“Strangely,” said the informant, “Mr. Slocum also comes from Waterloo, Iowa. He was a sports cartoonist on the Waterloo Independent before he went to New York.”
“One thing more — what about Stanley Maynard?”
“Stanley Maynard?” Quade detected the sudden change in the woman’s tone. “Say, what did you say your name was?”
“Shade. I’m the motion-picture editor of the Omaha News-Bee. About Maynard—”
“I’m sorry,” was the reply, “but you’d better come to our office for further information.”
“Thank you,” said Quade and hung up.
When he came out of the booth, the shadow was thumbing through the magazines. Quade whistled pleasantly at him and went outside.
He sauntered down the street. In the next block he came to a combination magazine and cigar store. Racing tip sheets were displayed prominently on the rack. Quade went inside and said to the man behind the counter:
“Doc, I’ve got a really hot one at Santa Anita tomorrow. I want to place a big bet.”
The man stared blankly at Quade. “What do you think this is?”
“Phooey!” said Quade. “All you take in on cigars and magazines you can stick in your ear.”
“I never saw you before in my life!” protested the counterman.
“I just blew in from New York. Do I look like a cop?”
“No, but just the same, I don’t take horse bets. But I know a fella — How much was you figuring on betting?”
“Depends on the bookie. If the odds are right, maybe a couple of grand.”
The man’s eyebrows arched. “Just a minute,” he said. He went to a telephone booth and closed the door tightly. He emerged in a couple of minutes, mopping his forehead. He pulled a notebook from his pocket, wrote on a sheet and ripped it out of the book. “Go to this address. Ask for Jake.”
“Thanks, pal!”
The shadow was looking in the window of a shoe store next door. Quade signaled to a taxi on the corner.
Five minutes later he stepped out. As he paid the driver he shot a look at the taxi that had pulled to the curb a half block away.
A sign on a store window said: “Argus Realty Company.” The walls inside were covered with pictures of houses, maps and insurance calendars.
A young chap got up from behind a desk.
“I want to see Jake,” Quade said. “Mr. Wolfson sent me over.”
A man in the rear of the realty store took his feet from his desk and slid his derby forward on his head. “You interested in a good house?” he called to Quade.
Quade went back. “Yeah, in Santa Anita.”
“How much you figure on paying?”
“That depends. If I can locate my partner.”
“Yeah? “Jake said.
“My partner’s name,” said Quade, “is Willie Higgins. Ever hear of him?”
Jake said, “You ain’t a cop. So what’s your angle?”
“I want to have a talk with Willie.”
Jake shook his head. “I’ve seen the name in the papers, Mister, but I ain’t never seen the man himself. You’ll have to—” His face went slack. Quade, seeing the man’s eyes looking past him, whirled, just in time to see his shadow duck out of sight, outside the store.
The realtor-bookie swung on Quade. “What’re you tryin’ to pull?”
Quade was perplexed. “Nothing. I know Willie Higgins used to be a big horse player and since he’s in Hollywood I figured you might know where he was staying.”
“You lie like hell!” exclaimed Jake. “Get out and don’t come back!”
Quade shrugged and walked out. Outside, he looked around for the man who had been shadowing him, but the fellow was strangely out of sight now. Which gave Quade something to think about.
He took a taxi back to the Lincoln Hotel. A bright yellow sports model was parked at the curb. When he got up to their suite, Charlie Boston asked, “You know a fellow by the name of Paul Clevenger?”
“Yes, why?” Quade said.
“He called up five minutes ago. Said he wants you to meet a friend of his tonight at the Sunset Club.”
Quade knew who that “friend” was. Paul Clevenger was the young fellow who had soothed Thelma Wentworth, that afternoon in Stanley Maynard’s office.
Oliver Quade and Boston sauntered into the Sunset Club. In a far corner Thelma Wentworth was seated at a table with Paul Clevenger.
Charlie inhaled softly. “If I kill the guy with her, would she give me a tumble?”
“According to the Bill of Rights,” said Quade, “every man is equal.”
She was gorgeous. No, that was an understatement. In Hollywood, she was super-colossal. She wore a white evening gown that revealed. Her blonde hair glittered. Her features were smooth and finely chiseled.
Her eyes were on Quade as he bowed slightly. “Good evening. Miss Wentworth. Allow me to present my friend, Mr. Boston.”
Young Paul Clevenger was rising. “Won’t you join us?” he asked.
Quade sat down opposite Thelma Wentworth. Beside him, Charlie Boston breathed heavily.
“It’s all right,” Thelma Wentworth said in a low voice. “Paul… knows.”
Quade regarded him deliberately. “You’re not in the picture business, are you, Mr. Clevenger?”
Young Clevenger laughed. “Hardly. Banking is my racket.”
Quade saw the possessive look Clevenger bestowed on Thelma. He looked at the glamor girl for a moment and was rewarded by a slight frown.
“Paul and I went to school together,” she explained. “He’s out here for a visit.”
The boy from her home town. There’s always one. Sometimes they forget him. Thelma Wentworth hadn’t. Perhaps the fact that young Clevenger was in the banking business accounted for that. You can forget the boy from home if he’s a soda jerk or works in a filling station. If his father owns the bank — and many Iowa banks are wealthy — you don’t forget him. Bankers are nice people to know. Remarkably handy to meet.
“Stanley Maynard was from Iowa — too?” Quade asked.
She winced. “No.”
Paul Clevenger said, “Thelma didn’t even know him. She just happened to be at the Slocum Studio—”
“Why?” Quade interrupted.
Clevenger bristled. “Why were you there?”
“I have a job there. Miss Wentworth hasn’t.”
“But,” Thelma exclaimed softly, “I know Tommy Slocum as well as I know Paul. He used to live two doors up the street from us, in Waterloo.”
“I see,” said Quade. “So you were visiting Tommy and happened to go into the wrong room — Maynard’s. You didn’t know Stanley Maynard at all.”
“She never even met him, I tell you,” snapped Clevenger.
“Did you know him?” Quade asked sharply.
“I got to Hollywood three days ago,” Clevenger said angrily. “Thelma’s let me take her around. I knew Slocum slightly. That’s all. I never saw Maynard, dead or alive.”
Thelma’s eyes widened. She was looking past Quade. He turned. Tommy Slocum was bearing down on the table. He was scowling, furiously.
“Hello, chief!” Quade grinned. “Join us?”
“You get around!” Slocum said truculently.
Quade smiled. “You know Miss Wentworth and Mr. Clevenger?”
“Of course I know them. How’d you get to know them?”
“Why, I get around,” Quade quipped. “Shake hands with my assistant, Mr. Boston.”
Slocum looked coldly at Charlie Boston’s big hand. He sat down abruptly.
“You wouldn’t think it would get so cold in the evenings,” Quade remarked drily.
Tommy Slocum showed his teeth. “Did you say you were going home, Quade?” he snapped.