Slocum sat down and stared at Quade.
Quade went on: “You don’t have to answer any of my questions, but by this time it must be obvious to you, that you’re in a jam. Stanley Maynard was murdered in your studio, just before he started a million-dollar suit against you. He’d already employed one of the highest priced private detectives in the country to acquire certain evidence against you. So, what is the District Attorney going to say when he learns all that?”
Slocum said bitterly, “You cheap, loud-mouthed book agent!”
Quade’s nostrils flared. “Listen, Slocum, you make the best movie cartoons in the business. You know your stuff. But I know mine. I’m the greatest book salesman in the country. I’m broke today, yes. But I’ve made fortunes selling books! I can make them again, if I want to. You call me loud-mouthed; what the hell are you? Because you’ve had some success, you can bellow at some people and get away with it. But you can’t call me names. I’ve got more knowledge in my little finger than you have in that swelled head of yours.”
Slocum suddenly chuckled. “That’s the first time anyone has told me off in ten years!”
“You had it coming, then!” snapped Quade.
“Yeah, sure!” agreed Slocum, affably. “I don’t mind it at all.” He sighed. “For ten years I’ve worked like a dog. Everyone’s fought me, tried to cut my throat. I’ve had to yell and fight them... How’d you like to work for me, steady?”
“I wouldn’t work for anyone, steadily. I like to move around, see things and people. I’ve spent fifteen years reading the encyclopedia from cover to cover, not once but four times. And I’ve got a trained memory. That stuff outside this morning, it wasn’t faked. I can answer any question anyone can ask me.”
“What was the first motion picture cartoon?”
“Krazy Kat,” replied Quade.
Slocum’s eyes narrowed. “Any question, you said. All right, I was raised on a farm, so I know this one. Maybe it’s not fair, but you said any subject. How many breeds of domestic turkeys are there?”
“Six. Bronze, Bourbon Red, Narragansett, White Holland, Slate and Black.”
Slocum’s mouth fell open. “I thought that one would get you. Even the average turkey raiser doesn’t know how many different breeds there are.”
“I know. Now, Slocum, what do you know about Willie Higgins?”
Slocum winced. “You get back to that. Well, I’m not going to answer you.”
“Christopher Buck’s going to ask you that same question.”
“That long-legged lug who calls himself a detective?”
“Yes. And let me repeat, don’t underestimate Buck. He’s conceited, egotistic and publicity mad. But he’s got a very fine detective agency in the East and a good many men who underestimated him are in various penitentiaries. I’ve had dealings with Buck before.”
Slocum bit his nails again.
Quade said, “And what is Thelma Wentworth to you?”
“Damn!” swore Slocum. “What’s she got to do with this?”
“You slammed out of Maynard’s office too quick to see her. She was in the outer room with a man named Paul Clevenger. She was crying.”
Slocum’s eyes blazed. “The fool! Why’d she come around at a time like this? She’ll get smeared all over the papers.”
“She was here earlier,” Quade said. “Before you got on the scene. Before I found Maynard, she came out of his office!”
Slocum choked. “Quade, I want you to do something for me. I’ll pay you plenty. What do you say?”
“That’s what I’ve been getting at, Mr. Slocum. Murdock isn’t going to tackle you just now, but he’ll report to the D. A. and he’ll get after you. And with Buck on the other side spilling things you’re going to have to have some mighty good answers.”
“I know,” said Slocum. “I’ve known that for fifteen minutes. Moody, my lawyer, will have to stall the D. A. for a while until you deliver.”
“Anything special you want me to do?” Quade asked.
“Yes. I want you to find Willie Higgins.”
“Then you do know him.”
“I’m not going to tell you one single thing. But if you find Higgins and bring him to me before anyone else finds him — and I mean the police, this Buck, or anyone, I’ll pay you two thousand dollars.”
Knuckles wrapped on Slocum’s door and Miss Hendricks stuck her head inside. “Mr. Slocum, District Attorney Nelson is here.”
Slocum reached for his phone. “All right, Quade. Go to it!”
Quade nodded. “I’ll get him for you, if I can, Mr. Slocum. But just one thing more. I’m going to be too busy to get it otherwise, so how about a ten-dollar advance?”
Slocum squinted at Quade, then thrust his hand into a pocket and produced a crumpled bill which he tossed at Quade. “Now, I’ll see the D.A.”
Quade saw that the bill Slocum had thrown at him was a hundred dollar note. He stuck it in his pocket and went out.
In the corridor, Charlie Boston was holding up the wall. Quade walked briskly past him and Boston fell in behind. “We all right?” Boston whispered. “We gonna stay outa trouble?”
“If we get out of here.”
They cleared the studio building and got out into the open lot. “That does it,” sighed Quade.
They came out on the street and Boston nodded to the stalled jallopy across the street. “What about that? We’re still broke.”
Quade waved at a passing cab. “Taxi!” Brakes screeched. “Inside, Charlie,” Quade ordered. “The Lincoln Hotel!”
Ten minutes later, they climbed out of the taxi in front of one of the most expensive hotels in Hollywood.
Quade tendered the hundred-dollar bill to the cabby. The man exclaimed. “I haven’t got change for anything like that!”
Quade turned and waved the bill at the doorman who was hovering over them. “Get this changed and pay the driver. I’ll be at the desk, inside.”
“Holy cats!” said Boston as they walked into the luxurious lobby. “Where’d you get that fish skin?”
“My client,” said Quade. “And there’s more where that came from. Hollywood’s rolling in money.”
He stepped up to the desk and said to the clerk. “I want a nice suite, facing the boulevard. And rather high up, so I don’t get too much street noise.”
He signed the registration card with a flourish. “Oliver Quade and Charles P. Boston, New York City.”
The doorman came up from the cashier’s window with a handful of bills. “Here you are, sir!”
“Front!” said the clerk snappily. “Show these gentlemen up to Suite 831 and 832.”
In their suite Quade picked up the telephone book. Charlie Boston stared at him.
Quade picked up the phone. “Hello,” he said. “I want the Clayton Automobile Agency... Hello. Have you got a six-wheel yellow sports job in stock? Well, bring it over to the Lincoln Hotel as soon as you can. Oliver Quade is the name.”
He hung up the receiver. “For the love of Mike!” groaned Charlie Boston.
“Tut-tut,” said Quade, “we’re mixing with moneyed people. We’ve got to act like money.”
“So you’re mixed in the detective stuff again.” Boston shook his head. “I could smell it coming the minute I saw Christopher Buck. That means we’re going to take a lot of punishment again and wind up behind the eight-ball.”
“Not this time, Charlie,” Quade said, cheerfully. “I’ve decided that this is one affair from which I’m going to emerge with both hands full of money. It’s lying around on all sides and I’m going to grab it.”
Boston threw up his hands helplessly. “There’s no use talking once your mind is made up. Who’re we working for — Slocum?”
“Right you are, Charlie. And at the moment we have to do only one little thing. Tell me, would you know Willie Higgins if you saw him?”