She looked coolly at him. “Of course I’m going to marry Freddie Bartlett. We’ve been engaged for almost a year and the date has been set for four months.”
“I apologize, Miss Lanyard. Shall we wave the white flag?”
“You’ll keep it white?”
“Of course. I’m sorry I interrupted this evening. I must be going now.”
Christopher Buck was not burdened with good manners. He banged on the door of Oliver Quade’s room at the ungodly hour of eight A.M. Quade, cursing under his breath, climbed out of the bed and opened the door.
“I left a call for nine o’clock, not eight!” he snarled.
“I’m Christopher Buck,” the detective announced grandly.
“So what? I’m Oliver Quade and that gorilla yawning over in the bed is Charlie Boston. A good morning to you.” Quade started to shut the door in Buck’s face.
But the detective must have worked his way through college selling magazines. He put a foot in the doorway. “Hey!” he yelped. “I’m Christopher Buck, the detective.”
Quade opened the door again. “A detective?” he pretended to be amazed. “Why didn’t you say so? Come in.”
Christopher Buck stepped angrily into the room. “Hey, Charlie,” Quade called. “Get up. There’s a cop from the local police force here.”
“I’m not from the Westfield Police,” Buck called. “What’re you trying to do, rib me?”
Quade blinked. Then: “I’ll be damned. Of course, I’ve read about you in the newspapers. You’re the famous detective, Christopher Buck!”
Buck was so lean that he had to stand twice in order to cast a shadow, but he made up for it in height. He was at least six feet four and his huge, bushy eyebrows and stooped figure gave him a sinister appearance.
“I was engaged by Robert Lanyard to solve the murder that was committed out at the dog show yesterday,” he said. “I came to you because I’ve been told you’re the chief suspect.”
“Right to the point, that’s what I like,” said Quade. “Have a seat, Mr. Buck. You don’t mind if I dress while you grill — I mean, question me. Take a chair.”
“Ow, oh-wuh!” said Charlie Boston, yawning and stretching.
Quade drew his pajama coat off, then unblushing slipped off the trousers. Nude as the day he was born, he searched around for his underwear.
“Sitting on my drawers, Mr. Buck?” he asked. “No, here they are.” Calmly he began dressing. Charlie Boston scooted for the bathroom.
Christopher Buck drew a stubby pipe from his coat pocket and filled it. “I’ve already talked to Mr. Lanyard and Chief of Police Costello. There seems to be some difference of opinion as to just what happened yesterday.”
“Some of the dogs got loose and raised a ruckus,” Quade said. “Of course everyone in the building gathered around. I left my stand. Then when the dog fight had been stopped and the dogs chained up, I started to go back. Charlie, here, told me then that there was a dead man in our booth.”
Buck grunted. “You say some of the dogs got loose? I hear there was only one loose.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Anyway, he got into the next stall and tangled up with another dog. The second dog was chained, but it didn’t affect his fighting ability. It was a swell fight.”
“I’m not interested in the dog fight,” said Buck, severely. “I’m interested in the man who was killed. He was an old sweetheart of the wife of my client. Tell me more about this Peters fellow. How long had you known him?”
Quade sighed. “He was in the audience when I made my first pitch out there, but that’s the only time I ever saw him alive. I know nothing about the murder. And I think I’ll have breakfast now.”
Christopher Buck scowled. “I don’t like it. No one seemed to know this Peters fellow, yet someone hated him enough to kill him. Why?”
“You said you were the detective,” Quade reminded him. “Me, I’m only a book salesman.”
“Yes, but I’ve heard about your bragging yesterday. About what a smart fellow you were. Claim to know the answers to everything. Well, who killed Wes Peters?”
“I don’t belong to the detectives’ union.”
Buck started to get up from the chair. It was quite a job, because he was so lean and tall. “You’re not leaving Westfield, are you, Quade?”
“No, I’m going out to the dog show today and make a few dollars. Any time you think you’ve got the goods on me you’ll know where to collar me!”
Christopher Buck closed the door ungently behind him.
“I think I’ll blow myself and have about four eggs and some ham,” Boston said dreamily, coming out of the bathroom.
“O.K., Charlie, better fatten up while you can. It’s been a lean stretch. I think we’ll get us each a hand-me-down, too.”
“Gonna get yourself a nice blue serge?” asked Boston, looking wisely at Quade.
“Why blue?”
“Oh, I dunno. Just thought maybe a loud suit was undignified.”
Quade made a pass at Boston, which the big fellow ducked easily. “She’s getting married today, you sap.”
“Going to the wedding?”
“I wasn’t invited.”
But Quade did buy a blue serge, after all. It fitted him well and changed his appearance considerably. He finished the job by getting some black oxfords, a blue striped shirt and brown felt hat.
He had a good day at the auditorium, running out of books when there were still some prospective purchasers in the crowd. His pockets stuffed with money, he closed his pitch and strolled out of the building.
He saw a hamburger stand nearby and went over to it. As he stuffed the last of a sandwich into his mouth a voice behind him said:
“Ah, Mr. Quade, I was hoping to find you here this morning.” It was Jessie Lanyard, wearing a floppy picture hat and a flowered organdy dress. Her blonde hair was smartly coiffured.
“How d’you do, Mrs. Lanyard?” Quade greeted her. “Won’t you have a hamburger?”
“Why, I don’t mind if I do. It’s a long time since I’ve eaten one. Not since I got married.” She laughed. “You know, one time, when I was out of work I ate nothing but hamburgers for a solid month.”
“They didn’t spoil your figure,” Quade complimented her. He ordered a couple of hamburgers.
“I’ve decided to overlook your kidding last night,” Jessie Lanyard said brightly. “I really like you, Mr. Quade. You’re — you’re my sort of people.”
“Thanks.”
“You know some of the people out here in Westfield are awful snobs,” Jessie prattled on. “My in-laws still don’t treat me any too well. But I don’t care. Even if the in-laws and some of Lois’ girl friends give me the turned-up nose, the men like me. You saw them last night.”
“I did. You were pretty well surrounded.”
Jessie sighed. “Yes, they always rush me. Some of them even — well, that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s about this detective Bob hired.”
“Didn’t you urge him to do that?”
Jessie smiled prettily. “Well, I did suggest it, I guess. But Bob was so worked up. Seemed to think I had been carrying on with Wes — Mr. Peters. Goodness, I hadn’t seen Wesley Peters for a long time. Not alone, that is. Of course he hung around a lot out here in Westfield, but I couldn’t very well chase him away, could I?”
“No, of course not. By the way, what’d Peters do for a living?”
“He was on the stage. I played with him in a show about five years ago. I was just beginning then,” Jessie hastened to say. “I started very young, you know.”
Quade took a deep breath. Then he said, “Mrs. Lanyard, how long is it since you saw Bill Demetros?”
Ketchup dripped from the hamburger to Jessie Lanyard’s organdy dress, but she didn’t notice it. She was staring too intently at Oliver Quade. “Where did you hear about — him?” she asked, slowly.