for a moment, then sauntered over to the rear door of the barn. He slipped out quietly.

The yard was pitch dark. In the front of the building he could hear voices and automobiles, but back here it was as still and dark as the inside of a pocket. There was no moon or stars. A long black shadow loomed up ahead. Quade made his way toward it.

As he approached the building he recognized it for a Cornell type laying house. There was a door at one end of the building. Quade set down his bag and tried it. It was unlocked. He pushed it open. He stepped inside and struck a match. By the light of it he saw a light switch beside the door. He turned it and electric lights sprang on.

Quade saw that the building was evidently used as a conditioning room for poultry. Wire coops, sacks of feed, a bench on which stood cans of oil, remedies, tonics and other paraphernalia. Quade examined the objects and grinned. There was even a box of face rouge. Having raised birds himself he knew that breeders often used rouge to touch up the ear lobes of the birds. Baking soda was used to bring out the color of the red Jungle Shawl birds. The oil was for slicking up the feathers.

A large gunny sack on the floor caught his eye. There was a small pool of dark liquid beside the sack. Quade stooped and picked up the shawl. He dumped out the contents — four Jungle Shawl cocks — dead.

Four? Nine of Ragsdale’s birds had met defeat. Quade hadn’t seen all the bouts, but he’d been informed by other spectators that six of the losing Shawls had been killed, three merely wounded. Well, where were the other two carcasses? The bag was large enough to have held all of them. That didn’t make sense. If Tom Dodd had brought the carcasses here why hadn’t he brought them all? Or hadn’t Dodd brought them here?

A sound behind him caused Quade to whirl. He was just in time to see the door push open and a couple of hairy arms reach in. The hands held a huge, red fighting cock. Even as Quade looked, the cock was dropped to the floor and the door slammed shut. Quade heard the hasp rattle outside and knew that the person who had thrown in the Jungle Shawl had locked the door on the outside.

Quade’s eyes were focused on the fighting cock. The bird was ruffling up his hackles and uttering warning squawks. Quade gasped. He’d known game cocks down in the South to kill full-grown sheep with their naked spurs — and those were ordinary games. These Jungle Shawls were only one generation removed from the wild ancestors of the Malay jungles.

This particular cock was well equipped for fighting. It had needle pointed steel gaffs on his spurs which seemed to Quade longer than those the birds in the pits had used. They were at least three inches long.

One slash of those powerful legs and the needles would rip through clothing, skin and flesh. They would lay open a thigh to the bone.

Quade was given no time for thought. With a sudden vicious squawk the Jungle Shawl hurled himself at Quade, half running, half flying. Quade sprang backward and collided with a sack of egg-mash. He stumbled on it and tripped to the floor. He rolled over on his side as quickly as he could and just missed the attack of the angry rooster. One wing brushed his face. He sprang to his feet and put a safe distance between himself and the bird.

The cock whirled and uttered a defiant screech. Then it charged again. Quade sidestepped and began stripping off his topcoat which he’d donned before leaving the big barn. He held the coat a foot or so before him and waited.

The bird charged. Quade flicked out the coat like a bull fighter teasing a bull and lashed out with his foot at the same time. The bird hit the coat and there was the ripping sound of cloth. At the same moment Quade’s foot caught something solid and a sharp streak of pain shot through his leg.

The kick hurled the bird several feet backward and Quade looked down. The steel gaffs had slashed the topcoat clean through, pierced Quade’s trouser leg and the skin underneath. Quade felt the warm blood course down his shin and cursed aloud.

He was fighting a losing fight, he knew. The bird seemed hurt by the kick but was preparing for another charge. Quade tossed his coat aside and sprang across the room for a heavy broom that stood against the wall.

Glass tinkled as Quade hefted the broom. His eyes shot to the little window beside the door. A red galvanized pail appeared in the opening and its liquid contents poured in to the floor with a tremendous splash. The fumes of gasoline hit Quade’s nostrils and he gasped. The distraction fortunately had also attracted the attention of the fighting cock, for if it had charged just then it would have been too bad for Quade.

The hair on Quade’s neck bristled. He had a feeling that he was in the most dangerous spot of his entire life. In front of him a fighting cock — and on the side—?

The rooster was cackling again. Quade took the fight to the bird now. He rushed across the room and met him in full charge. The smack of the broom as it hit the rooster could have been heard a hundred yards away. The cock screeched as it was lifted off its feet and hurled against the wall. Quade followed up his attack, smashed the bird again as it hit the floor.

