“Oh, hell!” said Quade disgustedly. “We’re broke and we’ve got to make a quick stake so... well, Slocum offered me this hundred bucks for just a couple of hours work and I accepted.”
“A hundred bucks for a couple of hours?” persisted Boston. “Doing what?”
Quade swore. “Barking, damn you! I’m going to imitate Desmond Dogg’s bark. Now laugh, you fool!”
Boston did laugh. He laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. But Quade heard only the beginning of the laughter. He walked off, muttering savagely to himself.
Oliver Quade jerked open the first door he came to and found himself facing one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen in his life. She was tall and slender and blond.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You startled me!”
“Sorry. I guess I got into the wrong place. Whose office is this?” He wondered why the girl looked so pale, why her lips were so taut. His sudden entry couldn’t have scared her that much.
She started around him, toward the door through which he had just entered. “I... I got into the wrong office myself,” she said, lamely. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone here.”
She stepped hurriedly past him, pulling the door shut behind her. Quade stared at the door. “I must have caught her doing something,” he said to himself. “She’s scared stiff.” He shrugged and glanced about the office. There was an inner door with a ground glass panel, on which was lettered the name: Mr. Maynard.
He walked across and opened the door. “Mr. Maynard,” he began, “I just dropped in to—” he stopped.
He was talking to a dead man.
He sat in a big chair behind a mahogany desk. His arms hung loosely at his sides and his head was thrown back. Blood was trickling from his mouth to the thick rug. It was dropping on a .32 caliber automatic that might have fallen from his limp hand.
Quade had seen dead men before. He was a man of the world and had seen many things in his time. He had never got used to death. A shiver ran through his lean body and he felt strangely cold. He backed out of Maynard’s private office and closed the door, softly. Then he walked swiftly out of the other office, into the corridor. And collided with Tommy Slocum.
The little producer said, “Excuse me,” and reached for the door through which Quade had just come.
Quade’s hand shot out and caught Slocum’s arm. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you, Mr. Slocum.”
“Why not? Who’re you to tell me where I can go? I’m Tommy Slocum and this is my joint. I’m the boss around here.”
“I know, but just the same, don’t go into Mr. Maynard’s office. Not yet. He’s — dead!”
“Dead, hell,” said Slocum and shoved against the door. Then, as understanding swept into his brain, he recoiled. “Dead!” he squeaked in a thin voice.
“With a bullet in his head. I think you’d better call the police.”
“Oh, my God!” moaned Tommy Slocum. “Stanley Maynard — dead? I don’t believe it.”
But he did believe it. And if he had known of Maynard’s death before Quade told him, he put on a very good act.
He snapped at Quade: “You found him? All right, stick around then. Hey, Hendricks!” he roared at the top of his voice. “Come out here!”
Miss Hendricks, the school-teacherish looking secretary, rushed out of her office. “Call the police!” Slocum yelled at her. “Tell them to hurry up. Stanley Maynard’s killed himself.”
Heads popped out of doors. Tommy Slocum roared at them. “Get back to your work! What do you think I’m paying you for? To gawk around? Somebody call the police department. Murder’s been done. Mr. Maynard’s killed himself.”
“What a man!” murmured Quade.
And now the human bloodhound, Christopher Buck, popped out of nowhere. “Maynard’s dead?” he hissed. “Where?” He saw Oliver Quade and clapped a hand to his skinny face. “You, Ollie, what do you know about this?”
“I found his body. He’s in there.” He jerked a hand toward the office door.
Christopher Buck slithered past them and little Tommy Slocum charged him. “You can’t go in there, you long drink of water. Stay out!”
Christopher Buck shook off the little man. “Maynard’s my client! I’m going in and no one can stop me.” And in he went.
Quade stepped in swiftly after him. Tommy Slocum yelled and followed. He sobbed when he saw the dead man with the sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.
“Stanley, old boy!” he moaned.
Buck, his head craned forward, was sniffing about the office. “Through the mouth,” he said, “and the gun’s here. I don’t believe it!”
“You don’t believe what, Buck?” asked Quade softly.
“That he’d kill himself. He was so sure of winning out. Damn, what a dirty trick! Now, I can whistle for my fee.”
Someone came up behind Quade and breathed on his neck. “I told you, Ollie!” exclaimed Charlie Boston. “We had no business butting in around here.”
“Oh, shut up, Charlie!” snorted Quade.
“The best friend I ever had!” said Tommy Slocum.
“Oh, yeah!” That was Christopher Buck, all detective, now. He had whirled on Slocum and was towering over him, his face grim and unforgiving. “If he was your best friend, why was he suing you for a million dollars?”
Slocum jumped. “Who’re you?” he cried. “How’d you get in here? What right have you got to talk that way to me? I’m Tommy Slocum and this is my studio. Get the hell out of here.”
Christopher Buck showed his teeth. “I’m Christopher Buck, the detective!” he announced. “Mr. Maynard employed me to — to uncover some evidence he wanted. I came out here from New York by plane. Mr. Maynard wanted me right away. Why, Mr. Slocum, why?”
“Hendricks!” roared Tommy Slocum. “Call the cops. Have this man thrown out of here. I don’t care if he is a detective... Hendricks!”
A studio cop rushed into the office. “Yes, Mr. Slocum, what is it?”
“Emil! Throw this man off the lot. He says he’s a detective, but I don’t believe him. Throw him off. He insulted me.”
The studio cop looked at the tall detective who was glowering at him. “I dunno, Mr. Slocum,” the cop said, hesitantly. “The city police just pulled up outside—”
“Here we are!”
They came in, a small army of them. A hawk-faced man with graying hair was in command. “I’m Lieutenant Murdock,” he announced. “What’s happened here?”
Slocum pointed a quivering hand at the dead man. “Stanley Maynard, he killed himself.”
“O.K.,” Lieutenant Murdock said, “We’ll take care of things. Just keep back... Johnson, clear this gang out of here. Outside, everybody. We’ll handle things in here.” Everyone cleared out.
Alone in an adjoining office, Quade sidled up to-Tommy Slocum. “In a little while, Mr. Slocum, they’re going to discover that Maynard didn’t kill himself.”
The producer of the famous Desmond Dogg animated cartoons snapped: “What do you mean, he didn’t kill himself?”
“I mean he was murdered.”
“You’re crazy, the gun—”
“Was left by the murderer, in an attempt to make it look like suicide.”
Slocum’s eyes widened, “You were coming out of Maynard’s office when I bumped into you.”
“Uh-uh,” said Quade. “I never met Mr. Maynard while he was alive. Before today I had never even heard his name. I know nothing about him and had absolutely no motive for killing him. I can prove that. Can you?”
Slocum became strangely calm. “I don’t get you.”