“You’re being very stupid, Sergeant,” Quade said. “These men told you they hadn’t seen Tupper alive for several hours. He’s been dead at least three. And I just came into this building fifteen minutes ago.”
“He’s right,” declared Anne Martin. “I saw him come in. He and his friend. They went straight over to the other side of the building and started that sales talk.”
“What sales talk?”
The little poultry judge hopped in again. “He’s a damn pitchman. Pulls some phony question and answer stuff and insults people. Claims he’s the smartest man in the world. Bah!”
“Bah to you!” said Quade.
“Cut it,” cried Sergeant Dickinson. “I want to get the straight of this. You,” he turned to Cassmer. “Did he really come in fifteen minutes ago?”
Cassmer shrugged. “I never saw him until a few minutes ago. But there’s the ticket-taker. He’d know.”
The ticket-taker, whose post had been taken over by a policeman, frowned. “Yeah, he came in just a little while ago. I got plenty reason to remember. Him and his pal crashed the gate. On me! First time anyone crashed the gate on me in eight years. But he was damn slick. He—”
“Never mind the details,” sighed Sergeant Dickinson. “I can imagine he was slick about it. Well, Mister, you didn’t kill him. But tell me — how the hell do you know he was gassed with cy — cyanide?”
“Cyanogen. It’s got prussic acid in it. All right, the body was found inside the incubator, the door locked on the outside. That means someone locked him inside the incubator. The person who killed him. Right so far?”
“I’m listening.” There was a thoughtful look in the sergeant’s eyes.
“There’s broken glass inside the incubator. The killer heaved in a bottle containing the stuff and slammed the door shut and locked it. The man inside was killed inside of a minute.”
“Wait a minute. The glass is there all right, but how d’you know it contained cyanogen? There’s no smell in there.”
“No, because the killer opened the ventilator hole and turned on the electric fans inside the incubator. All that can be done from the outside. The fans cleared out the fumes. Simple.”
“Not so simple. You still haven’t said how you know it was cyanogen.”
“Because he’s got all the symptoms. Look at the body — pupils dilated, eyes wide, froth on the mouth, face livid, body twisted and stiff. That means he had convulsions. Well, if those symptoms don’t mean cyanogen, I don’t know what it’s all about.”
“Mister,” said the detective. “Who did you say you were?”
“Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia. I know everything.”
“You know, I’m beginning to believe you. Well, then, who did the killing?”
“That’s against the union rules. I told you how the man was killed. Finding who did it is your job.”
“All right, but tell me one thing more. If this cyanogen has prussic acid in it, it’s a deadly poison. Folks can’t usually buy it.”
“City folks, you mean. Cyanogen is the base for several insecticides. I don’t think this was pure cyanogen. I’m inclined to believe it was a diluted form, probably a gas used to kill rats on poultry farms. Any poultry raiser could buy that.”
“Here comes the coroner’s man,” announced Detective Dickinson. “Now, we’ll get a check on you, Mr. Quade.”
Dr. Bogle, the coroner’s physician, made a rapid, but thorough, examination of the body. His announcement coincided startlingly with Quade’s diagnosis.
“Prussic acid or cyanide. He inhaled it. Died inside of five minutes. About three and a half hours ago.”
Quade’s face was twisted in a queer smile. He walked off from the group. Charlie Boston and Anne Martin, the girl, followed.
“Do you mind my saying that you just performed some remarkable work?” the girl said admiringly.
“No, I don’t mind your saying so,” Quade grinned. “I was rather colossal.”
“He pulls those things out of a hat,” groused Boston. “He’s a very smart man. Only one thing he can’t do.”
“What’s that?”
Boston started to reply, but Quade’s fierce look silenced him. Quade coughed. “Well, look — a hot dog stand. Reminds me, it’s about lunch time. Feel like a hot dog and orangeade, Anne?”
The girl smiled at his familiarity. “I don’t mind. I’m rather hungry.”
Boston sidled up to Quade. “Hey, you forgot!” he whispered. “You haven’t got any money.”
Quade said, “Three dogs and orangeades!”
A minute later they were munching hot dogs. Quade finished his orangeade and half-way through the sandwich suddenly snapped his fingers.
“That reminds me, I forgot something. Excuse me a moment…” He started off suddenly toward the group around the incubator, ignoring Charlie Boston’s startled protest.
Boston suddenly had no appetite. He chewed the food in his mouth as long as he could. The girl finished her sandwich and smiled at him.
“That went pretty good. Guess I’ll have another. How about you?”
Boston almost choked. “Uh, no, I ain’t hungry.”
The girl ordered another hot dog and orangeade and finished them while Boston still fooled with the tail end of his first sandwich.
The concessionaire mopped up the counter all around Boston and Anne Martin and finally said, “That’s eighty cents, Mister!”
Boston put the last of the sandwich in his mouth and began going through his pockets. The girl watched him curiously. Boston went through his pockets a second time. “That’s funny,” he finally said. “I must have left my wallet in the hotel. Quade…”
“Let me pay for it,” said the girl, snapping open her purse.
Boston’s face was as red as a Harvard beet. Such things weren’t embarrassing to Quade, but they were to Boston.
“There’s Mr. Quade,” said Anne Martin. “Shall we join him?”
Boston was glad to get away from the hot dog stand.
The investigation was still going on. Sergeant Dickinson was on his hands and knees inside the incubator. A policeman stood at the door of it and a couple more were going over the exterior.
Quade saluted them with a piece of wire. “They’re looking for clues,” he said.
The girl shivered. “I’d like it much better if they’d take away Exhibit A.”
“Can’t. Not until they take pictures. I hear the photographers and the fingerprint boys are coming down. It’s not really necessary either. Because I know who the murderer is.”
The girl gasped: “Who?”
Quade did not reply. He looked at the piece of wire in his hands. It was evidently a spoke from a wire poultry coop, but it had been twisted into an elongated question mark. He tapped Dickinson’s shoulder with the wire.
The sergeant looked up and scowled. “Huh?”
“Want this?” Quade asked.
“What the hell is it?”
“Just a piece of wire I picked up.”
“What’re you trying to do, rib me?”
Quade shrugged. “No, but I saw you on your hands and knees and thought you were looking for something. Thought this might be it.”
Dickinson snorted. “What the hell, if you’re not going to tell me who did the killing, let me alone.”
“O.K.” Quade flipped the piece of wire over a row of chicken coops. “Come,” he said to Boston and Anne Martin. “Let’s go look at the turkeys at the other end of the building.”
Boston shuffled up beside Quade as the three walked through an aisle. “Who did it, Ollie?”
“Can’t tell now, because I couldn’t prove it. In a little while, perhaps.”
Boston let out his pent-up breath. “If you ain’t the damnedest guy ever!”
Anne Martin said, “You mean you’re not going to tell Sergeant Dickinson?”