Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia

Death on Eagle’s Crag

Mrs. Mattie Egan, proprietor of Eagle’s Crag, was the toughest prospect Oliver Quade had worked on in many months. For ten minutes he had extolled the merits of the set of encyclopedias. He had painted glorious pictures for Mrs. Egan, had told her of marvelous benefits she would derive from owning the books. He had told her all those things in a voice that could be heard half-way down the mountain.

But Mrs. Egan was unmoved by it all. Her resistance was summed up in the stubborn, unyielding statement: “I’m fifty-six years old, come next January, and I ain’t never owned no books of my own and I don’t intend to start buying none now.”

The word “quit” was not in Oliver Quade’s lexicon. He was the best book salesman in the country. He admitted it himself; his rivals conceded it. Mrs. Egan may never have bought books from any other salesman, but she was going to buy from Oliver Quade.

He told her: “Mrs. Egan, I’m not trying to sell you books. I’m trying to sell you knowledge. In these twenty-four volumes is the knowledge of the ages; everything that the human race has learned since the dawn of time. Everything, Mrs. Egan. Do you know how far the sun is from the earth? Do you know that a certain condiment in your kitchen is a better fire extinguisher than any chemical?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Egan. “I don’t know them things but I’ve lived fifty-six years without knowin’ ’em and I guess I can struggle along a little longer without any encyclepeedies.”

Behind Mrs. Egan, on the broad porch of the lodge which was the main building on Eagle’s Crag, several people were listening with various expressions of interest. Oliver Quade appealed to them. “Folks, I’m asking you, haven’t I made all of you want to own these marvelous books of knowledge?”

It was a trick on Oliver Quade’s part. He’d made his sales talk to the proprietor, Mrs. Egan. The summer guests had heard it merely incidentally. Not being canvassed directly, they were wide open. They didn’t know that the moment they expressed their interest Quade would shift the weight of his sales attack to them, and then carry Mrs. Egan along on the buying tide.

A bespectacled youth of nineteen or twenty made an opening sally. “I wouldn’t want your books, Mister. I already know all the things you’ve asked. The mean average distance-to the sun is 92,900,000 miles. And baking soda is the fire extinguisher you referred to.”

Quade pretended to be disconcerted. Actually, he was delighted. He hadn’t counted on the good fortune of having an intellectual in his audience. The youth would be a perfect stooge.

“Ah,” he chuckled. “We have a student with us. Tell me, sir, who was the first American born president?”

The boy’s forehead wrinkled. He thought quickly, then replied, “James Buchanan.”

Quade shook his head. “It was Martin Van Buren. All presidents previous to him were born English subjects. Here’s another: Of which are there more in this country — telephones or automobiles?”

The student scowled. “You’re asking trick questions. I can ask you questions you can’t answer.”

Oliver Quade pulled a thick roll of bills from his pocket. He peeled off two ten-dollar notes. “Mister, you’ve bought yourself something. They call me the Human Encyclopedia because I know the answers to all questions. I’ve read all the encyclopedias four times and I remember all I’ve read. This twenty dollars is yours if you can ask me three questions I can’t answer.”

The challenge aroused the interest of the others on the veranda. There was a stout, middle-aged woman with a haughty look and a sleek-looking man of about forty.

“I’d like to ask one of those questions,” cut in the sleek man. “If Danny Dale has no objections.”

The youth shook his head. “No, go ahead, Mr. Cummings. You ask the first one. I want to think a moment about my two.”

Mr. Cummings cleared his throat. “All right, when was the half-tone process of reproducing photographs for printing invented and who is generally conceded to be the inventor?”

Quade’s eyes flashed. “You’re a publisher, Mr. Cummings? Well, that’s a question ninety percent of the newspaper and magazine men couldn’t answer. But I can. George Meisenbach, of Munich, patented, in 1882, the process by which the first practical half-tones were made, although in 1852 Fox Talbot, of England, suggested the breaking up of a photograph by means of a screen.”

Cummings whistled. “Mr. Quade, you’re good! I’ll listen to Danny Dale’s questions.”

The cock-sureness had left young Dale’s face. He tried, however, to look blasé. “I’ve got a couple of real ones for you. Number one, what is an astrolabe? Number two, what are the ingredients of gunpowder?”

“The astrolabe,” Oliver Quade said, “is the oldest scientific instrument in the world. It was invented about 150 B.C. by Hipparchus. The mariner’s sextant is an off-shoot of it. Gunpowder — there are many formulas, but all have the same three basic ingredients: saltpeter, sulphur and charcoal. The most commonly used formula consists of seventy-five percent saltpeter, fifteen percent charcoal and ten percent sulphur. Do I win?”

Danny Dale looked crestfallen. “Yes, I guess so.”

Quade slapped his hands together. “Fine; then let’s get back to business. All the things I’ve told you are in this set of encyclopedias. And a hundred thousand more—”

There was an interruption. Behind Quade, in the two-acre clearing, a girl came running, her short bobbed hair tossed to the winds, her lithe figure covering the ground in long strides. Behind her a few feet, running more easily, was a tall young man of about thirty.

It was the girl’s cry that had interrupted Quade. “Mother! Mrs. Egan! Mr. Thompson — he’s dead!”

The stout woman on the veranda let out a frightened “eek.” Cummings and Danny Dale rose from their seats and came quickly down the three-step flight of stairs.

Quade was watching Mrs. Egan’s face and he saw her eyes blink behind her thick glasses. Then a shudder ran through her.

“What do you mean, Mr. Thompson’s dead,” she said, sharply. “I saw him only fifteen minutes ago.”

The young man who had been outdistanced by the running girl was within talking distance now. “He is dead,” he confirmed the girl’s hysterical announcement. “He’s been killed by a rattlesnake.”

Quade stabbed a lean finger at the man. “He was alive fifteen minutes ago and now he’s dead from a rattlesnake bite?”

The young man shrugged. “I know what you’re thinking. That a rattlesnake bite seldom kills inside of two or three hours. But you see, the fang marks were plain and Thompson killed the snake with a club before he succumbed himself.” He jerked his head in the direction of the roadway. “Down there.”

