“Anything special you want me to do?” Quade asked.
“Yes. I want you to find Willie Higgins.”
“Then you do know him?”
“I’m not going to tell you one single thing. But if you find Higgins and bring him to me before anyone else finds him — and I mean the police, this Buck, or anyone, I’ll pay you two thousand dollars.”
Knuckles rapped on Slocum’s door and Miss Hendricks stuck her head inside. “Mr. Slocum, District Attorney Nelson is here.”
Slocum reached for his phone. “All right, Quade. Go to it!”
Quade nodded. “I’ll get him for you, if I can, Mr. Slocum. But just one thing more. I’m going to be too busy to get it otherwise, so how about a ten-dollar advance?”
Slocum squinted at Quade, then thrust his hand into a pocket and produced a crumpled bill which he tossed at Quade. “Now, I’ll see the D.A.”
Quade saw that the bill Slocum had thrown at him was a hundred dollar note. He stuck it in his pocket and went out.
In the corridor, Charlie Boston was holding up the wall. Quade walked briskly past him and Boston fell in behind. “We all right?” Boston whispered. “We gonna stay outa trouble?”
“If we get out of here.”
They cleared the studio building and got out into the open lot. “That does it,” sighed Quade.
They came out on the street and Boston nodded to the stalled jalopy across the street. “What about that? We’re still broke.”
Quade waved at a passing cab. “Taxi!” Brakes screeched. “Inside, Charlie,” Quade ordered. “The Lincoln Hotel!”
Ten minutes later, they climbed out of the taxi in front of one of the most expensive hotels in Hollywood.
Quade tendered the hundred-dollar bill to the cabby. The man exclaimed, “I haven’t got change for anything like that!”
Quade turned and waved the bill at the doorman who was hovering over them. “Get this changed and pay the driver. I’ll be at the desk, inside.”
“Holy cats!” said Boston as they walked into the luxurious lobby. “Where’d you get that fish skin?”
“My client,” said Quade. “And there’s more where that came from. Hollywood’s rolling in money.”
He stepped up to the desk and said to the clerk, “I want a nice suite, facing the boulevard. And rather high up, so I don’t get too much street noise.”
He signed the registration card with a flourish. “Oliver Quade and Charles P. Boston. New York City.”
The doorman came up from the cashier’s window with a handful of bills. “Here you are, sir.”
“Front!” said the clerk snappily. “Show these gentlemen up to Suite 831 and 832.”
In their suite Quade picked up the telephone book. Charlie Boston stared at him.
Quade picked up the phone. “Hello,” he said. “I want the Clayton Automobile Agency… Hello. Have you got a yellow sports job in stock? Well, bring it over to the Lincoln Hotel as soon as you can. Oliver Quade is the name.”
He hung up the receiver. “For the love of Mike!” groaned Charlie Boston.
“Tut-tut,” said Quade. “We’re mixing with moneyed people. We’ve got to act like money.”
“So you’re mixed up in the detective stuff again,” Boston shook his head. “I could smell it coming the minute I saw Christopher Buck. That means we’re going to take a lot of punishment again and wind up behind the eight-ball.”
“Not this time, Charlie,” Quade said cheerfully. “I’ve decided that this is one affair from which I’m going to emerge with both hands full of money. It’s lying around on all sides and I’m going to grab it.”
Boston threw up his hands helplessly. “There’s no use talking once your mind is made up. Who’re we working for — Slocum?”
“Right you are, Charlie. And at the moment we have to do only one little thing. Tell me, would you know Willie Higgins if you saw him?”
“If I saw him,” said Boston. “I guess I’d know him all right. So would anybody. His pan’s been in the newspapers often enough.”
“Old pictures. They don’t take pictures of their guests in Alcatraz. So what we’ve got to go by is a five-year-old likeness of him. Since then he may have gained a lot of weight or lost it. He may have raised a mustache or a beard. No, not a beard. I don’t think they’d let him do that on The Rock.”
Boston said suspiciously, “Say, you don’t think Higgins is in Hollywood, do you?”
“I do. And what’s more, you and I are going to find him.”
“Do you want to commit suicide, Ollie? Willie Higgins is so mean he’d poison his own grandmother. Five years on Alcatraz has probably made him even meaner.”
“Oh, he can’t be so tough,” said Quade easily. “As I remember him from the pictures he was a little fellow. Even if he gained a lot of weight, he wouldn’t be up to your two hundred pounds.”
“Stop right there, Ollie! You’re not going to get me to tackle Willie Higgins. If he was a dwarf, I’d still keep out of his way. Higgins don’t fight with fists!”
The door resounded to a smart rat-a-tat. “Come!” Quade called.
A cheery-faced man came in. “Mr. Quade? My name’s Clayton. I understand you wanted to see one of our sport jobs.”
“That’s right,” said Quade. “Tell me, Mr. Clayton, is your car a better buy than the Packard?”
Mr. Clayton smiled deprecatingly. “We think it is, Mr. Quade. If you’ll come outside, I’ll point out a few salient factors.”
“I’ve seen your car, Mr. Clayton,” said Quade. “It looks O.K. The only thing I’m not sure of is how it operates. I mean by comparison with, say, the Packard and the Cadillac, both of which I’ve driven.”
“A demonstration, Mr. Quade—” began the automobile dealer.
“Exactly! But I don’t want one of your demonstrations. You’d look for the smooth streets and you’d whiz me around a corner with your foot touching the brake so I wouldn’t even know it. What I’m getting at, Mr. Clayton, is you can’t tell enough about a car with a test-tube demonstration. You’ve got to drive it yourself, for several days. Now, I’ve promised both the Packard and the Cadillac people that I’d try only one more car and then decide among the three of you. Is that satisfactory, Mr. Clayton?”
“Certainly, sir! We’ll back our car against any on the market, in any price range. Of course—”
“Fine! I’ll try your car for a few days and if it operates as well as the others, I’ll no doubt buy it because I like the color better. Did you bring the keys up with you, Mr. Clayton?”
“Of course, but—”
“But what, Mr. Clayton? Oh!” Quade laughed heartily. “You don’t know me. Quite so. Well, well! I’m Oliver Quade of New York and this is Mr. Charles P. Boston. If you’re worried about us, why just stop down at the desk. Or, there’s the phone — call up my friend, Tommy Slocum.”
Mr. Clayton beamed. “Certainly, Mr. Quade, you drive that car as long as you wish. Take a week. When you’re ready, just call me. Thank you very much. I’m sure you’ll decide in our favor.”
“I hope so, Mr. Clayton. And good day, sir!”
When he’d gone, Charlie said, “Ollie, you’re the biggest four-flusher in California.”
Quade winked at him. “Who knows? We may buy the car from him yet. Our jalopy’s on it’s last legs. Which reminds me, better run down there and get our things out of the car and see if you can’t get it dragged off the street. Here.” He tossed over the keys Mr. Clayton had left.
Boston started for the door. “What are you going to do?”
“Make a few phone calls.”
Boston went out and Quade reached for the telephone. “Get me Consolidated Studios… Consolidated? I want to talk to Miss Thelma Wentworth.”