“The United States.”
“Ha, I had in mind a more specific answer, such as which general.”
“Abraham Lincoln.”
“Perhaps we’d better skip the history lesson.”
“Hooray! I never liked it myself. I always got D’s. Now it’s my turn. What do you think of Benny Goodman?”
He told her and she sulked all the way out to The Poplars, which turned out to be a huge roadhouse with great neon signs and a parking lot that already contained more than a hundred cars.
They went in and got a table for four and when they had seated themselves, Quade saw Colby, the manager of the Arnold Publishing Company. He was in a booth with a blonde; a blonde on the voluptuous side.
Colby’s face looked a bit sick when he saw Quade. He whispered to the blonde, then signalled to a waiter. A moment later he paid the check and the two of them got up and started for the door.
Quade pushed back his chair. “Will you excuse me a moment?”
Without waiting for a reply, he followed Colby and the blonde. They got outside before he reached the door and when he stepped out into the night, he saw them moving in the ghostly light shed by the neon signs, toward the parking lot.
He went after them, calling, “Hey, Colby! Wait a minute!”
Instead of stopping, they started running.
“Damn!” Quade said. He bounded after the fleeing pair. When he reached the first line of cars, someone rose up out of the gloom. Quade, thinking it was the parking lot attendant, swerved to the left. A battering ram lunged out of the darkness and smacked him in the forehead. Quade went down like a log.
Some time later he crawled to his hands and knees. He shook his head and pain darted from his head down into his body. He winced and began swearing.
After a minute he climbed to his feet. He got out a packet of matches from his pocket and began lighting them. By their feeble light he searched the ground around where he had fallen. When he had used up the last of the matches he quit in disgust.
He returned to the roadhouse.
Linda Starr saw him first. “So he gave you what you deserved! Imagine trying to flirt with a man’s girl!”
“And two shiners!” guffawed Charlie Boston.
Linda Starr opened her purse and handed Quade a small mirror. “Look at yourself!”
Quade looked and winced. The punch he had taken in the darkness had caught him right between the eyes, a little high or both eyes would already have been closed. As it was, they were decidedly puffy. They would be black by tomorrow.
“What did you do with your book?” Linda asked.
“Somebody swiped it. I was on the ground looking for it. That was a very interesting book.”
“What was interesting about it?” asked Mildred Rogers. “I used the Arnold History in high school, only four years ago.”
“Yes?” said Quade eagerly. “Then, do you remember — was William Clarke Quantrill a famous Confederate colonel?”
“I don’t remember,” frowned Mildred. “I guess I was like Linda about history.”
“You girls!” said Quade bitterly.
Linda Starr reached again into her purse. “Here’s something may interest you, Mr. Quade.” She brought out a handkerchief, unrolled it on the table and revealed a feathered dart, with an inch and a half of pointed needle.
Quade exclaimed, “Where did you get that?”
“From the back drop of our lunch stand. Someone threw it at me. It missed my head by about one inch.”
Quade inhaled sharply. “When did that happen?”
“Right after you two left this afternoon — after the murder.”
“What is it?” Charlie Boston asked, reaching for the dart.
“Let it alone!” Quade slapped Boston’s hand away before it could touch the dart. Then he picked it up himself, handling it gingerly. The point, for about a half-inch, was covered with a greenish, sticky substance.
He looked sharply at Linda. “Have you any idea what this stuff is on the point?”
Her eyes met his, steadily. “I handled it very carefully.”
He stared at her. She was a flippant, light-headed girl. Or was she?
He asked softly: “When that murder happened this afternoon, were you looking?”
“I was,” she replied. “The man who threw the dart was standing right at the edge of our stand.”
“You saw his face?” Quade exclaimed.
“Unfortunately, no.” She sighed. “I didn’t pay any attention to him, until I saw his arm whip forward. And then he sprang quickly around the corner. I had no more than a glimpse of him. I don’t think I could identify him.”
“He wouldn’t know that, though,” said Quade, half-aloud. “And he must have seen me talking to you. He must’ve prepared two darts instead of only one in case he either missed the first time or had to get rid of a witness.” He laughed shortly. “And Johnson, storming all around!”
“Look, Ollie,” said Charlie Boston. “Are you playing detective again? You promised me the last time that you were through. We always come out the wrong end on it.”
Quade looked around the table. “Well, you’ve had a drink apiece…”
“Why not?” retorted Boston. “You were gone twenty minutes. What’d you expect us to do, sit around twiddling our thumbs?”
“So, inasmuch as I don’t want to embarrass the girls with my shiners, let’s pull out.”
“Let’s,” said Linda Starr.
Quade rolled the dart into Linda’s handkerchief and stowed it carefully in his breast pocket. Then he called the waiter.
A few minutes later they reached the flivver in the parking lot. “I’ll drive this time,” Quade volunteered.
Boston had no objections. He was even enthusiastic about the suggestion as he climbed in the back with Mildred. When they were in the car, Quade whispered to Linda.
“Which way do I go to get to Anoka?”
“Left,” she whispered back. “There’s a cut-off road about two miles from here. It’s about ten miles to Anoka. You’re going to follow up on that — business?”
“Yes, but — sh!”
But they were whispering in the rear seat, too. And after a mile or so they were quiet. Linda moved closer to Quade. There was a chill in the September air and she shivered a little.
On the outskirts of Anoka, Quade pulled in at a filling station. “Got to get some gas,” he announced.
Charlie Boston yawned elaborately. He did not even know where they were; did not care.
When the attendant had filled the tank, Quade went into the station with him and paid for the gas. Then he asked: “By the way, can you tell me how to get to the residence of L. B. Arnold?”
“Turn right on the second street. It’s the big white house in the middle of the block.”
“And Mr. Colby, who works for Arnold?”
“He lives at the hotel — the Fortner House.”
“Thanks,” Quade stepped to the door, then turned back. “Ever hear of a man named Wexler?”
“Yeah, sure, he owns the printing plant here. It’s on the other side of town.”
Quade went back to the car. Linda nudged him gently and looked inquiringly at him. But he shook his head. He turned the car right in the second block and drew up before the Arnold house. He climbed out alone.
Jim Stilwell opened the door to Quade.
“What do you want?” Stilwell demanded truculently.
“I’d like to ask Miss Arnold a question. She lives here, not you. Or have you moved in since her father got killed?”
Stilwell blocked the doorway. “You’re not a cop. It’s none of your business. Miss Arnold’s gone through enough today. Clear out of here.”
Quade heard movements in the house behind Stilwell. He tried to push past Ruth Arnold’s fiancé. Stilwell snarled and swung his fist. Quade ducked and used his head as a battering ram. He drove the young fellow into the house, but Stilwell was only recently out of college and had evidently played football. He chopped down and hit Quade on the back of his neck, smashing him to the floor.