He took a taxi back to the Lincoln Hotel. A bright yellow sports model car was parked at the curb. When he got up to their suite, Charlie Boston asked, “You know a fellow by the name of Paul Clevenger?”
“Yes, why?” Quade said.
“He called up five minutes ago. Said he wants you to meet a friend of his tonight at the Sunset Club.”
Quade knew who that “friend” was. Paul Clevenger was the young fellow who had soothed Thelma Wentworth that afternoon in Stanley Maynard’s office.
Oliver Quade and Boston sauntered into the Sunset Club. In a far corner Thelma Wentworth was seated at a table with Paul Clevenger.
Charlie inhaled softly. “If I kill the guy with her, would she give me a tumble?”
“According to the Bill of Rights,” said Quade, “every man is equal.”
She was gorgeous. No, that was an understatement. In Hollywood, she was super-colossal. She wore a white evening gown that revealed. Her blond hair glittered. Her features were smooth and finely chiseled.
Her eyes were on Quade as he bowed slightly. “Good evening, Miss Wentworth. Allow me to present my friend, Mr. Boston.”
Young Paul Clevenger was rising. “Won’t you join us?” he asked.
Quade sat down opposite Thelma Wentworth. Beside him, Charlie Boston breathed heavily.
“It’s all right,” Thelma Wentworth said in a low voice. “Paul... knows.”
Quade regarded him deliberately. “You’re not in the picture business, are you, Mr. Clevenger?”
Young Clevenger laughed. “Hardly. Banking’s my racket.”
Quade saw the possessive look Clevenger bestowed on Thelma. He looked at the glamour girl for a moment and was rewarded by a slight frown.
“Paul and I went to school together,” she explained. “He’s out here for a visit.”
The boy from her home town. There’s always one. Sometimes they forget him. Thelma Wentworth hadn’t. Perhaps the fact that young Clevenger was in the banking business accounted for that. You can forget the boy from home if he’s a soda jerk or works in a filling station. If his father owns the bank — and many Iowa banks are wealthy — you don’t forget him. Bankers are nice people to know. Remarkably handy to meet.
“Stanley Maynard was from Iowa — too?” Quade asked.
She winced. “No.”
Paul Clevenger said, “Thelma didn’t even know him. She just happened to be at the Slocum Studio—”
“Why?” Quade interrupted.
Clevenger bristled. “Why were you there?”
“I have a job there. Miss Wentworth hasn’t.”
“But,” Thelma exclaimed softly, “I know Tommy Slocum as well as I know Paul. He used to live two doors up the street from us, in Waterloo.”
“I see,” said Quade. “So you were visiting Tommy and happened to go into the wrong room — Maynard’s. You didn’t know Stanley Maynard at all.”
“She never even met him, I told you,” snapped Clevenger.
“Did you know him?” Quade asked sharply.
“I got to Hollywood three days ago,” Clevenger said, angrily. “Thelma’s let me take her around. I knew Slocum slightly. That’s all. I never saw Maynard, dead or alive.”
Thelma’s eyes widened. She was looking past Quade. He turned. Tommy Slocum was bearing down on the table. He was scowling, furiously.
“Hello, chief!” Quade grinned. “Join us?”
“You get around!” Slocum said truculently.
Quade smiled. “You know Miss Wentworth and Mr. Clevenger?”
“Of course I know them. How’d you get to know them?”
“Why, I get around,” Quade quipped. “Shake hands with my assistant, Mr. Boston.”
Slocum looked coldly at Charlie Boston’s big hand. He sat down abruptly.
“You wouldn’t think it would get so cold in the evenings,” Quade remarked drily.
Tommy Slocum showed his teeth. “Did you say you were going home, Quade?” he snapped.
“Why, no, I just got here. I like this place. I’ve heard about it for years. When I left New York the Count said to me — my friend, Count Felix Rosoff, you know — he said to me, ‘Oliver, when you get to Hollywood you must see the Sunset Club.’ And Tommy, old man, he was right. Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Clevenger?”
“I’m not an authority on night clubs,” Clevenger replied, stiffly. “I’ve only been to New York twice in my life. This is the first time I’ve been in Hollywood.” Quade chuckled, pushed back his chair. “Excuse me a moment, Miss Wentworth? A business associate has just come in. I must tell him something.”
“Good-by, Quade,” Slocum said bluntly.
Quade smiled pleasantly at him and bowed to Miss Wentworth.
Boston followed him. “Buck,” he said. “In soup and fish! What a man!”
Christopher Buck’s face showed relief when he saw Quade and Boston. “Sit down, Quade,” he invited. “And tell me what’s new.”
“You damn well know because your shadow followed me all afternoon,” Quade said.
Buck’s face was blank. “Why?”
“That was my question,” Quade retorted. “Why? Anyway, I let him tag along. I could have lost him easy enough. Did once. He tell you that?” Buck glowered at the table across the room. “Is she paying you, Quade?”
“She is not. And don’t go getting ideas, Christopher. You might get burned.”
“One of the biggest society women ever heard of, back East, shot a guy once,” said Buck. “Any woman’s a potential murderess. This Wentworth—”
“Is the second most important actress in Hollywood,” Quade said. “And Hollywood protects its own. Get what I mean, Buck?”
“A client is paying me money,” Buck said, doggedly. “I’ve never let down a client.”
A stocky man with sleek black hair and a shaggy tweed suit was standing behind Tommy Slocum’s chair, patting the producer’s shoulder and talking over his head to Thelma Wentworth. He turned and showed Quade a mouthful of gleaming teeth.
He left the table, came toward Quade. He stuck out a fleshy hand. “Howdy, Mr. Quade. I’m Lou Gould. Like to talk to you a minute.”
Buck cut in: “You’re Lou Gould, the actor’s agent? I tried to get you at Consolidated this afternoon.”
Quade clung to Gould’s hand and started pulling him away. Buck shot up to his tremendous height and pushed his long, lean arm in between.
“I’m Christopher Buck,” he said.
Gould gave Buck his ten per cent personality. “Yeah, sure, we’ll have to get together. Give me a jingle at the office, some time.”
“Well, I’ve got to be going,” Quade said. “Thanks for the drink, Christopher. Good-night, Mr. Gould.”
Lou Gould was quite willing to be rescued from Christopher Buck, but Quade knew that that would be an impossibility. When Buck got his teeth into someone, fire or water wouldn’t make him let go.
“I’m going to slug Buck some day,” Boston said as they left the Sunset Club.
“Some day I’m going to let you slug him,” Quade retorted.
They got their bright yellow car from the near-by parking lot and drove to the hotel, where they turned it over to the doorman. “Don’t get the paint scratched,” Boston cautioned the man.
The lights were on in their suite when Quade unlocked the door.
The shadow who had followed Quade all afternoon was sitting in the most comfortable armchair. He was a rather slight fellow with an unhealthy complexion.
Quade said, “Are we intruding?”
“Not at all,” the man replied. “This is your room. And my name’s Higgins.”
Charlie Boston went back a step. “Willie Higgins!”
“You know,” said Quade, “I just guessed that out a little while ago. I couldn’t figure out why the real estate fellow got so scared when he got a glimpse of you through the window. I thought at the time you were one of Christopher Buck’s ops.”