Yet Quade went into competition with it all — and held his own.
“I am Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia,” he roared again. “I know the answers to all questions. I can answer anything anyone can ask me, on any subject — history, science, mathematics…”
An angry-looking man waved a book at Oliver Quade and yelled: “Who was the Republican nominee for president in 1848?”
“Ha,” said Quade, “you jest. The Republican Party did not come into existence until 1860. Abraham Lincoln was its first nominee.” He waved his arms dramatically and yelled at the throng that was gathering around him. “Now, try me on something else. Any subject, history, science, mathematics, sports—”
It was a hell of a time for murder.
The man who had asked the question about the Republican Party cried: “Ohmygawd!” and fell against Quade — dead.
Quade lowered the man to the ground and saw a little dart sticking in the small of his back. He picked up the book the man had dropped and noted the title: “Arnold’s American History.”
“A ringer,” he said.
And then — confusion.
For fifteen minutes the chief attraction of the fair was the corpse lying between the race-track and the Education Building. A couple hundred of the Fair’s special police made a solid, semi-circular fence.
Inside the circle twenty or thirty police from St. Paul milled about. Scattered among them were a half dozen private citizens. Oliver Quade was one of the unfortunates. A Lieutenant Johnson had him up against the Education Building and was giving him some law.
“I don’t like your story,” Lieutenant Johnson said for the fifth time.
“You don’t, eh? All right. I’ll give you a better one. A pink-eyed guy eight feet tall came along, riding a female zebra, with a six-shooter in each hand—”
“Wise guy, huh!” snarled the police lieutenant. “Wasn’t there an audience around I’d paste you a couple.”
“What’d you expect?” demanded Quade. “I’m a total stranger here. I was making a pitch to five hundred people and one of them got killed. I never saw the man before in my life. I’m just an innocent bystander.”
The lieutenant knew that very well, but he hated to give up on Quade. He was the only tangible connection with a man who had been killed. He was the only one of all the persons who had been in the crowd who had remained to be grabbed by a policeman. Crowds are that way.
A sergeant came up with an open notebook. “Here’s what we’ve got, Lieutenant. His name was L. B. Arnold and he was president of the Arnold Publishing Company, of Anoka. There was $36.53 in his pockets, besides some letters and papers. The dart, well, the doc says there was some strange poison on it, but he won’t be able to say what it is until he makes a chemical analysis.”
The lieutenant sawed the air impatiently. “All right, we’ll go into that later.” He turned back to Quade, glowering. “I could take you to Headquarters.”
“What good’d it do you?”
“None, I guess. Where you staying?”
“At the Eagle Hotel in Minneapolis.”
The lieutenant wrote it down. “Don’t you check out of there without letting me know. And while you’re here on the grounds check in at the secretary’s office every couple of hours in case we want you.”
“I’ll do that,” said Quade. “And Lieutenant, here’s something. This book. I picked it up from the ground. It seems to have been the dead man’s.”
The lieutenant tore it from Quade’s hands. But when he looked at the title, he sniffed. “Yeah, it was his, but it don’t mean nothing. You heard the sergeant say he was president of the Arnold Publishing Company. They publish school books and they got an exhibit inside the building. I saw it myself. They got five hundred of these books.”
“Then let me have this one. I’m interested in history.”
“This is evidence. Go buy yourself a book.”
Quade snorted and picked up his case, which contained a good many copies of The Compendium of Human Knowledge. He had hoped to sell these books here today. That was his business — selling these encyclopedias.
He bucked the throng held at bay by the circle of special police and broke through, to a lunch stand that was next door to the Education Building. There was a whole string of these grease joints along the Midway, some operated by professionals, some by amateurs. This one was an amateur’s stand. It bore a banner: “South Side Church.” A half-dozen attractive girls were inside the booth.
Quade caught the eye of the best looking girl. “Coke,” he said.
The girl brought the bottle, opened it and put a straw in it. “You’re the man — uh…”
“I am,” said Quade, “but I didn’t do it. This is Labor Day and I never kill a man on Labor Day. Haven’t for years.”
The girl was easy on the eyes. In her early twenties, blonde and rather tall. The white uniform she wore added to, rather than detracted from, her appearance.
He said, “My name’s Oliver Quade.”
She smiled, finally. “You announced it loud enough and often enough when you were making that — pitch, I guess you call it.”
He grinned. “What’s your name?”
She shook her head. “I have no name. I’m just one of the girls from the church. Reverend Larsen warned us—”
“That you were doing this for the church and not to get picked up by fresh young men.”
“Exactly.”
“All right. Let’s keep it on a business basis then. You were listening to my pitch—”
“What else could I do? You drowned out even the noise from the grandstand.”
He chuckled. “You can’t make money by whispering. Look at your own business here. You’ve got a cleaner stand and serve better food than Joe Grein over there, but look at the way he drags them in.”
She saw the logic of what he said and frowned. “What with that yelling of his and cane waving—”
“Cane,” said Quade. “That reminds me. I’ll see you later. I’ll leave my case here, to make sure I come back.”
He heaved it over the counter and set it by her feet, then grinned at her open-mouthed face and walked off quickly.
A hundred yards down the Midway Quade spotted a concession and muttered under his breath. He stopped behind a burly man in a checked suit, who was trying to drive a twenty-penny spike into a pine log. He wasn’t having much luck with it. He swung lustily, but somehow the hammer always slipped off the nail, or struck it a glancing blow, bending it.
Quade made a clucking noise with his tongue and the big man whirled. His angry face relaxed when he saw Quade. Then he winced.
“Uh, hello, Ollie. I was just comin’.”
“Is that so, Mr. Boston?” Quade asked sarcastically. “Tell me, my friend, how much money have you spent here trying to win one of those lovely, lovely canes?”
Charlie Boston scowled. “Not much. Maybe a couple bucks.”
“For a cane you could buy in town for thirty cents.” Quade sighed and signalled to the concessionaire. “Hi, Johnny! Let me have your hammer a minute. I want to show this oaf how to drive in a nail.”
The concessionaire chuckled. “I didn’t know he was a pal of yours. He’s gone for about four bucks. I’ll give it back—”
“No, let him pay for his fun.”
Johnny grinned crookedly. He tapped a spike about a half inch into the log, then handed Quade his own hammer. With one half the energy Boston had expended on a blow, Quade drove the nail two inches into the wood. With the second blow he sent it to within a half inch of the block. The third, a light one, drove the nailhead flush with the log.
Johnny Nelson sang out: “And the gentleman wins a cane!” He handed him a yellow stick. Quade winked at him, then pulled Boston away from the booth.