“Who’s yours?” Quade asked.
“Stanley Maynard’s paying me. That’s why I was — ah, somewhat disconcerted to see you coming out of Slocum’s office. The way Maynard put it to me, Slocum wasn’t to know who was having the investigation made.”
“Oh, Maynard was trying to keep it dark? Does he think Slocum’s a chump?”
Buck sighed. “Well, it would have come out sooner or later... There’s the Brown Derby. They’ll probably charge you twenty cents for a cup of coffee. But — come on!”
They went into the restaurant and sat in a booth.
Quade picked up a menu. “It’s almost lunch time. This avocado salad sounds intriguing.”
“Long time since I ate an avocado salad,” agreed Boston. “I guess I’ll have it too. Shucks, Ollie, you’ve given me an appetite. Look, they’ve got a steak at a dollar and a quarter. Can you imagine getting a steak here for that? I think I’ll try it.”
“I’ll have one, too,” Quade said. “What about you, Buck?”
“I’m not as big an eater as you fellows,” grunted Buck. “But go ahead, I guess we’ve got time. I’ll just have a glass of buttermilk.”
“All right, now, Quade, just what does Tommy Slocum intend to do?”
“What he always does. Sit tight! The question is, what is Maynard going to do?”
“With the case he’s got and the proof, he’s going through with the suit. He’d be foolish not to. He’s got the goods on Slocum. It’ll cost him a million before it’s finished.”
Quade shrugged, pretending he knew what this was all about. “There’s a difference of opinion about that. That’s what makes a lawsuit. Slocum’s a tough customer. And he’s got plenty of money.”
“Maynard knows that. That’s why he’d rather settle out of court at a somewhat lower figure. The Wentworth dame coming in—”
“Ah, yes!” said Quade, still groping.
“Thelma Wentworth?” Charlie Boston cut in.
“There’s only one Wentworth,” Buck said. “Sure, Thelma Wentworth, who’d you suppose? The thing I can’t figure out is how a woman like her ever came to know Willie Higgins.”
“Higgins?” said Quade. Then he shook his head quickly. “He’s bad medicine. When they sent him to Alcatraz they really did something.”
Christopher Buck looked sharply at Quade. “You knew, of course, that he’s out?”
“Oh, sure,” said Quade. “I read the papers.” Which was a slight falsehood. He hadn’t read the papers in several days. He hadn’t known that Willie Higgins was out of Alcatraz. But he knew who Higgins was. Everyone knew that. His career, before he had finally been sent to Alcatraz six years ago, was known to everyone.
But what Higgins had to do with Thelma Wentworth, who seemed to be known to even Charlie Boston, but was merely a name to Quade, was something else. For that matter, Quade didn’t even know what Christopher Buck was talking about. He was merely cueing Buck. The lanky detective thought Quade knew something and it wasn’t Quade’s idea to disillusion him.
“So you see,” Buck went on, “the thing’s more complicated than you think. Tommy Slocum... Stanley Maynard... Thelma Wentworth and Willie Higgins, all mixed up. And maybe some others. There’s money in it, though, for a couple of good private detectives and if we work together and play it right, we ought to be able to nick them for say, five or ten grand.”
Quade chuckled. “Knowing you, Buck, the figure’ll be five times that.” Buck’s mouth twisted. “What’s Slocum paying you?”
Quade smiled deprecatingly. “Well, you know, Christopher, I’m not a professional detective. Money can’t usually buy my — uh, detective services. It has to be something unusual.”
“Ah,” said Buck, “so Slocum’s really paying you big sugar? That proves he’s worried about Maynard, after all. I had a hunch about that!”
“Buck,” sighed Quade, “that wasn’t cricket. You talked about cooperation and all you brought me here for was to pump me about what my boss is doing. I’m not going to say another word, now, until I have my coffee and steak and salad.”
A triumphant light gleamed in Christopher Buck’s eyes while Boston and Quade did justice to their food. When they finished, they talked each other into having pie ala mode for dessert.
Quade finally put down his fork. “Excuse me, a minute, now, Buck. I’ve got to make a phone call.” He got up and went to the washroom. He washed his hands, then returned to the booth. His eyes spotted the check that lay face down on the table near his own place.
He remained standing. “Something’s come up, Buck!” he said. “I’ve got to run!”
“Wait!” exclaimed Buck: “I’ll go with you.”
Quade took his hat from the hook. “No, no, I’d rather go alone.”
“But we haven’t settled yet how we’re going to work!” cried Buck. He squirmed out of the booth and was so anxious to follow Quade he grabbed up the check, and winced when he saw the amount. Quade was already moving toward the door and Boston was scrambling out of the booth.
Buck threw a coin on the table and followed. Quade waited just inside the front door. Buck hurriedly paid the check at the cashier’s stand.
“You’re going back to the studio, Quade?” he asked eagerly. “I’ll drive you there.”
“Well, all right.”
As they climbed into the car, Charlie whispered in Quade’s ear: “Well, it worked!”
They drove back to the Slocum Studios and Buck parked his car. At the gate, Quade and Boston fell behind Buck and allowed the tall detective to get them through the gate by showing his pass.
Once inside, Quade became reticent. “You run along about your business, Buck.”
“Yeah, but that phone call,” protested Buck. “What’s come up?”
Quade waved a finger chidingly at Buck. “Now, now!”
Buck’s face contorted angrily for a moment. “All right, if that’s the way you’re going to be. But remember, Quade, I’m on the job, and I’ll be running into you.”
“Oh sure, no hard feelings. Eh?”
Buck went off and Boston asked, “So what’s it all about, Ollie?”
“We’re detectives again,” replied Quade. “Christopher Buck, the world’s greatest detective, came all the way from New York on a job. He thinks because I once got mixed in a case that he was on — and solved it — that I’m here as a detective.”
“But, hell, you don’t even know who those people are that he mentioned!” exclaimed Charlie Boston.
“We got a lunch out of it, didn’t we? How much was the check?”
“Three-forty!” chuckled Boston. “Which, for a tight-wad like Christopher Buck, was plenty.”
“He figured he was going to have a cup of coffee — on us!” Quade laughed. “Say, Charlie, who’s Thelma Wentworth?”
“Huh? Say, don’t you read the movie magazines, Ollie? She’s the new sensation in the films. Her and Hedy Lamarr. I knew about her, all right, but who’re Maynard and Higgins? Is that the Willie Higgins, who used to be Public Enemy Number One?”
“Yep! None other. Seems he finished his time on Alcatraz. Also he knows these people. Maynard, I haven’t placed. But he seems to think he’s got something on Tommy Slocum. I’m going to find out what.”
Charlie’s forehead creased. “You’re not serious in mixing in this detective stuff, are you? Not out here?”
Quade shrugged. “We’re broke. That is, we are today. Although tomorrow, Tommy Slocum’s giving me a hundred bucks.”
“What?” cried Charlie Boston. “He really gave you a job? Doing what?”
Quade said hastily, “Oh, just a job.”
“What the hell can you do around a studio?”
“Lots of things. They have producers and writers and such, in a studio, you know.”
“Not in this place, Ollie. This is where they make the Desmond Dogg cartoons. It’s all done by artists.” Boston looked suspiciously at Quade. “Why the mystery all of a sudden? You’re talking to me, you know.”