Mrs. Mattie Egan dropped her triple chins upon her bosom. “Miss Judy,” she said to the girl, “you stay here with your mother. She looks kinda sick. The rest of you can come if you like.”

She started determinedly across the clearing to the road leading down the mountain. The men followed her. They descended a hundred yards down the steep slope, then rounding a turn came abruptly on the body of a man. He lay at the side of the crushed rock road, his arms flung out on either side of him, his right hand clutching a thick stick. Five or six feet away, lay a dead rattlesnake, its back broken in three or four places. The deductions of the girl and the young man were sensible — but Quade shook his head.

“This man didn’t kill that snake,” he said, “and the snake didn’t kill him.”

Gasps went up around the circle. Martin Faraday, who with the girl, Judy Vickers, had discovered the body of Harold Thompson, challenged Quade’s statement. “How can you know?”

Quade pointed down at the dead man. “The stick is in the right hand. But this man — Thompson you say his name was — was left-handed!”

The amazing announcement resulted in a stunned silence. Quade broke it himself. “Mind you, I’ve never seen Thompson before. But I can see that his belt end is facing to the right; only a left-handed man would wear his belt like that. His tie also goes to the right, exactly opposite of the way an ordinary man ties it. And the thumb and forefinger of his left hand are ink-stained, proving that he was not only left-handed but that he wrote a great deal with pen and ink. My guess is that Mr. Thompson was a bookkeeper. No, he wouldn’t have been up here on a bookkeeper’s salary. Accountant, then.”

“I’ll be damned,” swore Frederick Cummings. “He told me only yesterday that he was an accountant. Said he was from Buffalo. And I saw him writing left-handed.”

Quade nodded. “Left-handed people are commoner than the average person suspects. In fact, one of every eight people is left-handed.”

“Some more encyclopedia stuff,” scoffed Danny Dale.

Quade ignored the jibe. “We’ve got to notify the sheriff.”

“The sheriff?” cried Mrs. Egan. “What for?”

“I just got through saying that this man was — murdered!”

Mrs. Egan winced. The others took the startling announcement with more fortitude.

Faraday said, “Then no one had better touch anything.”

Quade turned to the proprietor of Eagle’s Crag. “Mrs. Egan, you’ve a phone at the lodge?”

Mrs. Egan shook her head. “No, I ain’t. Young man, d’you realize we’re thirty-three miles from town by road, sixteen from the main highway, thirty-two hundred feet up on a mountain-top. The bloomin’ phone company wanted more to run a line out than Eagle’s Crag is worth.”

“You can send someone to town though?”

The owner of Eagle’s Crag frowned. “This is kinda early in the season and I ain’t got my full crew yet. Only McClosky, the cook. Him and me been runnin’ things. But I guess he can take the station wagon and run down to Hilltown.”

They left the dead man where he lay and climbed back up the steep road to the lodge.

“Mac!” yelled Mrs. Egan. “Where are you?”

A bandy-legged man in bibless overalls and a patched flannel shirt came out of a shed near the lodge. “Here I am, Miz Egan,” he said meekly. His long, handlebar mustaches drooped down to the receding chin.

Mrs. Egan looked suspiciously at him. “Mac, you’ve been drinking again!” she accused.

McClosky wiped the right side of his mustache with the back of his hand, giving the lie to his denial. “No, I ain’t, Miz Egan, honest I ain’t. I was fixin’ up the autymobile in there, that’s what I was doin’.”

“You’re a liar, Mac,” Mrs. Egan said. “But pull out the wagon and head for town. Tell the sheriff one of my guests had been bit by a rattlesnake — only some folks here,” she looked pointedly at Quade, “are tryin’ to make murder out of it.”

“Murder?” yelped McClosky. “Mr. Thompson’s dead?”

“How’d you know it was Thompson?” Quade cried.

McClosky took a quick step back and his eyes rolled. “Why, he’s the on’y one ain’t here, so natcherly I figured…” his words trailed off.

“That was quick work, McClosky,” said Oliver Quade.

“So was yours,” cut in Cummings.

“He’s right, Quade,” said Martin Faraday. “If it is murder as you claim, none of us here is above suspicion. Remember, Quade, you passed us on the road coming up ten minutes before we discovered Harold Thompson’s body.”

“The man’s a perfect stranger to me,” said Quade. “He wasn’t a stranger to any of you though.”

“A man doesn’t have to know a man to kill him,” Cummings looked down at his well manicured nails. “Robbery is sometimes a mighty good motive for murder.”

Quade’s mouth became grim. He looked toward his battered flivver over near the lodge. “All right, I’m a suspect, too. But so is McClosky and everyone here. I don’t think anyone should leave here. Not singly, at least.”

“I know Mac better’n any of you,” cut in Mrs. Egan. “Someone’s gotta go to town and I vote for Mac, suspect or no suspect. He’s too dumb to make a getaway anyway. G’wan, Mac, get out the wagon.”

McClosky popped into the garage and backed out an ancient locking station wagon. He whirled it around the clearing, headed toward the descending road, then suddenly braked the car to a stop.

“Car comin’ up, Miz Egan,” he called.

Mrs. Egan frowned. “Why, I wasn’t expectin’ any more guests until next week. Wonder who it could be?”

Quade could hear the automobile, coming up in second gear, grinding furiously for it was a long, steep ascent to Eagle’s Crag. A moment later it nosed up onto the plateau. It was a big black touring car with side curtains. The driver slewed into the path of the station wagon and stopped.

Men began climbing out, four in all.

“Oh-oh,” Quade said softly.

The newcomers spread out in fan shape and leisurely approached the summer resort crowd. One of the men walked a little ahead of the others. He was of slight build, under middle height. He wore an unmatched coat and trousers and a vest that was open. He was hatless, his eyes oddly cold and calculating and he had a two days’ growth of black beard.

He said in a toneless voice: “Who runs this shebang?”

“I do, Mister,” Mrs. Egan snapped.

The slight man continued to come forward. Quade could see his eyes then; they were the coldest he had ever seen in a human. They were a pale, washed-out blue, steady and unblinking under heavy, bushy eyebrows.