Then — then the entire room shot up in one terrific blaze of fire. The attacker outside the shed had tossed a blazing piece of newspaper into the gasoline. One entire side of the room was a sheet of flame, from floor to ceiling. Quade rushed back from the crippled bird and stared, panic-stricken, at the fire.

The door was locked on the outside. The windows were small and had wire mesh nailed outside of the glass. He could never get through one of them — not in time at least. This building was made of dry spruce boards. It would be in ashes inside of ten minutes.

Quade was trapped.

Heat from the huge flames scorched Quade’s face. Fire! Of what use now was his encyclopedia knowledge when he was trapped in a burning building? Was there anything in the Encyclopedia Americana that would tell him how to get out of such a predicament?

Fire — what would extinguish a fire? Water. There was none in here. Chemicals. There were none — Wait!

Chemicals — no — but baking soda! Why, there were three large cartons of it right here behind him on the bench. Baking soda, one of the finest dry fire extinguishers in the world. Quade had read about it in his encyclopedias and had tried it out — as he had many other things that particularly interested him. He’d built a fire of charcoal wood and paper, had let it blaze fiercely. Then with an ordinary carton of baking soda he’d put out the fire in an instant. That had been an experiment on a small scale, however; would it work on a large scale — when it was an absolute necessity?

Quade reached behind him and snatched up a five-pound carton of baking soda. He reached in, drew out a handful and hurled it into the midst of the big blaze. A flash of white leaped high and was followed by greyish smoke. Quade’s eyes, looking sharply at the floor where the soda fell, saw that the fire burned less fiercely there.

He advanced on the fire then. It seared his face and hands, but he threw the baking soda full into the flames, handful after handful. Then, finally, with a desperate gesture, he emptied the box. He whirled his back on the fire and started back for the second box. He caught it up, ripped open the cover and turned it on the fire.

A wild surge of joy rose in him. Why, there was a wide swath of blackened flooring now leading to the door. The fire still blazed around the edges but the heart was cut out of it. Quade attacked the fire with renewed effort. He hurled soda right and left. His eyes smarted, his lungs choked and his skin was scorched, but he persisted. The second box of soda went and now the fire was but a few flickering flames around the edges. It required only a few handfuls from the third box to put out the last little flame.

Quade surveyed the fire-blackened wreckage and let out a tremendous sigh of relief. A stench of burnt flesh penetrated his nostrils. A mass of smoking flesh and feathers told of the fate of the fighting cock that had attacked him.

Five minutes later Quade leaned against the doorbell of the big Ragsdale residence. A butler opened the door, gasped and tried to close the door again, but Quade shoved it open smartly and stepped into the hallway.

“Mr. Ragsdale in?”

The butler rolled his eyes wildly. “Why — uh — I don’t think so.”

Quade heard voices and the tinkling of glasses ahead. He brushed past the butler. A wide door opened off the hallway into a luxuriously furnished room, containing about twenty men. Ragsdale, standing just inside the door, caught sight of Quade and cried out in astonishment. “Why — it’s Oliver Quade. Good Lord, man, what happened to you?”

Quade walked into the room. His eyes searched the crowd, picking out familiar faces — Morgan, Wilcoxson, the medical examiner, even Tom Dodd. Then his eyes came back to Ragsdale. “One of your hen houses caught on fire and I put it out,” he explained.

“Good for you!” exclaimed Ragsdale. “We all left the barn right after the police found the hypodermic which pinned Treadwell’s murder on Cleve Storm.”

“Storm didn’t kill Treadwell,” Quade said bluntly. “The murderer is right here in this room. He’s the same man who poisoned your Jungle Shawls and made you lose the cocking main.”

“He’s a liar!” Tom Dodd, face black as a thundercloud, came forward. “Your birds weren’t poisoned, Mr. Ragsdale. I handled them myself and examined each one before I pitted them.”

Quade looked insolently at the furious handler. “I didn’t see all the bouts, but I did see four Shawls in a row get killed — and each one of them was killed because he apparently turned yellow — and faltered. But they didn’t really falter. They were poisoned—”

“That’s a lie!” screamed Tom Dodd. “The Shawls lost because they were up against better birds.”

Quade grinned wolfishly. “Say — whose side are you on?” he asked. “You brought those Shawls here and claimed they were the best in the world.”

“That’s right!” snapped Ragsdale. “I paid Walcott a fancy price for those birds and he guaranteed them to beat the best in the country.”

“I think they would have,” Quade assured him. “They were real fighters. One of them almost killed me — but let that pass for the moment. Mr. Ragsdale, just to prove my point, pick up that phone there and call Mr. Terence Walcott, of Corvallis, Oregon.”

