“What a man!” murmured Quade.
And now the human bloodhound, Christopher Buck, popped out of nowhere. “Maynard’s dead?” he hissed. “Where?” He saw Oliver Quade and clapped a hand to his skinny face. “You, Ollie, what do you know about this?”
“I found his body. He’s in there.” He jerked a hand toward the office door.
Christopher Buck slithered past them and little Tommy Slocum charged him. “You can’t go in there, you long drink of water. Stay out!”
Christopher Buck shook off the little man. “Maynard’s my client! I’m going in and no one can stop me.” And in he went.
Quade stepped in swiftly after him. Tommy Slocum yelled and followed. He sobbed when he saw the dead man with the sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.
“Stanley, old boy!” he moaned.
Buck, his head craned forward, was sniffing about the office. “Through the mouth,” he said, “and the gun’s here. I don’t believe it!”
“You don’t believe what, Buck?” asked Quade softly.
“That he’d kill himself. He was so sure of winning out. Damn, what a dirty trick! Now, I can whistle for my fee.”
Someone came up behind Quade and breathed on his neck. “I told you, Ollie!” exclaimed Charlie Boston. “We had no business butting in around here.”
“Oh, shut up, Charlie!” snorted Quade.
“The best friend I ever had!” said Tommy Slocum.
“Oh, yeah!” That was Christopher Buck, all detective now. He had whirled on Slocum and was towering over him, his face grim and unforgiving. “If he was your best friend, why was he suing you for a million bucks?”
Slocum jumped. “Who’re you?” he cried. “How’d you get in here? What right have you got to talk that way to me? I’m Tommy Slocum and this is my studio. Get the hell out of here.”
Christopher Buck showed his teeth. “I’m Christopher Buck, the detective!” he announced. “Mr. Maynard employed me to — to uncover some evidence he wanted. I came out here from New York by plane. Mr. Maynard wanted me right away. Why, Mr. Slocum, why?”
“Hendricks!” roared Tommy Slocum. “Call the cops. Have this man thrown out of here. I don’t care if he is a detective… Hendricks!”
A studio cop rushed into the office. “Yes, Mr. Slocum, what is it?”
“Emil! Throw this man off the lot. He says he’s a detective, but I don’t believe him. Throw him off. He insulted me.”
The studio cop looked at the tall detective who was glowering at him. “I dunno, Mr. Slocum,” the cop said hesitantly. “The city police just pulled up outside—”
“Here we are!”
They came in, a small army of them. A hawk-faced man with graying hair was in command. “I’m Lieutenant Murdock,” he announced. “What’s happened here?”
Slocum pointed a quivering hand at the dead man. “Stanley Maynard, he killed himself!”
“O.K.,” Lieutenant Murdock said. “We’ll take care of things. Just keep back… Johnson, clear this gang out of here. Outside, everybody. We’ll handle things in here.” Everyone cleared out.
Alone in an adjoining office, Quade sidled up to Tommy Slocum. “In a little while, Mr. Slocum, they’re going to discover that Maynard didn’t kill himself.”
The producer of the famous Desmond Dogg animated cartoons snapped: “What do you mean, he didn’t kill himself?”
“I mean he was murdered.”
“You’re crazy, the gun—”
“Was left by the murderer, in an attempt to make it look like suicide.”
Slocum’s eyes widened. “You were coming out of Maynard’s office when I bumped into you.”
“Uh-huh,” said Quade. “I never met Mr. Maynard while he was alive. Before today I had never even heard his name. I know nothing about him and had absolutely no motive for killing him. I can prove that. Can you?”
Slocum became strangely calm. “I don’t get you.”
“You heard what Christopher Buck said — that Maynard was suing you for a million dollars.”
“That’s news to me,” scoffed Slocum. “Why would Stanley want to sue me? He was working for me and we were friends.”
“Buck says otherwise.”
“Buck, Buck!” Slocum cried, impatiently. “Who is this Buck, who seems to know everything?”
“In the East, they call him the world’s greatest detective.”
“I can believe that. He’s been hanging around for two days trying to bother me. I’ve refused to talk to him. Or any private detective. My life’s an open book. Every time I open my mouth a newspaperman’s around to print what I say.”
“They’re probably outside, right now,” said Quade. “They’ll want to know everything about—”
“And I want to know something,” Slocum flared up. “I hired you for tomorrow. What the hell are you doing around here today?”
“Giving you good advice,” said Quade. “You’re going to need it in a little while. When Lieutenant Murdock gets—”
The door of Maynard’s private office was jerked open and Lieutenant Murdock stabbed his hand in Tommy Slocum’s direction. “Mr. Slocum, I want to ask you some questions.”
“Think fast,” murmured Quade.
Slocum glared at Quade, then went toward Murdock. Quade walked casually behind him and got into the other room without being noticed by Lieutenant Murdock.
Christopher Buck was pacing up and down, his hands clasped behind his back, a deep scowl on his face.
“Mr. Slocum,” Lieutenant Murdock said, “I understand you’ve been having trouble with Maynard. What was the nature of this trouble? What I’m getting at is a motive for suicide.”
“I haven’t had any trouble with Maynard,” Slocum declared. “He worked for me. He was my right hand man.”
Buck stopped his pacing and confronted Slocum. “Then why did Maynard telephone me in New York and have me fly out here? He was going to sue you for a million dollars.”
A cop stuck his head in the door. ‘“Lieutenant, the medical examiner’s man is here.”
“All right. Have him come in. I’m through here.”
Quade stepped forward and caught the lieutenant’s arm. “Just a minute, Lieutenant, you’re making a mistake. Maynard didn’t shoot himself.”
“What the—” Murdock began angrily, but Quade whispered in his ear. “Look at the direction the bullet took. Quick, before the medical examiner tells you what’s what and makes a chump out of you.”
A heavy-set man came into the room, followed by a white uniformed man carrying a black bag. The heavy-set man made a clucking sound with his mouth as he regarded the dead man.
Murdock stepped swiftly around the medical examiner and peered over the desk at dead Stanley Maynard. He straightened.
“It isn’t suicide, Doctor,” he said loudly. “It’s murder. Take a look at the course the bullet took and see if you don’t agree.”
The doctor made his examination, studied the dead man’s face and throat carefully, then turned and frowned. “The bullet entered his mouth from above, then cut through the bottom of the mouth and entered the throat from outside—”
“Could he have done it himself, Doc?” asked Murdock eagerly.
“Umm,” said the doctor. “There are powder burns which indicate the gun was held closely, but — no, he would have had to hold the gun over his head and point it downward at himself to inflict such a wound. Not impossible, but decidedly improbable. And exceedingly awkward.”
“Thanks, Doc,” said Lieutenant Murdock. He nodded in satisfaction and shot a swift look at Quade. Quade was deliberately avoiding Slocum’s angry stare.
Buck pounced down. “So, it’s murder! I knew it! Well, Mr. Slocum, what have you to say to that, now?”
Slocum drew himself up. “I say, to hell with you. And you, too, copper. If you want to ask any more questions, talk to my lawyer.”