Quade descended the short flight of stairs to the ground. “Did you make a dicker with the posse?”
“I did. But — your time’s up!”
“I found the money,” said Quade. “At least I think I did. If I guessed wrong—”
Quade dropped to his knees beside the little three-step flight of stairs leading up to the veranda. “I figured this was the most obvious place on Eagle’s Crag,” he said. “So obvious that no one would look here. If I were hiding something….” He reached under the stairs, rummaged about for a moment, then brought out both hands. There was a package in them; a package wrapped in oil cloth, about five inches square. Quade rose to his feet and handed it to the outlaw chief.
Bonniwell put the gun on the ground at his feet. He ripped the oil cloth from the package. Inside the contents were wrapped in newspaper. Bonniwell tore away a corner, looked and nodded.
“You win, Quade,” he said.
Feet pounded down the stairs behind Quade. It was Danny Dale and there was a .32 caliber revolver in his hand.
“Bonniwell,” he said, “that’s my money and I’m going with you.”
Bonniwell gave a start. “Where’d you get the popgun, kid?” he asked.
“The hell with that kid stuff,” snarled Danny. “I’m as tough as you are. If you don’t believe it, reach for that gun.” He gestured with his gun to the automatic that was stuck in Bonniwell’s waistband.
Bonniwell shifted his glance from Danny to Quade. “So this — this punk is the rattlesnake killer!”
“He is,” said Quade. “I figured the minute the money showed up he’d reveal himself. He’s killed two men for that money already and he’d want to go where that money went.”
“And I’ll kill some more if I have to,” sneered Danny. “I outsmarted the whole gang of you and I’d have got away with it if you hadn’t found that money.”
“You see,” Quade said to Bonniwell. “He’s a smart kid. Too smart. He finished university at the age of nineteen and found himself mentally the equal of many men years older. But physically he was still a boy, and business men offered him a boy’s job and a boy’s salary. I imagine Danny’s father told him after he’d put him through college he’d have to shift for himself. But Danny didn’t like the idea of a boy’s job and boy’s salary. Somehow or other, probably by accident, he got wind of Thompson and—”
“Accident, hell!” snarled Danny Dale. “I used my head. My father’s a bookkeeper with the Horgan Packing Company himself. I heard all about Harold Miller and I outsmarted the cops. I went to Miller’s rooming house and went through the trash bins in the basement. I found a map of this section, torn into bits. I came to Hilltown and did some asking around. I found this joint. Accident, hell. I used my brains,” he bragged.
“Was it necessary to kill him, though?” asked Quade.
“Of course it was. The fool recognized me. He’d seen me only once, two years ago when I visited the old man at the office. I had to knock him off.”
“Just like that, Danny?” asked Quade. “Then why the hypodermic needle? Did you just happen to have that with you? And did the snake just happen to come around conveniently when you killed Thompson — or Miller?”
“I figured it all out before I came here. Even the stuff in the needle. It’s not snake poison either. Something like it but faster. McClosky, the lousy old snooper, found the hypo in my room so I had to knock him off.”
“You’re very handy about this knocking off business,” said Quade.
Danny Dale whirled on Quade. “I’ve had about enough of you. I’m giving you the—”
He never got out the last word. He had made a fatal mistake. He had challenged Bonniwell to go for his gun and then had taken his eyes from him. No one could be that careless with Lou Bonniwell.
The outlaw chief dropped the package of money and in the same movement went for his automatic. Danny saw the quick movement and tried to turn his gun back on Bonniwell. He was too late. Bonniwell’s gun thundered.
The big slug lifted Danny clear off his feet and hurled him back to the ground, his head almost blown off.
“He was too young to be that mean,” said Bonniwell, softly.
Oliver Quade walked away from the veranda. Bonniwell fell in beside him.
“It’s all fixed,” he said. “The posse’s coming up here with their guns in their fists. They’re going to give us three minutes head start.” He raised his gun in the air and fired three shots.
Almost immediately Quade could hear automobile gears grinding. A moment later the nose of a car showed around the turn in the road. It came up in second gear. Behind it came another car. Both of them came into the clearing, but drew off to one side.
Men began climbing out, all of them armed to the teeth. Bonniwell and his men gathered cautiously at the side of their touring car. Their own guns were in their hands. Quade stood beside them.
Bonniwell counted the members of the posse. “Twelve. That’s right.”
The leader of the posse, a stocky man with a badge on his vest, said, “After you git in your car you got three minutes head start.”
“Three minutes?” Bonniwell chuckled. He reached into his coat pocket and brought out a large, egg-shaped object.
“A hand grenade!” cried the sheriff.
“Don’t get your dander up, Sheriff,” cut in Bonniwell. “This ain’t for you. Just for the road — after we pass it. I figure we need more’n three minutes start. Wanta break the agreement?”
The sheriff looked at Bonniwell and his men, then at the resorters to one side. “No,” he said thickly. “Get going!”
Monk Moon climbed in behind the wheel. Heinie slipped in beside him. Over Monk’s shoulder he held a tommy gun, pointed at the posse. Jake Somers and Lou Bonniwell climbed into the rear of the car. They promptly poked out guns.
“So long, everybody,” Bonniwell cried as the car began moving.
The car rolled over the little clearing and began descending. The sheriff and his men did not move until Bonniwell’s car had gone around the turn in the road, out of sight. “Let’s go now, boys!”
Then there was a thunderous explosion down the mountainside.
Then all of them heard what Quade had been waiting for — the screams of several men. They came from down the mountain. Almost immediately afterward there was the crash of tin and metal, silence for a moment, then another terrific crash.
“They went off the road. They’re finished!”
“Went off the road?” cried the sheriff. “What kind of fool driver—”
“Not his fault,” said Quade. “The road’s steep and he was hurrying. One of the tires blew out.”
“How do you know a tire blew out?”
“Because I poured some stuff on it. A little mixture with an ether base. Ether dissolves rubber and a couple of simple ingredients make it work faster. Lord, I was afraid you’d hold him here too long.”
“Gawdalmighty!” The sheriff looked in awe at Oliver Quade. “You deliberately killed them?”
“They were killers,” said Quade. “They would have killed several more people before they were killed or taken. So I had to do it. Now I can get back to the encyclopedias….”
Dog Show Murder
The secretary of the Westfield Kennel Show said to Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia: “The price of a small booth is seventy-five.”
“No,” said Oliver Quade. “You misunderstood. I don’t want to rent this booth for the entire year. I want it only for the duration of the dog show — four days.”
“That’s what I quoted you on,” retorted the secretary. “Some of our larger exhibitors are paying as much as five hundred dollars. What are you exhibiting? Remedies, dog foods?”
“No,” said Quade. “Nothing commercial. Mine is an educational exhibit. That’s why I can’t pay any fancy prices for booth space. How about five dollars?”