“Me and the boys figure on stoppin’ here a while,” the man said.

Mrs. Egan fidgeted. “Well, the lodge ain’t rightly open for another week yet and I don’t know as how I can accommodate you.”

One of the other men, a giant who stood six feet five and weighed close to 250 pounds, sneered. “G’wan, chief, tell her. What the hell!”

The slight man was unmoved by his friend’s urging. His voice was still toneless as he said, “You’ll put us up. And you better have your man run that buggy back in the garage.”

Then Mrs. Egan flared up. “Say, listen, who are you to tell me what to do around here? I said I couldn’t accommodate you and I meant it.”

“There’s a dead man down the road,” the leader of the four said. “Have you called in the law yet, or was this old coot just goin’ now?”

“What’d you call me?” cried McClosky.

The newcomer turned leisurely toward McClosky, who was climbing belligerently out of the station wagon. “I said you was an old coot,” he repeated. “And my name is Lou Bonniwell.”

“Bonniwelll” cried Danny Dale. “You’re Lou Bonniwell?”

“Yeah, sure, that’s him,” boasted the giant. “And me, I’m Jake Somers. Big Jake.”

Quade took a deep breath. “Welcome to Eagle’s Crag, boys. Me, I’m a stranger here, too.”

“Who’re you?” demanded Bonniwell.

“Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia. The man who knows the answers to all questions. I know—”

“Do you know where the law is right now?” asked Bonniwell.

Quade cocked his head to one side. “Far from here, or you wouldn’t be here. You came here to hide out, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Monk was raised hereabouts. He claims you can see seven States and six counties or something like that from this mountain-top.”

A squat man with long arms grinned vacantly. “Three States and six counties, Lou. And you saw the road yourself. We could hold off an army.”

Bonniwell nodded. “The layout’s all right, Monk. But they’ll get us sooner or later.”

“Not me they won’t get,” boasted Big Jake Somers.

Bonniwell looked bitterly at his big henchman. “You’re big, Jake, but if one forty-five slug doesn’t cut you down, two will.”

“A twenty-two in the right place will do it,” Quade offered.

Big Jake said savagely, “Who the hell asked you?”

Quade grimaced. “Pay no attention to me. I talk too much.”

“You do at that, pardner,” said Bonniwell. “Jake, take one of the guns and sit down over there by the road. Monk, you and Heinie look through things here. Gather up all the artillery.”

Like a general Bonniwell dispatched his forces, and like obedient soldiers his men obeyed. Jake Somers brought a vicious looking submachine gun from the touring car. He walked with it to the head of the road leading down from Eagle’s Crag and seated himself upon a boulder. No one could now leave or enter Eagle’s Crag without his permission.

Monk Moon, the squat man, and Heinie Krausmeyer, a roly-poly blank-faced man, frisked the Eagle’s Crag guests. Then the two disappeared into the lodge.

Mrs. Egan, who had been quiet for a little while spoke then. “That Monk man,” she said. “I recognize him now. He’s Tim Moon’s boy, Alfred. He was raised down there in the valley.” She shook her head. “I never liked him even as a boy. Too sly and sneaky. I allus said he’d come to a bad end.”

“Quite right, ma’am,” agreed Lou Bonniwell. “Monk’ll get hanged some day, if he don’t get shot first.”

Danny Dale stepped forward brightly. “Say, Mr. Bonniwell, I was listening to the radio last night. That was some escape you made from the penitentiary.”

Bonniwell looked at Danny. “Sonny, I was hopin’ there wouldn’t be no kids here. Always complicates things.”

Danny Dale reddened. “I’m not a kid. I’m twenty and I’m a university graduate. I even have a master’s degree.”

A fleeting smile crossed Bonniwell’s face. “Is that so, now? Well, bub, you just watch your p’s and q’s and you won’t get hurt. I never went to college myself, but I been around.”

Danny Dale retreated. Quade looked around at the others. Besides himself there were Frederick Cummings, Marty Faraday, Judy Vickers and her mother, Mrs. Egan and McClosky. Plus four escaped convicts and killers. And one dead man down on the road — murdered by someone on Eagle’s Crag.

“Just so there won’t be no mistake, folks,” Bonniwell said, “we killed two guards when we made the break yesterday morning. In the afternoon we knocked off a cop when we got the guns and stuff at the police station. You can imagine what the law’s gonna do to us if they catch up. Now, I got no quarrel with any of you here. I’m only here because this is a good hideout. We may be here a day or a week. Maybe, two. Until we leave you folks are gonna stay put. Understand?”

After a while Monk Moon and Heinie Krausmeyer came out of the lodge, carrying three shotguns, two rifles and a small pistol. “We found ’em here and there, boss.”

“My husband was a huntin’ man,” said Mrs. Egan. “Them shotguns and rifles was his’n. The pea-shooter, I dunno.”

“That’s mine,” said Cummings. “I–I always carry it with me when I’m traveling.”

“I’ll mind it for you, Mister,” said Bonniwell. “O.K., Monk, toss ’em in the car. Then git out the glasses and kinda look out over them six States and seven counties. The rest of you,” he turned to the Eagle’s Crag folk, “just go about your business. Only don’t get too close to Jake’s machine-gun there.”

Monk Moon brought a big pair of military field glasses from the car. He started toward the rear of the lodge. Quade followed him leisurely. Monk chuckled as he fondled the glasses. “I never had nothin’ like this when I was a kid. Boy, I bet I see four States.”

Behind the lodge the mountain fell away in a sheer precipice. Quade approached it gingerly. “A drop of over two thousand feet,” he grimaced.

“On practically three sides,” said Monk. “Only way up or down is by that road.”

“Hey, you!” called Bonniwell, coming up.

Quade turned. “I wasn’t intending shoving him over,” he said.

“I know you wouldn’t commit suicide by a stunt like that,” Bonniwell said. “Couple of the folks back there say you said that bozo down on the road was murdered instead of bit by a snake. What’s that — a bit of malarkey? You got plenty of it.”

