“I’m sorry,” said an operator. “Miss Wentworth does not receive calls at the studio.”
“But this is a matter of vital importance.”
Quade got the general office and was switched to three different persons. He used his most autocratic voice on them and finally got the ear of a Mr. Gould.
“Lou Gould,” the man said. “I’m Miss Wentworth’s agent. Just what is this matter of importance? I handle all of Miss Wentworth’s business matters. You can tell me what it’s about.”
“Then tell Miss Wentworth that Oliver Quade wants to see her right away. Tell her it’s the man she bumped into this morning in a certain place.”
When Gould’s voice came back on it sounded pained. “Miss Wentworth said she’d see you. If you’ll come over here—”
Knuckles rapped on Quade’s door and before he had a chance to say anything, Christopher Buck’s lean face appeared. Quade snapped into the telephone. “I’ll call you back in five minutes. Stay at your phone.” He banged the receiver on the hook. “Buck,” he said, “how’d you get here?”
The tall detective came into the room and let himself down into a chair. He was so tall and lean the act was very much like an accordion folding itself.
“How come you ducked out of the studio, Quade?” he asked.
“Too many cops around — and shamuses. So you followed me.”
“No. One of my operators did. I gave him the sign when you came out of Slocum’s office. I just saw your stooge downstairs. You’ve come a long way since New York. That’s an expensive car you’re driving these days.”
“I like a good car,” retorted Quade. “So what can I do for you?”
Buck nodded toward the telephone. “Did I interrupt an important call?”
“You did, but don’t let that worry you. What’s on your mind? You didn’t shadow me just so you could drop in for tea.”
“Slocum’s on the spot,” said Buck. “You know that. When I left the studio the D.A. was just about to have a warrant sworn out for him, on a first-degree homicide charge.”
“Nuts! He doesn’t dare to do that to Slocum, not without evidence.”
“I’m cooperating with the D.A.,” said Buck.
“What for? Your client’s dead. Los Angeles County isn’t going to pay you the kind of fees you’re used to.”
“I’ve got another client.”
Quade looked sharply at Buck. “Who?”
“Thelma Wentworth.”
Quade’s eyes barely flickered toward the telephone, but Buck caught it. “Ha! So you were talking to her!”
Quade said tightly, “So she’s not your client. You’re lying. Look, Buck, you drew a rather crude picture this morning. Around Slocum, Maynard, the Wentworth girl and Willie Higgins.”
“You can see the picture though, can’t you? Maynard’s been knocked off. Maybe they won’t indict Slocum for that just yet, but they will when I get through. I need just one little thing. When I get that—”
“And that little thing is—”
Buck grinned wolfishly. “The same thing Slocum wants you to get from Willie. Look, Quade, we’re both after the same thing. Why don’t we corner Willie together, then compromise, take the biggest fee and split!”
“Nuts!”
Buck coughed. “By the way, Lieutenant Murdock will be up to talk to you in a few minutes.”
“You told him where I was? Thanks, Buck. I’ll snitch on you some time.”
“Oh, I didn’t do it. It was my operator, I’m afraid. Well, so you’re not with me?”
“No, Buck. I’m not.”
Buck uncoiled himself. “Lieutenant Murdock says you were the one who found Stanley Maynard.”
He took two strides toward the door and ducked out.
The Human Encyclopedia paced the floor for a minute, then went to the door. He was stepping out of the elevator in the lobby, when Lieutenant Murdock reached out and caught his arm. “I was going to see you, Quade.”
“I was just going out.”
“I won’t take more’n a couple of minutes,” the lieutenant said, walking to the divan in the corner of the lobby. As he sat down, Quade observed a man across the lobby watching them covertly over the top of an open newspaper. Buck’s man, no doubt.
Murdock said, “I understand you were the first to see Maynard.”
Quade shrugged. “The first you know of. Someone else might have gone into Maynard’s office after he was killed.”
“That sounds as if you think someone else had been in before you.”
“Not necessarily. I mean a half-dozen people could have gone in and out of his office and decided the best thing to do was keep mum.”
Murdock’s mouth twisted out of shape. “Dr. Lang said Maynard had died about twenty minutes before he examined the body. That would place the time pretty close to when you found his body. What were you going in to see Maynard about? I understand you’re not connected with the studio?”
“Oh, but I am. Slocum hired me just this morning.”
“Doing what? Buck claims you’re a book agent.”
“Ordinarily I am. I travel the highways and byways, selling books where I can, studying nature—”
“Nix on that stuff,” Murdock said crossly. “Answer my question. Why’d Slocum hire you?”
“To bark for him! The next time you hear the voice of Desmond Dogg on the screen, that, Lieutenant, will be me!”
Murdock’s face was comical to see. “You — the voice of Desmond Dogg!”
“What’s funny about that? Walt Disney dubs in the voice for Mickey Mouse and Rudy Ising is the growl you hear when the big bad bear gets mad.”
“I’ll be damned!” said the lieutenant. “Well, did you see anyone go in or come out of Maynard’s office?”
“Nope,” said Quade.
“Well,” Murdock got up, “listen, Quade, don’t leave Hollywood suddenly. I may think of some more questions to ask you later.”
“Any time, Lieutenant, any time.”
The lieutenant left the hotel. Quade sauntered over to the newsstand. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the man with the newspaper.
He grinned slowly, then suddenly headed for the side door of the hotel. He jumped through and rushed to the corner, forty or fifty feet away, made a quick left turn and popped into the Hollywood Boulevard entrance.
Inside the lobby he moved swiftly to a telephone booth and, leaving the door partially open so the lights would not go on, called the Consolidated Studios.
“General office,” he said. “Mr. Quade calling Lou Gould.”
“Sorry,” was the reply. “Mr. Gould waited for your call, but finally he and Miss Wentworth had to leave.”
Quade hung up and came out of the booth. He went to the Hollywood entrance, where a man was talking to the doorman. “Tell Buck I lost you,” he said as he passed.
The shadow gulped.
Quade walked a couple of blocks and entered a drug store. As he skimmed through a telephone directory he saw Buck’s operator getting a drink at the soda fountain.
Quade found a number and went into a booth. A moment later he said: “Hello, is this the Hollywood office of the Movie Fan Magazine? Well, this is Mr. Quade speaking. I’m the motion picture editor of the Omaha News-Bee. I’m in Hollywood doing a publicity story on Miss Thelma Wentworth, the new glamor girl. I want to check some facts in her history. Can you tell me her birthplace?”
“Certainly,” said a woman’s voice. “Miss Wentworth was born in Tasmania, the daughter of a British diplomat.”
Quade sighed. “I’m sorry, lady, I’m from Nebraska, but we’re not all farmers out there. Start all over. Where was Miss Wentworth born? Brooklyn?”
“Waterloo, Iowa,” was the reply.
“Fine,” said Quade. “Now give me the lowdown on Tommy Slocum. Where was he born and what did he do before he clicked in Hollywood?”