“Why should he call up the boss?” cried Dodd. “I’m the handler. I’ve raised fighting cocks all my life!”

“Have you?” Quade didn’t seem impressed. “I’ve raised a few birds myself. By the way, have you gentlemen noticed that we Southerners use different cocking terms than Northerners? For example, up here you say, ‘stuck’ when a bird is wounded. Down South we say ‘hung.’ Am I right, Mr. Morgan?”

“That’s right, Mr. Quade,” the editor replied. “There’s quite a difference in the terminology of the South and North. I’ve published articles on the subject in my magazines.”

“Well, did any of you notice that every time a Jungle Shawl was hung, Tom Dodd cried out, ‘Hung’? Yet Mr. Dodd says he comes from the North!”

The silence in the room was suddenly so profound that Tom Dodd’s hoarse breathing sounded like a rasping cough. Quade broke the silence. “By the way, Dodd, that’s a peculiar ring you’re wearing. Mind letting me take a look at it?”

Tom Dodd looked down at the ring on his left hand. His lips moved silently for a moment, then he looked at Quade. “No — I don’t mind. Here—”

He started toward Quade who, to the surprise of everyone in the room, suddenly lashed out with his right fist. He put everything into the blow, the pent-up emotion and anger he’d accumulated in the burning poultry house. The fist caught Dodd on the point of the jaw, smashed him back into a couple of the guests. They made no move to catch him and Dodd slid off them to the floor. He lay in a huddle, quiet.

“There’s your murderer!” cried Quade, blowing on his fist.

That broke the spell. Men began shouting questions. Quade stooped down, slipped the ornate ring from Dodd’s finger. He held it up for all to see. “See this little needle that shoots out on the inside of the ring?” Heads craned forward.

“That’s why those birds of yours died without fighting, Mr. Ragsdale,” Quade explained. “Just as Dodd would let them go, he’d prick them with this needle. There’s poison on it, which took effect almost instantly.”

Ragsdale shook his head in bewilderment. “But Treadwell—”

“Was killed in a similar fashion, but not with the ring. Remember there was an intermission before the last fight — during which I tried to sell you men a few books,” Quade grinned. “That’s when Dodd stuck a little poisoned needle into the flat top of the railing where Treadwell sat. Perhaps he’d noticed Treadwell eyeing him with suspicion. Suspecting that he was poisoning the cocks. Dodd worked out the whole thing pretty cleverly. Took no chances. Witness the hypodermic which he tossed into the sand. That was for a blind.

“He’d figured out that when Treadwell’s bird won the last and deciding bout that Treadwell would probably smack the railing in his excitement — maybe he’d watched him doing it after other bouts. Well, that’s exactly what Treadwell did. The needle’s still in the railing. I ripped my coat on it when I started to leave.”

“But what made you suspect Dodd?” asked Ragsdale.

Quade grinned. “My encyclopedic brain, I guess. In the excitement of learning that Treadwell was murdered, Dodd was still cool enough to remove the carcass of the Shawl. That was the first thing that got me to thinking. Then the matter of terminology stuck in my mind. I didn’t catch it at first. Dodd cried out ‘hung’ every time. Well, that’s a Southern term and Dodd was supposed to have come from Oregon: claimed he’d lived there all his life.”

“You mean to say that Dodd does not actually come from Oregon?” exclaimed Ragsdale. “Why — that would mean that he isn’t really Dodd at all?”

“Right,” said Quade. “And Treadwell must have known that. He’d probably met the right Dodd at some time or other. I suspect you’ll learn after talking to Walcott on the phone that the real Dodd doesn’t look like this one at all. Where he is, I don’t know. This chap may have bought him off, murdered him perhaps. That isn’t so important because he’ll burn for the murder of Treadwell anyway. It’s enough that we know this chap took the real Dodd’s place somewhere between Oregon and here.”

“Yes — but who is he?” asked Ragsdale.

Quade screwed up his lips. “I think you’ll find that he sometimes uses the name of C. Pitts. In fact, I’m willing to lay odds that a hand writing expert will declare the signature on that check Morgan has, was made by this chap. Twenty-five thousand is a lot of money and Mr. Pitts wanted to make sure he won.”

“I’ll be damned!” said Ragsdale. “You’ve certainly figured everything out. And — I believe you. I can understand now why they call you the Human Encyclopedia.”

Quade’s eyes lit up. “That reminds me — I didn’t get finished out there in the barn. So if you have no objections, I’ll continue with my little talk about The Compendium of Human Knowledge. ‘All the knowledge of the ages condensed into one volume.’”