“I have at that,” admitted Quade. “I wouldn’t be the book salesman I am if I didn’t have it. But I was telling the truth about that chap. He was murdered. Someone killed the rattlesnake with a club then put the club in this fellow’s hand after killing him — only he didn’t know the man was left-handed and put it in his right hand to make it look as if he’d killed the snake. Aside from that, take a look at the man’s calf, where the snake was supposed to have bitten him.”

“I think I will,” said Bonniwell. “The thing kinda makes me curious. Come along.”

They walked past Jake Somers sitting on the boulder with his machine-gun. Bonniwell casually dropped behind Quade then, keeping one hand near his waist-band in which was stuck an automatic. When they reached the body of the dead man Quade pointed to Thompson’s left leg. The trouser leg was pulled up part way and two angry red spots were plainly visible. Quade pointed at them. “See how far apart the punctures are? And how deep?”

“No rattler ever did that,” Bonniwell laughed shortly. “There’s a murderer in your crowd. I’m kinda curious to know which of you gazabos had the nerve to pull a job like this. Offhand, I’d say it was you.”

“Not me,” denied Quade. “I’m just a book salesman who happened to drift up here thinking I could make a couple of sales. I never saw any of these people before today.”

“Hmm,” mused Bonniwell. “A while ago you were shooting off about how smart you was. You claimed to know just about everything.”

“That’s right. I’m the Human Encyclopedia.”

“But you don’t know who killed this guy?”

Quade shrugged. “I’m more interested in knowing why he was killed. I’ve been playing with an idea how to find out.”

“What is it?”

“Well, Cummings, the fat play boy back there, says Thompson told him he was an accountant. Often accountants have opportunities to get their hands on large sums. My guess is that Thompson stole a wad of money and came here to hide out until the smoke blew away.”

“I think you got something there, fella. Say, ride this hunch of yours and find out how much dough this bozo had and maybe where it is.”

Quade knew that the escaped convict was exceedingly eager to acquire a large sum of money. It would be mighty handy for a quick getaway once he left Eagle’s Crag. It might even persuade him to leave sooner and Quade desired that very much.

They went back to the lodge and Bonniwell herded all those on Eagle’s Crag, with the exception of Jake Somers, into the big livingroom.

“Folks, there’s a murderer among us,” Bonniwell began and Danny Dale promptly snickered. The escaped convict stared at him coldly. “Sonny,” he said. “I’m trying hard to remember you’re just a kid and my mother told me always to treat women folks and kids with kindness.” He gestured to Quade. “You carry on.”

“Have you thrown in with them?” asked Judy Vickers.

Quade looked steadily at the girl and she flushed. He said then, “Harold Thompson was murdered. I’m sure of that. I’m also pretty sure that he was a fugitive from justice, an absconder. I believe he had his loot with him and was killed for it.”

The crowd began murmuring and looking at one another. Quade continued, “Mr. Cummings, you say Thompson told you he was from Buffalo. I imagine, therefore, that he was actually from the opposite direction. New York, I’d say. You’re from there. Have you heard of anyone recently who ran off with a large sum of money?”

Cummings puckered up his mouth. “Mmm, in New York there’s always someone stealing from his firm. The biggest one I heard of lately was a trusted employee of the Horgan Packing Company who ran off with eighty thousand dollars. But the man’s name was Miller, I believe, not Thompson.”

“It’s him!” cut in Mrs. Mattie Egan. “I mind only last week when I was — well, sorta looking through his stuff that I found some handkerchiefs with the initial M on them. I thought it funny, seein’s how his name was Thompson.”

“Then Thompson was Miller,” said Quade. “And he brought with him eighty thousand dollars.”

“Eighty grand,” Bonniwell mused. “That’s a pretty good haul. Why with eighty grand I could—” He broke off, but his eyes remained speculative. After a moment he jerked his head toward Heinie and Monk. “Boys, let’s start on a treasure hunt. Eighty grand makes a pretty big package and it’s somewhere in this shebang.”

The trio started eagerly up the stairs to the bedrooms. Quade watched them go. They would make an intensive search of everyone’s room. If the money was upstairs they would certainly find it.

Judy’s mother, Mrs. Vickers, broke the silence that fell on the group when Bonniwell and his men went off to make the search. “How long is this going to go on? Isn’t there some way we can get aid?”

“If we had some sleeping powders or knockout drops we might put in their food—” suggested Faraday dryly.

“There’s a medicine chest in the bathroom,” said Mrs. Egan. “I guess it’s got some chloroform or ether in it”

“Marty,” said Judy Vickers. “Stop joking. This is a serious matter.”

Mrs. Vickers looked coldly at Martin Faraday, then turned to Frederick Cummings. Her face softened. “Have you any sensible ideas, Frederick?”

Quade got the picture then. Mother Vickers favored Frederick Cummings, but the daughter preferred Faraday. It gave Quade an idea. Mrs. Vickers probably wasn’t as well off as she tried to give the impression. Cummings was wealthy — or Mrs. Vickers thought he was. Faraday? Probably a clerk or some sort who had saved for a year or more to have this outing. Faraday would like a large sum of money. It would remove parental objection. Then, too, perhaps Cummings wasn’t as well off as he pretended to be. He too, could use a large sum of money and he seemed to have been better acquainted with the dead accountant than any of the others.

But then the others would all do considerable for eighty thousand dollars. Mrs. Egan’s entire property was worth only a fraction of that sum. She was a formidable person, had made her own way for years.

McClosky? Quade couldn’t overlook the cook and handy man’s original suspicious reactions to the announcement of Thompson’s death. Danny Dale? A twenty-year-old intellectual, he was the equal of anyone here, excepting Quade.

An hour later the three convicts returned to the livingroom and Bonniwell’s calmness was gone. He was scowling and Quade knew that the frustration of not finding the money had made the killer a dangerous man.

“We’re goin’ to search down here, now,” he snarled. “But I’m warnin’ you all if we don’t find it, I’m going to ask some questions. One of you knows where the dough is stashed and he’s gonna tell me.”

They ripped the furniture, tapped the walls and sounded the floors while Mrs. Egan shrieked dismay. They pried in every nook and corner, but they didn’t find the eighty thousand dollars. When Bonniwell finally called off the search it was nearly dark outside and he had been compelled to turn on the electric lights. There was a portable electric light plant on Eagle’s Crag.

