Quade’s eyes looked steadily at Mills. “Uh, no, Captain,” Mills said, “of course not. I fell down as I got off the elevator a few minutes ago.”
Roletti growled. “All right, call it that.” He turned to Quade. “Your name’s Quade, isn’t it?”
Quade nodded. “That’s the name. Same as I told you at the track.”
Roletti snorted. “You acted up, out there. But I been doin’ a little checkin’ on you. You were out on Sunset Boulevard before you came out to the track.”
“Who says so?”
“The manager of the hotel. He told me some things about you. For instance, that George Grimshaw slipped you a twenty to deliver a letter for him.”
“Oh, that! Of course. Mr. Grimshaw was in a hurry to get out to the track and had made an appointment to meet a man in front of the Mirabeau Hotel on Sunset. He couldn’t make it, so he sent me out to take him a note.”
Roletti glowered. “You delivered the letter?”
Quade said, “No, he didn’t show up.”
“How do you know he didn’t? You know the man by sight?”
“No, but Mr. Grimshaw said he’d be wearing a white linen suit. There wasn’t anyone around at all wearing a white linen suit.”
“So what’d you do with the letter? Did you return it to Grimshaw?”
“No, I never saw Mr. Grimshaw after that. I mean — not alive.”
“Ah,” said Roletti, “now we’re getting down to things. You knew that was Grimshaw who was shot in the club house at the track. Why didn’t you say out there that you knew the man?”
“Why, you didn’t ask me. Remember? You made that mistake with Kleinsmith, the track cop, too.”
Roletti said, “Nuts! Give me the letter you didn’t deliver to this — Paley, did you say?”
“I didn’t say.” Quade thrust a hand into his inside breast pocket. Then he let his eyes widen. Quickly he thrust his hands into other pockets. “Why, I haven’t got the letter. I must have lost it. Or had my pocket picked.”
Captain Roletti yelled, “Damn you, Quade! I’ve got a good notion to run you in. You know a hell of a lot more about this than you’re letting on.”
“Why, Captain! I don’t know anything. The manager of the hotel must have told you that I never saw Grimshaw until he came up to me in the dining room. What reason would I — well, why shouldn’t I deliver a letter when a man pays me twenty dollars? Especially, when I’m broke.”
Suspicion was still ripe in the captain’s eyes. But after a moment he shifted to Mills, the fat man. “What’s your part in all this?”
Mills drew himself together. Then he took a card from his pocket. “I’m Herbert Mills,” he said stiffly. “Victor Mills and Son, Brokers. I’m the son, you know.”
Captain Roletti looked at the card. “I’ve heard of the company. Rates pretty high, doesn’t it?”
Mills shrugged an admission. “You must know my father. He’s a friend of the mayor, you know.”
“I know. But let it stop there. All right, you coming?”
Mills moved quickly to the door.
“Thanks for the reward, Mr. Mills,” said Charlie Boston.
Mills popped out of the room. Roletti turned and delivered a parting shot: “Don’t leave town, Quade!”
Quade stepped after him. “Say, tell that to the manager on your way out, will you?”
The door closed, but Quade signaled to Boston to remain quiet. He waited a moment, then jerked the door open. The hallway was empty. He closed the door.
“Charlie,” he accused his friend, “that was highway robbery!”
“Oh, was it?” grinned Boston. “Why, the fat so-and-so. Fifty-two bucks reward isn’t too much for giving him nine hundred and eighty. And say, that Mills guy knows a lot more than he lets on. About Grimshaw and Lund, both.”
“You’re telling me, Charlie. He lied like the devil. A Custer autograph wouldn’t be worth as much as he intimated. Custer wrote plenty of letters. Articles for magazines, too. His autograph is pretty common.”
“I don’t get that autograph stuff at all, Ollie,” said Boston. “Hell, I read a piece in the paper a while ago which said that Greta Garbo’s autograph was only worth two bucks.”
“She’s still alive, Charlie. The value of an autograph increases with age, provided also that it isn’t too common. The autographs of some of the signers of the Declaration of Independence aren’t worth over fifty bucks, but one of them, that of Button Gwinnett, is worth fifty thousand.”
“Holy smokes!” exclaimed Charlie Boston. “I never even heard of the guy.”
“Not many people are familiar with his name, today. In fact, if he hadn’t been one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence no one would even want his autograph… Shame to be wasting all my Human Encyclopedia knowledge on just you.”
“But this Jesse James stuff. Why should his autograph be worth so much? He’s only been dead about fifty years or so.”
“That’s right. But if you’ll remember your dime novels, you know Jesse James wasn’t in the habit of writing letters. At least not with his own name. He was an outlaw from the time he was fifteen until he was killed nineteen years later. And his name today is known to more people than the names of any of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Yes, I’d say that an authentic autograph of Jesse would be worth quite a sum of money. I think I’d like to talk to Miss Grimshaw about that.”
“The girl whose father was knocked off? Where’ll you find her?”
“Why, her father was here at the hotel, so I imagine this is where Miss Grimshaw will be. A lot of the race-track crowd make this their headquarters. I’ll see.” He walked across the room and picked up the telephone.
“Hello, operator, can you tell me in what room Miss Helen Grimshaw is registered?”
“Ten-fourteen,” was the reply. “Shall I ring it?”
“No, thank you. I’ll run up. She’s expecting me.”
“I’ll bet she is,” snorted Boston. “Is she expecting me too?”
“You stay here and hold down the fort. As long as one of us is here, the manager won’t lock the door on us. I’ll be back in a little while.”
Oliver Quade climbed two flights of stairs to the tenth floor. Outside of Room 1014 he paused. A rumble of voices came to his ears, but he could not make out the words. He rapped on the door.
There was silence inside the room for a moment, then a feminine voice called, “Come in!”
Quade pushed open the door. Helen Grimshaw, looking pale and drawn, sat in an easy chair facing the door. She clutched a handkerchief in her fist. Standing nearby, a scowl on his handsome face, was young Jack Forester, the wealthy horseman.
Quade said, “I’m Oliver Quade. Remember me?”
Jack Forester snapped, “What do you want?”
“Why, I’m interested in autographs,” he said. “I understand your father had a fine collection of Custer items.”
Jack Forester cut in sharply. “Say, is this a time for that? Can’t you see Miss Grimshaw has suffered a severe shock?”
“I’m all right, Jack!” said Helen Grimshaw. “After all, I’m going to need money. Plenty of it. Yes, Mr. Quade, Father owned some Custer letters. Not many, however. Are there any particular ones you are interested in?”
“Yes. Any he wrote while in Washington during ’76? During the time he appeared as a witness before the Federal Board of Inquiry.”
Helen Grimshaw shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I know Father had no letters written during that period.”
Quade sighed. He half turned away, then said, casually, “By the way, Miss Grimshaw, did you ever meet an autograph dealer named Martin Lund?”
The girl shook her head. “No, but Father had dealings with him. He bought and sold several items for Father… It’s — it’s been a shock. Both of them killed on the same day.”