“That’s true,” said a heavy-set man, stepping forward. “I have both checks in my pocket right now.”
Kells bit his lip. “You know this Pitts fellow?”
“Not personally,” said the magazine man, “but by reputation. He bets on many of the cocking mains and I’ve held stakes for him before. The arrangements have always been made by mail.”
Kells grunted. “How long you been raising roosters, Mr. Ragsdale? I thought horses was your game.”
“They are, but a few months ago Treadwell got me interested in game cocks. To tell you the truth, I’ve only raised a few birds and they’re still too young to fight. All the cocks I fought here tonight were purchased specially for the occasion. It’s quite ethical, I assure you.”
Quade perked up his ears. This was ironical indeed. Ragsdale with millions at his command and intensely interested in winning in everything he did, had probably spent an enormous sum for his fighting birds — and yet they’d lost, against ordinary fighting birds raised by Treadwell himself. Quade began to take a more serious interest in the situation. There might be something here yet that would prove interesting, perhaps afford Quade an opportunity to use that marvelous brain of his.
“From whom did you buy your roosters?” Kells again.
“Terence Walcott, who lives in the state of Oregon. Tom Dodd brought the birds East and handled them for me, during the fights. Dodd!”
Tom Dodd came forward. He was a little bandy-legged man of about forty.
“You the chap who raises these roosters?” questioned the chief.
“Yes, I work for Mr. Terence Walcott of Corvallis, Oregon. I been working around game cocks all my life.”
“Where were you when Treadwell was kil — died?”
“In the pit, of course.”
Kells looked at Ragsdale for confirmation. The latter nodded. “That’s right. He was down in the pit. In the opposite corner from Treadwell. Treadwell’s handler, Cleve Storm, was in the other corner, just under Treadwell’s seat. Federle, the referee, was all around the pit.”
“And everybody was watching them? That sorta lets those three out. Well, who was close by Treadwell at the moment?”
“I was,” a lean, middle-aged man spoke up. “I was right beside him on his left. I was so excited over the fights down in the pit, however, that I didn’t even know anything had happened to poor George Treadwell until Ragsdale came dashing around.”
The chief looked at the man with suspicion-laden eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Ralph Wilcoxson. Treadwell was my business partner. Treadwell & Wilcoxson, Lumber.”
The chief looked even more hostile than before. “And who was on the other side of him?”
“I was,” said Morgan, the editor of the Feathered Fighter.
The chief snorted in disgust. “Hell, everyone here is a friend of someone and respectable as a deacon. What chance have I got?”
Louis, the steward, who was standing behind his master, coughed. “Pardon, sir, everyone here isn’t a friend. I–I let the gentlemen in at the door — and one of them didn’t have a card.”
Quade swore softly. Ragsdale, the sportsman, hadn’t seen fit to betray him, but the servant who’d been the butt of Quade’s harmless joke awhile ago, couldn’t take it. This was his revenge.
“He means me, Chief,” he said, beating the traitorous steward to the punch.
The chief’s shoulders hunched, and his teeth bared. Here was someone who didn’t belong. “Who are you?” he asked, in a voice that almost shook the rafters.
Quade grinned impudently. “Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia, the man who knows the answers to all questions.” The introduction rolled glibly off Quade’s tongue. It was part of his showmanship.
The chief’s mouth dropped open. “Human Encyclopedia! What the hell you talkin’ about?”
“Just what I said. I’m the Human Encyclopedia who knows everything.”
“Ask him who killed Treadwell,” called out a wag in the crowd.
Quade winced. His wits had been wool-gathering, otherwise he’d never have left himself open for that. The chief pounced on it, too. “All right, Mr. Encyclopedia — who and what killed Treadwell?”
Quade gulped. “Ah, now, Chief, you’re not playing fair! Even Human Encyclopedias have a code of professional ethics. We don’t go into competition with other professions. You wouldn’t think it fair for cops to take in laundry on the side or sell moth tabs from door to door?”
Chief Kells tried to look stern but made a failure of it. “So you’re not so smart after all.”
“Well,” said Quade, “it’s against union rules, but I’ll help out a bit.” He pointed at the body of Treadwell. “Notice how the arms are hanging over the pit. I suggest you look at the hands!”
The medical examiner sprang forward, reached down and picked up Treadwell’s limp arms. He exclaimed almost immediately. “He’s right. There’s a tiny spot of blood right in the palm of his right hand. And it’s inflamed. Looks like he’s been struck with a hypodermic!”
The chief whirled and leveled a finger at Cleve Storm. “You — you’re the man!”
The cock handler’s jaw dropped and his eyes threatened to pop from his head. “Me!” he cried.
“Yes, you! You been doing all the hollering about murder around here and you’re the only one could have done it!”
“I could not!” screamed Storm, suddenly panic-stricken that the tables had been turned on him. “I was down in the pit when he was killed.”
The chief nodded grimly. “That’s why I’m accusing you. Look,” he pointed at the body of Treadwell. “He’s hanging over the pit right over the side where you was waiting while the roosters were fighting. Dodd was over on Ragsdale’s side, so it couldn’t have been him. And the referee was moving all around, which lets him out.”
The chief’s reasoning was sound, but the expression on Cleve Storm’s face caused Quade to pucker up his brow. Storm didn’t act like a murderer — and if he really was, he’d been damned dumb awhile ago to insist on murder when everyone else was willing to let it go as heart failure.
He looked down into the cockpit. The Whitehackle was still down there and was now quietly scratching away in the sand, hopefully trying to find a worm or bug. But where was the Jungle Shawl’s carcass?
Chief Kells spat out a stream of tobacco juice. “I’m arresting you, Storm. If I find a hypodermic anywhere around here you’re as good as burned right now. Oscar!” He signaled to one of his policemen. “Go over that pit down there, inch by inch. Look for a needle or hypodermic. You, Myers and Coons, you go over this place with a fine-tooth comb!”
Kells turned to Reggie Ragsdale. “I don’t believe there’ll be any more now, Mr. Ragsdale. Of course you know I got to bring charges about the cock fighting. That’ll mean maybe a small fine or suspended sentence. You’ll be notified when to appear in court.”
Ragsdale nodded. “Of course, Chief, and thanks for the way you’ve handled things here. I’ll speak to the board of council-men about you.”
The chief’s eyes glowed. He rubbed his hands together and began shouting orders. Men bustled around. The body of Treadwell was carried out on a stretcher. Cleve Storm, still protesting his innocence, was led out. Guests began to leave.
Quade gathered up his bagful of books and topcoat. He walked over to Ragsdale. “Sorry about the trouble. Hope everything will work out all right.”
“Thanks.” The young sportsman smiled wanly.
Quade nodded and swung around. His topcoat caught on the top of the railing. He gave it a jerk and it came away with a slight ripping sound. Quade swore softly. The coat was only about a year old. He reached out to touch a nail on which the coat had caught.