Bonniwell postponed the inquisition, however. He was too hungry. He ordered McClosky to cook food. “And you’re eatin’ first from everything,” he warned. “So go easy on the rat poison.”

The three killers wolfed their food. Monk Moon relieved Jake Somers then and the giant came in and ate. The guests of Eagle’s Crag ate sandwiches that McClosky prepared. Bonniwell herded them all together then.

“Now, folks, let’s find that money. One of you here knows where it is. I’ll begin with you, smart guy.” He looked at Oliver Quade.

“I came up here exactly fifteen minutes before you did,” said Quade. “Do you think I’d have had time to locate Thompson’s money, hide it and kill him, besides trying to sell books to these folks for almost all of that time?”

“He did show up just before we found Mr. Thompson,” said Judy Vickers. “He passed Marty and myself as we were walking down the road.”

“And how long was I trying to sell you that marvelous set of encyclopedias, Mrs. Egan?” Quade asked.

Mrs. Egan sighed. “Too long, but actually I’d say ten or fifteen minutes.”

Bonniwell growled and questioned the three women briefly. Mrs. Vickers was haughty and indignant, Judy frank and guileless. Mrs. Egan was truculent. Finally Bonniwell threw up his hand. “You women get upstairs. Go to bed. I don’t want you around.”

They left and the killer turned savagely to the men. “Now, then, one of you killed that gink and swiped his money. You, Cummings, who the hell are you and why are you here?”

Cummings flushed. “I’m a publisher of trade journals in New York City. I’m here on a vacation. Mrs. Vickers invited me to come here.”

“She’s trying to marry you off to her daughter. Yeah, I got that.”

Martin Faraday snickered. Cummings looked angrily at him. “You don’t think her mother would let her marry a poor schoolteacher, do you?”

“Perhaps Judy has a mind of her own,” retorted Faraday.

“And she’ll use it,” said Cummings, “when she discovers that her mother has already borrowed more than five thousand dollars from me.”

Faraday paled with surprise.

“Ah, love!” Danny said sneeringly.

“Bub!” snapped Bonniwell. “Get to bed.”

Danny Dale glared but when Bonniwell gestured to Big Jake he got up hastily and almost ran up the stairs.

“Now, listen,” said Bonniwell. “You, Faraday, and you, Cummings, you’re both stuck on the girl and I figure one of you two know where the dough is. I don’t give a damn if you knocked off a man. I’m not a cop. But I do want that dough and one of you is going to tell me where it is. Otherwise….” He left the sentence unfinished but looked toward the stairs the women had gone up.

A chill ran up Oliver Quade’s spine. Bonniwell had the Indian sign on the two men. He was quite capable of harming Judy Vickers if he thought by it he could force either Faraday or Cummings to reveal the hiding place of the money. “I’ll give you until tomorrow morning to make up your minds,” Bonniwell continued. “I need sleep myself. Last night was a busy night.”

Bonniwell first sent Heinie out to stand guard with Monk Moon, then he and Somers followed the others upstairs. There was a series of bedrooms on both sides of the long hallway. Quade found one that was vacant and after locking the door, undressed and went to bed. He fell asleep at once.

The sun shining on his face awakened Oliver Quade. He yawned and, getting out of bed, walked to the window. Far in the distance he could see a tiny huddle of buildings, a little village. It was more than a dozen miles from Eagle’s Crag though and was visible only when the sun was strongest and there was no haze in the air, as this morning.

The events of the day before crowded into Quade’s mind. He shook his head and went into the bathroom, and as he looked into the mirror over the washbowl the Idea struck him. He acted immediately.

Lifting up a thick water glass he smashed it into the mirror, then gingerly caught a large section of the mirror that fell out. He carried it into the bedroom and found a piece of cardboard.

He went to the window then and held the mirror, face into the sun, letting the rays flash on it. He held it steady, then covered it with the cardboard. Quickly he removed it, then covered it again. He was about to repeat the operation when there was a knock on the door. Quade laid down the piece of mirror and cardboard and, walking across the room, unlocked the door.

Danny Dale, already fully dressed, was in the doorway. “Hello,” he said. “Just get up?”

Quade nodded. “Come in, Danny.”

Danny came in and Quade locked the door again. Quade went back to the window and picked up the mirror and cardboard. He operated it a couple of times and Danny Dale exclaimed, “A heliograph!”

“Yep,” said Quade. “I’ve read of them doing this in the South Sea Islands and South Africa. They say they signal fifty and sixty miles. All I want to signal is about fifteen miles. There’s a little village out there and someone surely ought to know the Morse code. They ought to have a telegraph office there, at least.”

“But look,” said Danny. “If you get a bunch of lawmen up here aren’t Bonniwell and his gang going to turn on us first?”

“Look, Bonniwell’s going to want that money today so he can get away tonight. Even if he gets the money I hardly think he’ll care much about leaving anyone behind here to tell he’d been here. And if he doesn’t get the money he’ll kill us. So….” Quade went on signaling with his home-made heliograph.

Ten minutes went by and there was no answering signal. Quade sighed, “You’d think someone would have seen the flashes.”

“It’s only a little after six,” said Danny Dale. “Maybe they’re not up yet over at that tank-town.”

“That’s an idea. Well, I’ll try again.”

He rested ten minutes, then tried again. And suddenly he caught a flash of light from the distance.

“They’re answering!” Quade exclaimed excitedly. “Look, there’s another flash.”

“I saw it,” said Danny Dale. “It came from that little town.”

“Here goes the message then,” said Quade grimly. He operated the heliograph swiftly and surely, spelling out the message in the Morse code of long and short flashes. At length he finished and said, “Now, we’ll see if they answer.”

He leaned out of the window, Danny Dale beside him, breathing hard. It came then — a bright flash of directed light. Then others.

“Y-e-s,” Quade spelled out. “They got it!”

“What’d you tell them?”

“About Bonniwell and the boys. And after a while—”

There was a violent explosion outside the door. Quade, whirling, saw splinters sticking out from the panels.

