The word “quit” was not in Oliver Quade’s lexicon. He was the best book salesman in the country. He admitted it himself; his rivals conceded it. Mrs. Egan may never have bought books from any other salesman, but she was going to buy from Oliver Quade.
He told her: “Mrs. Egan, I’m not trying to sell you books. I’m trying to sell you knowledge. In these twenty-four volumes is the knowledge of the ages; everything that the human race has learned since the dawn of time. Everything, Mrs. Egan. Do you know how far the sun is from the earth? Do you know that a certain condiment in your kitchen is a better fire extinguisher than any chemical?”
“No,” replied Mrs. Egan. “I don’t know them things but I’ve lived fifty-six years without knowin’ ’em and I guess I can struggle along a little longer without any encyclepeedies.”
Behind Mrs. Egan, on the broad porch of the lodge which was the main building on Eagle’s Crag, several people were listening with various expressions of interest. Oliver Quade appealed to them. “Folks, I’m asking you, haven’t I made all of you want to own these marvelous books of knowledge?”
It was a trick on Oliver Quade’s part. He’d made his sales talk to the proprietor, Mrs. Egan. The summer guests had heard it merely incidentally. Not being canvassed directly, they were wide open. They didn’t know that the moment they expressed their interest Quade would shift the weight of his sales attack to them, and then carry Mrs. Egan along on the buying tide.
A bespectacled youth of nineteen or twenty made an opening sally. “I wouldn’t want your books, Mister. I already know all the things you’ve asked. The mean average distance-to the sun is 92,900,000 miles. And baking soda is the fire extinguisher you referred to.”
Quade pretended to be disconcerted. Actually, he was delighted. He hadn’t counted on the good fortune of having an intellectual in his audience. The youth would be a perfect stooge.
“Ah,” he chuckled. “We have a student with us. Tell me, sir, who was the first American born president?”
The boy’s forehead wrinkled. He thought quickly, then replied, “James Buchanan.”
Quade shook his head. “It was Martin Van Buren. All presidents previous to him were born English subjects. Here’s another: Of which are there more in this country — telephones or automobiles?”
The student scowled. “You’re asking trick questions. I can ask you questions you can’t answer.”
Oliver Quade pulled a thick roll of bills from his pocket. He peeled off two ten-dollar notes. “Mister, you’ve bought yourself something. They call me the Human Encyclopedia because I know the answers to all questions. I’ve read all the encyclopedias four times and I remember all I’ve read. This twenty dollars is yours if you can ask me three questions I can’t answer.”
The challenge aroused the interest of the others on the veranda. There was a stout, middle-aged woman with a haughty look and a sleek-looking man of about forty.
“I’d like to ask one of those questions,” cut in the sleek man. “If Danny Dale has no objections.”
The youth shook his head. “No, go ahead, Mr. Cummings. You ask the first one. I want to think a moment about my two.”
Mr. Cummings cleared his throat. “All right, when was the half-tone process of reproducing photographs for printing invented and who is generally conceded to be the inventor?”
Quade’s eyes flashed. “You’re a publisher, Mr. Cummings? Well, that’s a question ninety percent of the newspaper and magazine men couldn’t answer. But I can. George Meisenbach, of Munich, patented, in 1882, the process by which the first practical half-tones were made, although in 1852 Fox Talbot, of England, suggested the breaking up of a photograph by means of a screen.”
Cummings whistled. “Mr. Quade, you’re good! I’ll listen to Danny Dale’s questions.”
The cock-sureness had left young Dale’s face. He tried, however, to look blasé. “I’ve got a couple of real ones for you. Number one, what is an astrolabe? Number two, what are the ingredients of gunpowder?”
“The astrolabe,” Oliver Quade said, “is the oldest scientific instrument in the world. It was invented about 150 B.C. by Hipparchus. The mariner’s sextant is an off-shoot of it. Gunpowder — there are many formulas, but all have the same three basic ingredients: saltpeter, sulphur and charcoal. The most commonly used formula consists of seventy-five percent saltpeter, fifteen percent charcoal and ten percent sulphur. Do I win?”
Danny Dale looked crestfallen. “Yes, I guess so.”
Quade slapped his hands together. “Fine; then let’s get back to business. All the things I’ve told you are in this set of encyclopedias. And a hundred thousand more—”
There was an interruption. Behind Quade, in the two-acre clearing, a girl came running, her short bobbed hair tossed to the winds, her lithe figure covering the ground in long strides. Behind her a few feet, running more easily, was a tall young man of about thirty.
It was the girl’s cry that had interrupted Quade. “Mother! Mrs. Egan! Mr. Thompson — he’s dead!”
The stout woman on the veranda let out a frightened “eek.” Cummings and Danny Dale rose from their seats and came quickly down the three-step flight of stairs.
Quade was watching Mrs. Egan’s face and he saw her eyes blink behind her thick glasses. Then a shudder ran through her.
“What do you mean, Mr. Thompson’s dead,” she said, sharply. “I saw him only fifteen minutes ago.”
The young man who had been outdistanced by the running girl was within talking distance now. “He is dead,” he confirmed the girl’s hysterical announcement. “He’s been killed by a rattlesnake.”
Quade stabbed a lean finger at the man. “He was alive fifteen minutes ago and now he’s dead from a rattlesnake bite?”
The young man shrugged. “I know what you’re thinking. That a rattlesnake bite seldom kills inside of two or three hours. But you see, the fang marks were plain and Thompson killed the snake with a club before he succumbed himself.” He jerked his head in the direction of the roadway. “Down there.”
Mrs. Mattie Egan dropped her triple chins upon her bosom. “Miss Judy,” she said to the girl, “you stay here with your mother. She looks kinda sick. The rest of you can come if you like.”
She started determinedly across the clearing to the road leading down the mountain. The men followed her. They descended a hundred yards down the steep slope, then rounding a turn came abruptly on the body of a man. He lay at the side of the crushed rock road, his arms flung out on either side of him, his right hand clutching a thick stick. Five or six feet away, lay a dead rattlesnake, its back broken in three or four places. The deductions of the girl and the young man were sensible — but Quade shook his head.
“This man didn’t kill that snake,” he said, “and the snake didn’t kill him.”
Gasps went up around the circle. Martin Faraday, who with the girl, Judy Vickers, had discovered the body of Harold Thompson, challenged Quade’s statement. “How can you know?”
Quade pointed down at the dead man. “The stick is in the right hand. But this man — Thompson you say his name was — was left-handed!”
The amazing announcement resulted in a stunned silence. Quade broke it himself. “Mind you, I’ve never seen Thompson before. But I can see that his belt end is facing to the right; only a left-handed man would wear his belt like that. His tie also goes to the right, exactly opposite of the way an ordinary man ties it. And the thumb and forefinger of his left hand are ink-stained, proving that he was not only left-handed but that he wrote a great deal with pen and ink. My guess is that Mr. Thompson was a bookkeeper. No, he wouldn’t have been up here on a bookkeeper’s salary. Accountant, then.”