There was no holding Buck after that. He tore off in a lather of excitement. Quade looked at his watch, then sought out Charlie Boston.
“Look, Charlie, in the city the poor people hang around the church door to get a look at the bride. Let’s go down to the church in Westfield and get a gander at the folks.”
“I could smell that coming,” said Boston. “How about the rice, you want to throw some?”
They drove down. The wedding was scheduled for five in the afternoon but curious townsfolk had gathered around the church at a quarter to the hour. Quade parked his car directly across the street, then, throwing one foot across the car door, settled down to wait.
At ten minutes to five a closed sedan pulled up to the chapel door and several people got out. Quade had a glimpse of Lois Lanyard wearing a black silk cape that did not quite cover the white dress underneath. The party moved quickly into the church.
Five minutes later another car drew up and Freddie Bartlett, surrounded by several of his intimates, climbed out and went into the church. Freddie was quite the picture in striped trousers, cutaway tail coat and silk hat.
Quade bit his lip. The ceremony was due to start in another five minutes — unless there was some unusual delay. He wondered if he would have to make the delay himself. But at two minutes to five an automobile siren screeched up the street.
“Now begins the fun,” he said, sitting up.
“It’s the cops,” said Boston. “Wonder who they’re going to pinch!”
“Maybe the bridegroom — or me. We’ll see. Ah, Christopher Buck is with the chief.”
The police car screamed up to the curb before the church. The lanky Christopher Buck sprang from it even before it stopped. He was clutching something under his arm. Chief Costello and a uniformed cop piled out after the private detective. They charged into the church.
“Holy smokes!” exclaimed Boston. “They’re busting right into the wedding and they don’t look like they’re going to kiss the bride, either. It’s a pinch if ever I saw one.”
It was. Almost immediately Chief Costello, Christopher Buck, the policemen and Freddie Bartlett came out. Bartlett’s clothing was disarranged and he was handcuffed. Even a Freddie Bartlett will become indignant at being arrested while the clergyman is saying the words of the marriage ceremony.
Behind the arresting party, swarmed the members of the family and the wedding guests.
“I don’t think there’ll be any wedding today,” said Oliver Quade.
“You knew something was going to happen here,” Charlie accused. “You were too calm about things. I know you, Oliver.”
Quade screwed up his face. “All right, I’ll confess, Charlie. I had a tip-off from Buck. He had a hot clue that pointed to Freddie. I had a hunch he would butt right into the wedding ceremony to make his pinch. For a while, though, I was afraid he wouldn’t make it in time.”
“Afraid? You mean you wanted him to bust up the wedding?”
Quade did not answer. Boston threw up his hands in disgust. “O.K., Ollie, if that’s the way she stands that’s the way she stands. C’mon, let’s beat it, they’re looking over here!”
Quade saw Lois Lanyard, very lovely in a white satin dress and bridal veil, pointing across the street at him. Christopher Buck, head and shoulders above the crowd, was looking, too.
Quade stepped on the starter and shifted into gear. The car leaped away from the curb. “They’re yelling at us, Ollie,” said Boston.
“Let ’em yell. I’ve had lots of people yell at me in my day.”
Fifteen minutes later Quade walked into the dining-room of the Westfield Hotel with Charlie Boston. They were on the soup course when the dining-room was invaded by several determined looking men.
“I’d hoped to get a good meal before going to jail,” Quade said to Boston, “but such is life…. Hello, Mr. Buck, what’s up?”
“Your number,” Buck snapped.
Freddie Bartlett, no longer handcuffed, pointed a lean finger at Quade. “You cheap book agent! Why’d you send this detective to look into my ashcan?”
“Tsk, tsk,” Quade clucked to Buck. “A detective should never reveal the sources of information.”
“That’s the last trick you’ll pull in this town, Quade,” said Chief Costello sternly. “The idea, trying to throw suspicion on an innocent man just to break up his wedding! Well, it brought out the truth and you’re under arrest!”
“What for? For giving information to a private detective instead of a policeman?”
“Cut out the stalling, Quade,” snapped Buck. “Miss Lanyard spilled the beans. She saw you unchain that bull-dog at the dog show — the dog fight. You started that dog fight to cover up your dirty work.”
“The red flag,” said Quade half aloud. “Ask no quarter and give none. All right, I’ll come quietly.”
Charlie Boston pushed back his chair and took up a fighting stance.
“Maybe you could lick them at that, Charlie,” Quade said, “but they’d only get me later. I’ll go along with them. Look me up after they’ve booked me.”
“I’ll get a lawyer. My cousin, Paul, in New York. He’ll put these small town cops through their hoops,” howled Charlie Boston. “He’s the smartest criminal lawyer on the east side.”
But Quade scarcely heard him. He was being dragged off to jail. It was the swankiest jail Quade had ever been in; quite in keeping with the town itself. It wasn’t a very large jail, neat cells, a wide corridor and a clean, large bull pen where the guests were permitted to exercise during prescribed periods.
The inhabitants of the jail unfortunately were not up to its standards. They were unfortunates from the city who had wandered out to rich Westfield hoping to better themselves and had fallen afoul of the law. There were eight or ten of them. As the cells adjoined one another and were separated only by bars, communication among the prisoners was easy.
The prisoners knew all about Quade by the time he was locked into a cell and they greeted him with the respect due a capital crime violator.
Quade bore up cheerfully enough that first evening in jail. He entertained the other prisoners for an hour or two with his fund of knowledge, then pleaded fatigue and they left him alone. Quade examined the bunk and blankets closely and sighed with relief when he found no spots that moved. He threw himself down on it.
An hour later he sat up. “Lord, why didn’t I tumble before?” he said, half aloud. He went to his barred door, cried out loudly, “Turnkey!”
The other prisoners took up the cry and a moment later a uniformed man came clumping into the cell corridor. “What’s all the racket about here?”
“It’s me,” Quade cried. “I want to talk to Chief Costello.”
“You wanta confess?”
“Confess, hell,” snorted Quade. “I didn’t kill that man. But I just thought of something I want to tell the chief.”
“Ah, do you now? Well, tell him tomorrow morning. This is the night the chief plays poker and he don’t like to be bothered with little things.”
“This isn’t a little thing. It’s important.”
“Nuts,” said the jailer. “If you keep up the racket I’ll turn out the lights on you even though it’s only eight o’clock.” He went out through the door and slammed it behind him.
Quade yelled for him to come back. The other prisoners, thinking to help him, yelled also. And then the lights in the entire jail went out. The turnkey had kept his threat. Quade cursed and threw himself on his cot. After a while he fell asleep.
A new jailer came around in the morning and asked the prisoners if they preferred the regular jail breakfast of oatmeal and coffee or a more complete breakfast sent from a restaurant, at their own expense. Quade stripped a ten dollar bill from the roll that had not been taken from him and ordered breakfasts for all the prisoners. He was roundly applauded for his generosity.