“Bonni—” began Danny Dale and then a bullet smashed the lock. Danny Dale yelped, and dropped to wriggle under the bed. Quade paled but held his ground. The man outside smashed in the door with his foot. Then he stood in the doorway. It was Bonniwell, with a huge automatic in his fist and a snarl twisting his mouth.

“You sneaking double-crosser!” he said, his tone cold with intense fury.

Quade backed a couple of steps until he collided with a chair. His hands went behind his back and caught hold of it. “What do you mean, Bonniwell?” he asked thickly.

“That mirror stuff. You think I didn’t see the flashes. Yah, I ain’t that dumb. I know you was signaling and—” His face worked and then Quade brought the chair up and around in a violent swing. He anticipated Bonniwell by a fraction of a second, but of course he couldn’t beat a bullet.

The chair was off the floor, beginning its arc when a bullet smashed against Quade’s left shoulder like a giant fist and hurled him back against the wall. He ricocheted from it to the floor, landing on hands and knees. A thousand Niagaras were suddenly roaring in his ears, a red haze swirled before his eyes. Quade fought to retain his grip on things. He half lifted himself up on his hands and then one of the Niagaras burst over his head and he fell… down… down… into oblivion.

The roaring was the last thing he heard when he passed out. Water was the first thing he felt when he came to, dripping water, cool and soothing on his fevered brow.

Quade opened his eyes and looked up into the white face of Judy Vickers. He grinned. “I’m still here.”

“With a bullet in your left shoulder,” she replied, soberly. “And if Bonniwell discovers you’re not dead he’ll put another bullet in you.”

Quade sat up and fought giddiness for a moment. Gingerly he felt his left shoulder with his right hand. There was a thick bandage already wrapped around it. “You did this, Miss Vickers? Thanks. Where are the rest?”

“Bonniwell and his men are getting ready for a siege.”

Quade frowned. “I had hoped they’d light out instead. But out there he couldn’t possibly hope to last another day or two. The mountains are swarming with posses. He figures this is as good a place as any for the last fight. And he’s right, of course.”

“You’re very lucky, you know,” said Judy Vickers. “McClosky — wasn’t.”

Quade exclaimed. “Bonniwell killed him?”

She shook her head. “He says not, but this morning McClosky was found in the kitchen with his head smashed in with a stove poker.”

“Stove poker? Bonniwell or his men wouldn’t have bothered with that. I guess the same man who got Thompson finished McClosky. He knew something. I suspected it.”

“There was a hypodermic needle in his pocket.”

“Ah? That’s what made the rattlesnake punctures in Thompson. McClosky found the needle and knew who had thrown it away.”

“Miss Vickers!” called a voice from out in the hall. “Judy Vickers!”

“Here,” replied Judy.

Danny Dale bobbed into the room. He grinned when he saw Quade sitting up. “I knew it was just a shoulder wound, but I didn’t tell Lou. He would have slipped you a couple more.”

“That was mighty decent of you,” said Quade dryly. “How come you didn’t get one yourself? You were in here with me.”

“Oh, I talked him out of it,” said Danny Dale glibly.

“From under the bed?” Quade rose to his feet. “What’s going on downstairs?”

“Lou wants everybody down there. He’s plenty burned up about things and my hunch is that it’s going to be an interesting session.”

Judy Vickers looked at Quade, her forehead creased. “He’s been after Marty and Mr. Cummings all morning.”

Quade sighed. “I guess we’d better go though, or he’ll be coming up here.”

Everyone on the mountain-top, with the exception of Jake Somers, was gathered in the livingroom. Lou Bonniwell’s eyes flashed when Oliver Quade came in with Judy and Danny Dale. “My aim’s gettin’ lousy,” he said, “but I’ll talk the thing over with you again in a little while. Right now, his tone became brittle, “I want to find that roll!”

Frederick Cummings was jittery. Martin Faraday was trying to be calm, but not doing a good job of it. The women, even Mrs. Egan, were frightened.

“The cook,” said Bonniwell. “None of my boys finished him. So it was one of you birds. I figure McClosky knew something and one of you shut him up. Now which one was it?”

“Not me,” cried Frederick Cummings, trembling visibly.

Faraday looked scornfully at him. He remained quiet.

Bonniwell gestured in a frenzy. He looked suddenly like a dog gone mad. Quade could understand now why the man was such a cold-blooded killer.

“Monk, grab the girl and give her a working over. One of them will talk or else.”

Mrs. Vickers shrieked. The perspiration rolled off Cummings’ face, but he made no move. Faraday did. He stepped up beside Judy Vickers. “Keep your hands off her,” he said to Monk who was advancing, his long gorilla-like arms swinging at his sides.

Roly-poly Heinie Krausmeyer grinned vacantly and stepped up to Marty Faraday. The gun in his hand swished up and clouted Faraday along the right side of his face. Faraday yelped in pain and went down to his knees. Heinie struck him again, on the top of his head. Faraday fell flat to the floor and lay still.

“You fool!” snarled Bonniwell. “How can he talk now?” He looked at Cummings. “You white-livered coward,” he sneered. “You wouldn’t talk even if I cut off her nose.”

Judy Vickers dropped to her knees beside Marty Faraday. “Mother, get some water. He’s hurt, badly.”

It was Quade who got the water. He had to step over McClosky’s body which lay in the kitchen just inside the door.

Water did not help Faraday. He revived partially but he merely moaned and cried out incoherently. “Judy!” He called her name over and over.

“His skull’s fractured,” Quade said. “I don’t think he’ll do any talking today.”

Bonniwell turned toward Heinie. The roly-poly killer ducked out of the door.

“Get out your medicine chest,” Quade ordered Mrs. Egan. “Otherwise there’ll be one more dead man at Eagle’s Crag.”

Bonniwell made no objections. In fact he furthered Quade’s offer of treating Faraday. “Patch him up so he can talk by tonight. I’m sure he’s the guy.”

They moved Faraday to the couch and Quade treated the schoolteacher’s wounds. Judy Vickers hovered anxiously nearby, despite her mother’s sighing and muttering. Mrs. Egan’s medicine kit was a good one and Quade was able to help the injured man.

