“You mean to say that Dodd does not actually come from Oregon?” exclaimed Ragsdale. “Why — that would mean that he isn’t really Dodd at all?”
“Right,” said Quade. “And Treadwell must have known that. He’d probably met the right Dodd at some time or other. I suspect you’ll learn after talking to Walcott on the phone that the real Dodd doesn’t look like this one at all. Where he is, I don’t know. This chap may have bought him off, murdered him perhaps. That isn’t so important because he’ll burn for the murder of Treadwell anyway. It’s enough that we know this chap took the real Dodd’s place somewhere between Oregon and here.”
“Yes — but who is he?” asked Ragsdale.
Quade screwed up his lips. “I think you’ll find that he sometimes uses the name of C. Pitts. In fact, I’m willing to lay odds that a hand writing expert will declare the signature on that check Morgan has, was made by this chap. Twenty-five thousand is a lot of money and Mr. Pitts wanted to make sure he won.”
“I’ll be damned!” said Ragsdale. “You’ve certainly figured everything out. And — I believe you. I can understand now why they call you the Human Encyclopedia.”
Quade’s eyes lit up. “That reminds me — I didn’t get finished out there in the barn. So if you have no objections, I’ll continue with my little talk about The Compendium of Human Knowledge. ‘All the knowledge of the ages condensed into one volume.’”
Ask Me Another
Oliver Quade was reading the morning paper, his bare feet on the bed and his chair tilted back against the radiator. Charlie Boston was on the bed, wrapped to his chin in a blanket and reading a copy of Exciting Confessions.
It was just a usual, peaceful, after-breakfast interlude in the lives of Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia, and Charlie Boston, his friend and assistant.
And then Life intruded itself upon the bit of Utopia. Life in the form of the manager of the Eagle Hotel. He beat a tattoo upon the thin panels of the door. Quade put down his newspaper and sighed.
“Charles, will you please open the door and let in the wolf?”
Charlie Boston unrolled himself from the blanket. He scowled at Quade. “You think it’s the manager about the room rent?”
“Of course it is. Let him in before he breaks down the door.”
It was the manager. In his right fist he held a ruled form on which were scrawled some unpleasant figures. “About your rent, Mr. Quade,” he said severely. “We must have the money today!”
Quade looked at the manager of the Eagle Hotel, a puzzled expression on his face. “Rent? Money?”
“Of course,” snapped the manager. “This is the third time this week I’ve asked for it.”
A light came into Quade’s eyes. He made a quick movement and his feet and the front legs of the chair hit the carpeted floor simultaneously.
“Charles!” he roared in a voice that shook the room and caused the hotel manager to cringe. “Did you forget to get that money from the bank and pay this little bill?”
Charlie Boston took up Quade’s cue.
“Gosh, I’m awful sorry. On my way to the bank yesterday afternoon I ran into our old friend John Belmont of New York and he dragged me into the Palmer House Bar for a cocktail. By the time I could tear myself away, the bank was closed.”
Quade raised his hands and let them fall hopelessly. “You see, Mr. Creighton, I just can’t trust him to do anything. Now I’ve got to go out into the cold this morning and get it myself.”
The hotel manager’s eyes glinted. “Listen, you’ve stalled—” he began, but Quade suddenly stabbed out a hand toward him. “That reminds me, Mr. Creighton, I’ve a couple of complaints to make. We’re not getting enough heat here and last night the damfool next door kept us awake half the night with his radio. I want you to see that he keeps quiet tonight. And do something about the heat. I can’t stand drafty, cold rooms.”
The manager let out a weary sigh. “All right, I’ll look after it. But about that rent—”
“Yes, of course,” cut in Quade, “and your maid left only two towels this morning. Please see that a couple more are sent up. Immediately!”
The manager closed the door behind him with a bang. Oliver Quade chuckled and lifted his newspaper again. But Charlie Boston wouldn’t let him read.
“You got away with it, Ollie,” he said, “but it’s the last time. I know it. I’ll bet we get locked out before tonight.” He shook his head sadly. “You, Oliver Quade, with the greatest brain in captivity, are you going to walk the streets tonight in ten below zero weather?”
“Of course not, Charles,” sighed Quade. “I was just about to tell you that we’re going out to make some money today. Look, it’s here in this paper. The Great Chicago Auditorium Poultry Show.”
Boston’s eyes lit up for a moment, but then dimmed again. “Can we raise three weeks’ rent at a poultry show?”
Quade slipped his feet into his socks and shoes. “That remains to be seen. This paper mentions twenty thousand paid admissions. Among that many people there ought to be a few who are interested in higher learning. Well, are you ready?”
Boston went to the clothes closet and brought out their overcoats and a heavy suitcase. Boston was of middle height and burly. He could bend iron bars with his muscular hands. Quade was taller and leaner. His face was hawk-like, his nose a little too pointed and lengthy, but few ever noticed that. They saw only his piercing, sparkling eyes and felt his dominant personality.
The auditorium was almost two miles from their hotel, but lacking carfare, Quade and Boston walked. When they reached their destination, Quade cautioned Boston:
“Be sharp now, Charlie. Act like we belonged.”
Quade opened the outer door and walked blithely past the ticket windows to the door leading into the auditorium proper. A uniformed man at the door held out his hand for the tickets.
“Hello,” Quade said, heartily. “How’re you today?”
“Uh, all right, I guess,” replied the ticket-taker. “You boys got passes?”
“Oh, sure. We’re just taking in some supplies for the breeders. Brr! It’s cold today. Well, be seeing you.” And with that he breezed past the ticket-taker.
“H’are ya, pal,” Boston said, treading on Quade’s heels.
The auditorium was a huge place but even so, it was almost completely filled with row upon row of wire exhibition coops, each coop containing a feathered fowl of some sort.
“What a lot of gumps!” Boston observed.
“Don’t use that word around here,” Quade cautioned. “These poultry folks take their chickens seriously. Refer to the chickens as ‘fine birds’ or ‘elegant fowls’ or something like that… Damn these publicity men!”
“Huh?”
Quade waved a hand about the auditorium. “The paper said twenty thousand paid admissions. How many people do you see in here?”
Boston craned his head around. “If there’s fifty I’m countin’ some of ’em twice. How the hell can they pay the nut with such a small attendance?”
“The entry fees. There must be around two thousand chickens in here and the entry fee for each chicken is at least a dollar and a half. The prize money doesn’t amount to much and I guess the paid admissions are velvet — if they get any, which I doubt.”
“Twenty thousand, bah!” snorted Boston. “Well, do we go back?”
“Where? Our only chance was to stay in our room. I’ll bet the manager changed the lock the minute we left it.”
“So what?”
“So I get to work. For the dear old Eagle Hotel.”