“Mr. Slocum,” said Quade. “You sent a policeman outside to drag me in. You interfered with my legitimate business. Your cop scared away my customers. I didn’t complain. I came in here because I thought a motion picture producer had recognized my talents. And what do you do? You insult—”
“All right, what the hell’s money?” snapped Slocum. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”
Quade’s mouth twisted suddenly. “I’ll be here at nine in the morning.”
He turned abruptly and rushed out of Slocum’s private office. He burst out of the room and almost knocked the wind out of one of the tallest men that ever walked a street. He was as thin as he was tall.
“What the hell!” the man gasped. “Look where you’re going!” Then his eyes popped. “Oliver Quade!”
“Christopher Buck!” Quade exclaimed. “The world’s greatest detective!”
The long, lean man winced and darted a look around him. “Nix!”
Quade looked innocently around the office. “Are you in disguise? Shadowing someone?”
“Still the clowner!” Christopher Buck spat venomously.
Quade chuckled. “What’re you doing here in movieland, Buck? Didn’t think you’d ever get across the plains.”
“I came in an airplane,” said Buck coldly. “How did you come — riding the rods?”
“Ha-ha,” Quade laughed mirthlessly. “We do have great times together, don’t we? Say, Charlie, remember this beanpole? Our old friend, Christopher Buck.”
“I saw him when he came in,” Charlie Boston retorted. “I was hoping he wouldn’t recognize me.”
Christopher Buck reddened. Then his eyes suddenly narrowed. “What’re you fellows doing here?”
Quade shrugged. “Well, you know how it is, Buck, old boy. When Hollywood calls… I just signed a long-term picture contract.”
Buck looked suspiciously at Quade. “Quit clowning, Quade. You just came out of Tommy Slocum’s office. So he did hire you?”
“I just said so.”
“Sure you said so, but you didn’t say what he hired you for. Look, Quade, we worked together on a case once before. You helped me quite a bit—”
“I helped you, Buck?”
Buck smiled ingratiatingly. “Well, you were lucky, eh? Now, look, we’re both working on the same case. Maybe for different bosses. But what’s the difference? We can still work together. Pool our information, you know, and maybe split fees, huh?”
“If you did the splitting, Buck,” growled Charlie Boston, “we wouldn’t get a hamburger out of it.”
Quade brightened. He caught Boston’s eye and winked. “On the other hand, Buck, maybe there’s something in what you say. You in a hurry to see Slocum? If not, why not let’s go talk about this over a cup of coffee?”
Buck sighed. “Why not? Maybe I’ve got some things you can use and maybe you’ve stumbled across a bit or two that might clear something for me. Come on.”
The trio walked out of the studio, through the street gate. Boston turned toward their old jalopy across the street but Quade caught his eye in a warning look. He fell behind Christopher Buck.
Buck led the way to a Packard coupe. “Might as well use my car,” he offered. “Or shall we walk over to that restaurant on the corner?”
“Oh, the Brown Derby’s just up the street,” Quade said. “I like the atmosphere there.” He had never seen the Brown Derby in his life.
The three of them climbed into the coupe and Christopher Buck tooled it into the traffic. “How long’ve you been here, Quade?” he asked.
“Not so long. But long enough to pick up a few things.”
“What?”
“Now, now, Buck, you wouldn’t want me to tell what I know, before I know what the score is, would you?”
Christopher Buck scowled. “Cagy, as always, huh? Well, who’s your client — Tommy Slocum?”
“Who’s yours?” Quade asked.
“Stanley Maynard’s paying me. That’s why I was — ah, somewhat disconcerted to see you coming out of Slocum’s office. The way Maynard put it to me, Slocum wasn’t to know who was having the investigation made.”
“Oh, Maynard was trying to keep it dark? Does he think Slocum’s a chump?”
Buck sighed. “Well, it would have come out sooner or later… There’s the Brown Derby. They’ll probably charge you twenty cents for a cup of coffee. But — come on!”
They went into the restaurant and sat in a booth.
Quade picked up a menu. “It’s almost lunch time. This avocado salad sounds intriguing.”
“Long time since I ate an avocado salad,” agreed Boston. “I guess I’ll have it too. Shucks, Ollie, you’ve given me an appetite. Look, they’ve got a steak at two bucks. Can you imagine getting a steak here for that? I think I’ll try it.”
“I’ll have one, too,” Quade said. “What about you, Buck?”
“I’m not as big an eater as you fellows,” grunted Buck. “But go ahead. I guess we’ve got time. I’ll just have a glass of buttermilk.”
“All right now, Quade, just what does Tommy Slocum intend to do?”
“What he always does. Sit tight! The question is, what is Maynard going to do?”
“With the case he’s got and the proof, he’s going through with the suit. He’d be foolish not to. He’s got the goods on Slocum. It’ll cost him a million before it’s finished.”
Quade shrugged, pretending he knew what this was all about. “There’s a difference of opinion about that. That’s what makes a lawsuit. Slocum’s a tough customer. And he’s got plenty of money.”
“Maynard knows that. That’s why he’d rather settle out of court at a somewhat lower figure. The Wentworth dame coming in—”
“Ah, yes!” said Quade, still groping.
“Thelma Wentworth?” Charlie Boston cut in.
“There’s only one Wentworth,” Buck said. “Sure, Thelma Wentworth. Who’d you suppose? The thing I can’t figure out is how a woman like her ever came to know Willie Higgins.”
“Higgins?” said Quade. Then he shook his head quickly. “He’s bad medicine. When they sent him to Alcatraz they really did something.”
Christopher Buck looked sharply at Quade. “You knew, of course, that he’s out?”
“Oh, sure,” said Quade. “I read the papers.” Which was a slight falsehood. He hadn’t read the papers in several days. He hadn’t known that Willie Higgins was out of Alcatraz. But he knew who Higgins was. Everyone knew that. His career, before he had finally been sent to Alcatraz six years ago, was known to everyone.
But what Higgins had to do with Thelma Wentworth, who seemed to be known to even Charlie Boston, but was merely a name to Quade, was something else. For that matter, Quade didn’t even know what Christopher Buck was talking about. He was merely cuing Buck. The lanky detective thought Quade knew something and it wasn’t Quade’s idea to disillusion him.
“So you see,” Buck went on, “the thing’s more complicated than you think. Tommy Slocum… Stanley Maynard… Thelma Wentworth and Willie Higgins, all mixed up. And maybe some others. There’s money in it, though, for a couple of good private detectives and if we work together and play it right, we ought to be able to nick them for say, five or ten grand.”
Quade chuckled. “Knowing you, Buck, the figure’ll be five times that!”
Buck’s mouth twisted. “What’s Slocum paying you?”
Quade smiled deprecatingly. “Well, you know Christopher, I’m not a professional detective. Money can’t usually buy my — uh, detective services. It has to be something unusual.”
“Ah,” said Buck, “so Slocum’s really paying you big sugar? That proves he’s worried about Maynard, after all. I had a hunch about that!”