By that time Bonniwell and his men were searching outside for the hidden treasure. They ransacked the garage, the outbuildings and even moved boulders that lay here and there in the clearing.

Quade moved McClosky’s body out of the kitchen and Mrs. Egan cooked for everyone. Quade spent most of his time going back and forth, examining Faraday and soothing Judy Vickers. “He’ll be all right by this evening,” he assured her.

“And then those killers will start all over on him,” sobbed Judy. Quade couldn’t assure her about that. He knew that when the posse came he would himself be in vital danger.

It happened shortly after twelve o’clock. The mountain-top was still one moment; the next the quietness was shattered by a thundering roar. Jake Somers’ machine-gun. Bonniwell and the others immediately rushed to their car and began hauling out guns. They ran to join Jake who was standing up behind the boulder at the head of the road, still sending an occasional burst down the hillside.

Even before the first burst from Somers’ gun had ceased Oliver Quade was down from the veranda and walking toward Bonniwell’s car. He walked softly but with a determined step. He was a dozen feet from it when Bonniwell suddenly turned around and saw him.

“You!” he cried. “Your posse’s here, but you’re not going to welcome them.”

He had picked up a twin to Somers’ tommy gun from his car and he held it facing Quade, as he walked back toward him.

“Are you sure it’s a posse?” Quade asked quickly. “It might be some tourists?”

“Two cars full of them,” replied Bonniwell. “With rifles and tommy guns? Tourists, yeah!”

“But Jake fought them back!” cried Quade. “No harm done.”

“They went back around the turn, that’s all,” said Bonniwell. “You know what I promised you—”

“Wait!” cried Oliver Quade desperately. “I can tell you how to get away!”

The muzzle of Bonniwell’s gun did not waver. His eyes flashed though and Quade knew that he had struck a responsive note.

He said quickly, “Make a deal with them. You can’t take us all along as hostages, but you can tell ’em if they don’t let you go you’ll kill all of us up here. They couldn’t allow that.”

“What makes you think I’m not going to kill all of you anyway?” asked Bonniwell.

“Because you’ll die then yourself. My way you’ll have a chance. The posse came a long way. There won’t be any of them down below. Make them come up here and give you a head start. That’s all you’ll want, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, that and the eighty grand. But they won’t miss a lousy, double-crossing book peddler!”

Quade knew that he had never been closer to death in all his life. “The money!” he cried. “I’ll find it for you!”

“Then it was you!” snapped Bonniwell.

“No, of course not. But I can find the money for you. I know I can. Give me twenty minutes — fifteen. Think of it, Bonniwell. A head start and eighty thousand dollars. What more can you want?”

“I’ll bite once more,” said Bonniwell. “But it’s the last time. I’ll make the deal with the posse and I’ll give you exactly fifteen minutes to find the money. If you don’t find it I’ll leave without it, but you won’t be alive then.”

“And if I do find it?”

“Then I’ll let you live.”

“Give me your word?” Quade asked eagerly.

Bonniwell hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “All right. I promise. You’ve got fifteen minutes.” He turned back to his pals and yelled down the mountain-side.

Oliver Quade turned toward the lodge and saw Judy Vickers running toward him.

“I heard!” she cried. “He’ll kill you if you can’t find the money.”

“I made the best of a bad deal,” said Quade. “But I’ve got to find that money.”

“But I’m sure you — it wasn’t you.!” exclaimed Judy Vickers. “Can you find it in fifteen — thirteen minutes?”

Quade looked at his watch. “It’s 11:12. I’ve got until 11:25. Please go back to the veranda. I’ve got to think — fast.”

Cummings was coming down from the veranda. Judy headed him back.

Quade looked around the two-acre plateau, the house, the garage and the outbuildings. He sighed and seated himself upon the ground. Eighty thousand dollars. Did it even exist? If it did, where was it?

Harold Thompson had been at Eagle’s Crag a week. He’d had ample opportunity of finding a good hiding place. The house? Bonniwell and his men had searched it thoroughly. Quade could forget it. They’d searched the other buildings, too.

The ground? Thompson could have come out one night and buried it in the ground. But if he had, Quade would never find it. Not in fifteen minutes. It would take six men many days to dig up every foot of the plateau.

Quade looked at the persons on the veranda. They were all there now — Mrs. Egan, Cummings, Judy, her mother and Danny Dale. Faraday was inside the house, injured and sleeping a drugged sleep.

One of those six was a double-killer and knew where the money was. One of them couldn’t talk, the others wouldn’t.

Quade shook his head. “Damn! Where would I hide eighty thousand dollars?”

Quade put himself in the place of Harold Thompson. Thompson was a fugitive from justice. He would be skittish. His two great concerns would be his own safety and the safety of the money. He wouldn’t take any chance of anyone stumbling on the money. He’d give considerable thought to a hiding place. He’d find a safe place, one where no one would think of looking. And people seldom looked in the most obvious place. Quade leaped to his feet. Quickly he approached the veranda.

“I think I know where it is!” he announced.

“Where?” everyone on the porch cried.

Quade looked at his watch. “I’ve got eight minutes left. I want everyone to remain here. When I come back, you’ll see the money.”

Quade passed into the house. He looked at Martin Faraday and saw that he was sleeping peacefully. Then Quade picked up the medicine kit. He carried it with him to the kitchen. He opened it up and looked over the bottles in it. He picked up one labeled ether. His eyes gleaming, he opened a cupboard door. Quickly he looked over the cans and bottles and packages in it. He took down one or two, also a china mixing bowl.

He began pouring things into the bowl and biting, acrid fumes stung his nostrils. He worked with difficulty because of his wounded, bandaged shoulder, but he persisted. And finally he poured a half gill or so of a yellowish liquid into a bottle and corked it. He slipped it into his pocket and went back through the house to the veranda.

The moment he stepped out of the house he saw Lou Bonniwell out in the clearing. The escaped convict was carrying a tommy gun.

“Quade!” the killer called.

Quade descended the short flight of stairs to the ground. “Did you make a dicker with the posse?”

“I did. But — your time’s up!”

