“Oh yes, but I’m going to wait a while. Maybe he’ll tumble himself and I’d hate to deprive him of that pleasure… What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” Boston said. “I lost my watch in Kansas City. You remember that, don’t you, Ollie?”
Quade winced. Boston had “lost” his watch in Uncle Ben’s Three Gold Ball Shop. Quade’s had gone to Uncle Moe in St. Louis.
“It’s twelve-thirty,” the girl said, looking at her wrist watch.
Quade nodded. “That’s fine. The early afternoon editions of the papers will have accounts of the murder and a lot of morbid folk will flock around here later on. That means I can put on a good pitch and sell some of my books.”
“I wanted to ask you about that,” said Anne Martin. “You answered some really remarkable questions this morning. I don’t for the life of me see how you do it.”
“Forsaking modesty for the moment, I do it because I really know all the answers.”
“All?”
“Uh-huh. You see, I’ve read an entire encyclopedia from cover to cover four times.”
Anne looked at him in astonishment. “An entire encyclopedia?”
“Twenty-four volumes… Well, let’s go back now. Charlie, keep your eyes open.”
“Ah!” Charlie Boston said.
Dr. Bogle’s men were just taking away the body of the murdered man. Sergeant Dickinson, a disgusted look on his face, had rounded up his men and was on the verge of leaving.
“Not going, Captain Dickinson?” Quade asked.
“What good will it do me to hang around?” snorted the sergeant. “Everyone and his brother has some phony alibi.”
“But your clues, man?”
“What clues?”
Quade shook his head in exasperation. “I told you how the murder was committed, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, sure, the guy locked the bloke in the incubator and tossed in the bottle of poison gas, then opened the ventilator and turned on the fans. But there were more than a dozen guys around and almost any one of them could have done it, without any of the others even noticing what he was doing.”
“No, you’re wrong. Only one person could have done it.”
A hush suddenly fell upon the crowd. Charlie Boston, tensed and crouching, was breathing heavily. The police sergeant’s face became bleak. Quade had demonstrated his remarkable deductive ability a while ago and Dickinson was willing to believe anything of him, now.
Quade stepped lazily to a poultry coop, took hold of a wire bar and with a sudden twist tore it off. Then he stepped to the side of the incubator.
“Look at this ventilator,” he said. “Notice that I can reach it easily enough. So could you, Lieutenant. We’re about the same height — five feet ten. But a man only five-two couldn’t reach it even by standing on his toes. Do you follow me?”
“Go on,” said Sergeant Dickinson.
Quade twisted the piece of wire into an elongated question mark. “To move a box or chair up here and climb up on it would be to attract attention,” he went on, “so the killer used a piece of wire to open the ventilator. Like this!” Quade caught the hook in the ventilator and pulled it open easily.
“That’s good enough for me!” said Sergeant Dickinson. “You practically forced that wire on me a while ago and I couldn’t see it. Well—Judge Stone, you’re under arrest!”
“He’s a liar!” roared the bantam poultry judge. “He can’t prove anything like that on me. He just tore that piece of wire from that coop!”
“That’s right,” said Quade. “You saw me pick up the original piece of wire and when I threw it away after trying to give it to the sergeant you got it and disposed of it.”
“You didn’t see me!”
“No, I purposely walked away to give you a chance to get rid of the wire. But I laid a trap for you. While I had that wire I smeared some ink on it to prove you handled it. Look at your hands, Judge Stone!”
Judge Stone raised both palms upward. His right thumb and fingers were smeared with a black stain.
Sergeant Dickinson started toward the little poultry judge. But the bantam uttered a cry of fright and darted away.
“Ha!” cried Charlie Boston and lunged for him. He wrapped his thick arms around the little man and tried to hold on to him. But the judge was suddenly fighting for his life. He clawed at Boston’s face and kicked his shins furiously. Boston howled and released his grip to defend himself with his fists.
The poultry judge promptly butted Boston in the stomach and darted under his flailing arms.
It was Anne Martin who stopped him. As the judge scrambled around Boston she stepped forward and thrust out her right foot. The little man tripped over it and plunged headlong to the concrete floor of the auditorium. Before he could get up Charlie Boston was on him. Sergeant Dickinson swooped down, a Police Positive in one hand and a pair of handcuffs in the other. The killer was secured.
Stone quit then. “Yes, I killed him, the damned lousy blackmailer. For years I judged his chickens at the shows and always gave him the edge. Then he double-crossed me, got me fired.”
“What job?” asked Dickinson.
“My job as district manager for the Sibley Feed Company,” replied Stone.
“Why’d he have you fired?” asked Quade. “Because you were short-weighing him on his feed? Is that it?”
“I gave him prizes his lousy chickens should never have had,” snapped the killer. “What if I did short-weigh him twenty or thirty percent? I more than made up for it.”
“Twenty or thirty percent,” said Quade, “would amount to quite a bit of money in the course of a year. In his advertising in the poultry papers Tupper claimed he raised over eight thousand chickens a year.”
“I don’t need any more,” said Sergeant Dickinson. “Well, Mr. Quade, you certainly delivered the goods.”
“Not me, I only told you who the murderer was. If it hadn’t been for Miss Martin he’d have got away.”
Quade turned away. “Anne,” he said, “Charlie and I are flat broke. But this afternoon a flock of rubbernecks are going to storm this place and I’m going to take quite a chunk of money from them. But in the meantime… That hot dog wasn’t very filling and I wonder if you’d stake us to a lunch?”
Anne Martin’s eyes twinkled. “Listen, Mr. Quade, if you asked me for every cent I’ve got I’d give it to you right away — because you’d get it from me anyway, if you really wanted it. You’re the world’s greatest salesman. You even sold Judge Stone into confessing.”
Quade grinned. “Yes? How?”
She pointed at Quade’s hands. “You handled that first wire hook with your bare hands. How come your hands didn’t get black?”
Quade chuckled. “Smart girl. Even the sergeant didn’t notice that. Well, I’ll confess. I saw the smudge on Judge Stone’s hands away back when I was putting on my pitch. He must have used a leaky fountain pen or something.”
“Then you didn’t put anything on it?”
“No. But I knew he was the murderer and he knew it… only he didn’t know his hands were dirty. So…”
The girl drew a deep breath. “Oliver Quade, the lunches are on me.”
“And the dinner and show tonight are on me,” grinned Oliver Quade.
Rain, the Killer
Rain padded on the roof with sodden, maddening intensity; it swished on the leaf-barren trees outside the window and pelted the water-gorged earth with deadly monotony. It had rained for three days. Inside the bedroom it had seeped into the soul of the schizophrenic, the man with the dual personality; had filled him with sadistic despair until there was only one outlet for him.
Murder.
The schizophrenic rose from the bed on which he had been lying, went to the desk beside the rain-swept window and took from a drawer a long, pointed paper-knife. This was later to be called The Murder Weapon.