“Buck,” sighed Quade, “that wasn’t cricket. You talked about cooperation and all you brought me here for was to pump me about what my boss is doing. I’m not going to say another word, now, until I have my coffee and steak and salad.”
A triumphant light gleamed in Christopher Buck’s eyes while Boston and Quade did justice to their food. When they finished, they talked each other into having pie a la mode for dessert.
Quade finally put down his fork. “Excuse me, a minute, now, Buck. I’ve got to make a phone call.” He got up and went to the washroom. He washed his hands, then returned to the booth. His eyes spotted the check that lay face down on the table near his own place.
He remained standing. “Something’s come up, Buck!” he said. “I’ve got to run!”
“Wait!” exclaimed Buck. “I’ll go with you.”
Quade took his hat from the hook. “No, no, I’d rather go alone.”
“But we haven’t settled yet how we’re going to work!” cried Buck. He squirmed out of the booth and was so anxious to follow Quade he grabbed up the check, and winced when he saw the amount. Quade was already moving toward the door and Boston was scrambling out of the booth.
Buck threw a coin on the table and followed. Quade waited just inside the front door. Buck hurriedly paid the check at the cashier’s stand.
“You’re going back to the studio, Quade?” he asked eagerly. “I’ll drive you there.”
“Well, all right.”
As they climbed into the car, Charlie whispered in Quade’s ear: “Well, it worked!”
They drove back to the Slocum Studios and Buck parked his car. At the gate, Quade and Boston fell behind Buck and allowed the tall detective to get them through the gate by showing his pass.
Once inside, Quade became reticent. “You run along about your business, Buck.”
“Yeah, but that phone call,” protested Buck. “What’s come up?”
Quade waved a finger chidingly at Buck. “Now, now!”
Buck’s face contorted angrily for a moment. “All right, if that’s the way you’re going to be. But remember, Quade, I’m on the job, and I’ll be running into you.”
“Oh sure, no hard feelings. Eh?”
Buck went off and Boston asked, “So what’s it all about, Ollie?”
“We’re detectives again,” replied Quade. “Christopher Buck, the world’s greatest detective, came all the way from New York on a job. He thinks because I once got mixed in a case that he was on — and solved it — that I’m here as a detective.”
“But, hell, you don’t even know who those people are that he mentioned!” exclaimed Charlie Boston.
“We got a lunch out of it, didn’t we? How much was the check?”
“Five-forty!” chuckled Boston. “Which, for a tightwad like Christopher Buck, was plenty.”
“He figured he was going to have a cup of coffee — on us!” Quade laughed. “Say, Charlie, who’s Thelma Wentworth?”
“Huh? Say, don’t you read the movie magazines, Ollie? She’s the new sensation in the films. Her and Hedy Lamarr. I knew about her, all right, but who’re Maynard and Higgins? Is that the Willie Higgins who used to be Public Enemy Number One?”
“Yep! None other! Seems he finished his time on Alcatraz. Also he knows these people. Maynard, I haven’t placed. But he seems to think he’s got something on Tommy Slocum. I’m going to find out what.”
Charlie’s forehead creased. “You’re not serious in mixing in this detective stuff, are you? Not out here?”
Quade shrugged. “We’re broke. That is, we are today. Although tomorrow Tommy Slocum’s giving me a hundred bucks.”
“What?” cried Charlie Boston. “He really gave you a job? Doing what?”
Quade said hastily, “Oh, just a job.”
“What the hell can you do around a studio?”
“Lots of things. They have producers and writers and such, in a studio, you know.”
“Not in this place, Ollie. This is where they make the Desmond Dogg cartoons. It’s all done by artists.” Boston looked suspiciously at Quade. “Why the mystery all of a sudden? You’re talking to me, you know.”
“Oh, hell!” said Quade disgustedly. “We’re broke and we’ve got to make a quick stake so — well, Slocum offered me this hundred bucks for just a couple of hours work and I accepted.”
“A hundred bucks for a couple of hours?” persisted Boston. “Doing what?”
Quade swore. “Barking, damn you! I’m going to imitate Desmond Dogg’s bark. Now laugh, you fool!”
Boston did laugh. He laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. But Quade heard only the beginning of the laughter. He walked off, muttering savagely to himself.
Oliver Quade jerked open the first door he came to and found himself facing one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen in his life. She was tall and slender and blonde.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You startled me!”
“Sorry, I guess I got into the wrong place. Whose office is this?” He wondered why the girl looked so pale, why her lips were so taut. His sudden entry couldn’t have scared her that much.
She started around him, toward the door through which he had just entered. “I–I got into the wrong office myself,” she said lamely. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone here.”
She stepped hurriedly past him, pulling the door shut behind her. Quade stared at the door. “I must have caught her doing something,” he said to himself. “She’s scared stiff.” He shrugged and glanced about the office. There was an inner door with a ground glass panel, on which was lettered the name: Mr. Maynard.
He walked across and opened the door. “Mr. Maynard,” he began, “I just dropped in to—” he stopped.
He was talking to a dead man.
He sat in a big chair behind a mahogany desk. His arms hung loosely at his sides and his head was thrown back. Blood was trickling from his mouth, to the thick rug. It was dropping on a .32 caliber automatic that might have fallen from his limp hand.
Quade had seen dead men before. He was a man of the world and had seen many things in his time. He had never got used to death. A shiver ran through his lean body and he felt strangely cold. He backed out of Maynard’s private office and closed the door softly. Then he walked swiftly out of the other office into the corridor. And collided with Tommy Slocum.
The little producer said “Excuse me,” and reached for the door through which Quade had just come.
Quade’s hand shot out and caught Slocum’s arm. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you, Mr. Slocum.”
“Why not? Who’re you to tell me where I can go? I’m Tommy Slocum and this is my joint. I’m the boss around here.”
“I know, but just the same, don’t go into Mr. Maynard’s office. Not yet. He’s — dead!”
“Dead, hell!” said Slocum and shoved against the door. Then, as understanding swept into his brain, he recoiled. “Dead!” he squeaked in a thin voice.
“With a bullet in his head. I think you’d better call the police.”
“Oh, my God!” moaned Tommy Slocum. “Stanley Maynard — dead? I don’t believe it.”
But he did believe it. And if he had known of Maynard’s death before Quade told him, he put on a very good act.
He snapped at Quade: “You found him? All right, stick around then. Hey, Hendricks!” he roared at the top of his voice. “Come out here!”
Miss Hendricks, the school-teacherish looking secretary, rushed out of her office. “Call the police!” Slocum yelled at her. “Tell them to hurry up. Stanley Maynard’s killed himself.”
Heads popped out of doors. Tommy Slocum roared at them. “Get back to your work! What do you think I’m paying you for? To gawk around? Somebody call the police department. Murder’s been done. Mr. Maynard’s killed himself.”