“I found the money,” said Quade. “At least I think I did. If I guessed wrong—”

Quade dropped to his knees beside the little three-step flight of stairs leading up to the veranda. “I figured this was the most obvious place on Eagle’s Crag,” he said. “So obvious that no one would look here. If I were hiding something….” He reached under the stairs, rummaged about for a moment, then brought out both hands. There was a package in them; a package wrapped in oil cloth, about five inches square. Quade rose to his feet and handed it to the outlaw chief.

Bonniwell put the gun on the ground at his feet. He ripped the oil cloth from the package. Inside the contents were wrapped in newspaper. Bonniwell tore away a corner, looked and nodded.

“You win, Quade,” he said.

Feet pounded down the stairs behind Quade. It was Danny Dale and there was a .32 caliber revolver in his hand.

“Bonniwell,” he said, “that’s my money and I’m going with you.”

Bonniwell gave a start. “Where’d you get the popgun, kid?” he asked.

“The hell with that kid stuff,” snarled Danny. “I’m as tough as you are. If you don’t believe it, reach for that gun.” He gestured with his gun to the automatic that was stuck in Bonniwell’s waistband.

Bonniwell shifted his glance from Danny to Quade. “So this — this punk is the rattlesnake killer!”

“He is,” said Quade. “I figured the minute the money showed up he’d reveal himself. He’s killed two men for that money already and he’d want to go where that money went.”

“And I’ll kill some more if I have to,” sneered Danny. “I outsmarted the whole gang of you and I’d have got away with it if you hadn’t found that money.”

“You see,” Quade said to Bonniwell. “He’s a smart kid. Too smart. He finished university at the age of nineteen and found himself mentally the equal of many men years older. But physically he was still a boy, and business men offered him a boy’s job and a boy’s salary. I imagine Danny’s father told him after he’d put him through college he’d have to shift for himself. But Danny didn’t like the idea of a boy’s job and boy’s salary. Somehow or other, probably by accident, he got wind of Thompson and—”

“Accident, hell!” snarled Danny Dale. “I used my head. My father’s a bookkeeper with the Horgan Packing Company himself. I heard all about Harold Miller and I outsmarted the cops. I went to Miller’s rooming house and went through the trash bins in the basement. I found a map of this section, torn into bits. I came to Hilltown and did some asking around. I found this joint. Accident, hell. I used my brains,” he bragged.

“Was it necessary to kill him, though?” asked Quade.

“Of course it was. The fool recognized me. He’d seen me only once, two years ago when I visited the old man at the office. I had to knock him off.”

“Just like that, Danny?” asked Quade. “Then why the hypodermic needle? Did you just happen to have that with you? And did the snake just happen to come around conveniently when you killed Thompson — or Miller?”

“I figured it all out before I came here. Even the stuff in the needle. It’s not snake poison either. Something like it but faster. McClosky, the lousy old snooper, found the hypo in my room so I had to knock him off.”

“You’re very handy about this knocking off business,” said Quade.

Danny Dale whirled on Quade. “I’ve had about enough of you. I’m giving you the—”

He never got out the last word. He had made a fatal mistake. He had challenged Bonniwell to go for his gun and then had taken his eyes from him. No one could be that careless with Lou Bonniwell.

The outlaw chief dropped the package of money and in the same movement went for his automatic. Danny saw the quick movement and tried to turn his gun back on Bonniwell. He was too late. Bonniwell’s gun thundered.

The big slug lifted Danny clear off his feet and hurled him back to the ground, his head almost blown off.

“He was too young to be that mean,” said Bonniwell, softly.

Oliver Quade walked away from the veranda. Bonniwell fell in beside him.

“It’s all fixed,” he said. “The posse’s coming up here with their guns in their fists. They’re going to give us three minutes head start.” He raised his gun in the air and fired three shots.

Almost immediately Quade could hear automobile gears grinding. A moment later the nose of a car showed around the turn in the road. It came up in second gear. Behind it came another car. Both of them came into the clearing, but drew off to one side.

Men began climbing out, all of them armed to the teeth. Bonniwell and his men gathered cautiously at the side of their touring car. Their own guns were in their hands. Quade stood beside them.

Bonniwell counted the members of the posse. “Twelve. That’s right.”

The leader of the posse, a stocky man with a badge on his vest, said, “After you git in your car you got three minutes head start.”

“Three minutes?” Bonniwell chuckled. He reached into his coat pocket and brought out a large, egg-shaped object.

“A hand grenade!” cried the sheriff.

“Don’t get your dander up, Sheriff,” cut in Bonniwell. “This ain’t for you. Just for the road — after we pass it. I figure we need more’n three minutes start. Wanta break the agreement?”

The sheriff looked at Bonniwell and his men, then at the resorters to one side. “No,” he said thickly. “Get going!”

Monk Moon climbed in behind the wheel. Heinie slipped in beside him. Over Monk’s shoulder he held a tommy gun, pointed at the posse. Jake Somers and Lou Bonniwell climbed into the rear of the car. They promptly poked out guns.

“So long, everybody,” Bonniwell cried as the car began moving.

The car rolled over the little clearing and began descending. The sheriff and his men did not move until Bonniwell’s car had gone around the turn in the road, out of sight. “Let’s go now, boys!”

Then there was a thunderous explosion down the mountainside.

Then all of them heard what Quade had been waiting for — the screams of several men. They came from down the mountain. Almost immediately afterward there was the crash of tin and metal, silence for a moment, then another terrific crash.

“They went off the road. They’re finished!”

“Went off the road?” cried the sheriff. “What kind of fool driver—”

“Not his fault,” said Quade. “The road’s steep and he was hurrying. One of the tires blew out.”

“How do you know a tire blew out?”

“Because I poured some stuff on it. A little mixture with an ether base. Ether dissolves rubber and a couple of simple ingredients make it work faster. Lord, I was afraid you’d hold him here too long.”

“Gawdalmighty!” The sheriff looked in awe at Oliver Quade. “You deliberately killed them?”

“They were killers,” said Quade. “They would have killed several more people before they were killed or taken. So I had to do it. Now I can get back to the encyclopedias….”