Quade was catapulted back against the wall. He recoiled from it into the ham-like swinging fists of Herbert Mills. One caught him flush on the jaw and he went down to his knees.
“Charlie!” he cried weakly.
“Coming!” roared Charlie Boston. He suddenly picked up Henry bodily and smashed him against the wall. The gun fell from Henry’s hand. Boston scooped it up and clouted Henry on the head with it. Henry fell limply to the floor.
Then Boston was on Herbert Mills’ back. He hit the fat man twice with the gun and Mills fell against Quade, almost crushing him to the floor. Quade scuttled out from under and took the gun from Charlie Boston’s hand.
He leaped to the door, shot the bolt and jerked it open. Tony was just disappearing around the corridor. Quade slammed the door shut.
The phone rang shrilly. Quade stepped around Herbert Mills, who was on his hands and knees, blubbering, and scooped up the phone.
“Mr. Quade!” said the angry voice of the hotel manager. “What’s going on up in your room? I’ve just received a complaint that you’re smashing furniture. Stop that instantly! I’m coming up with a policeman!”
“Bring two!” snapped Quade, banging the receiver back on the hook.
Herbert Mills got to his feet and sat down heavily on the bed. He put his hand to his head and brought it away, smeared with blood. He looked at the blood and glared at Quade.
“I don’t know what this is all about. I just came in to make you a larger reward for that Custer letter and you light into me. What for?”
“Oh, so that’s your story? You didn’t come in here because Tony came for you? Or for the Jesse—”
“I don’t even know who Tony is. And I’m not interested in any Jesse James letter. I’ve already got it, smart guy.”
“Yes? May I take a good look at it?”
Mills brought out a letter from his coat pocket. He unfolded it. “This is it.”
“It’s it all right,” said Quade, “but it’s not what you really want. This is a forgery. And you know it.”
“You’re crazy,” said Mills. “I guess I ought to know if it’s genuine.”
“Perhaps you should,” retorted Quade, “being a crook yourself. But that letter’s a forgery. And you know it. And anyone who knew anything about Jesse James would know it.”
Mills looked again at the letter. “I don’t get it.”
“The date!” cried Quade. “Sherman, Texas, September 8, 1876. On September 7, Jesse James, Frank James, the three Youngers and three other men, held up the Northfield, Minnesota, bank and suffered the most crushing defeat of their careers. Two members of the gang were killed in Northfield and the others were pursued for two weeks by more than two thousand possemen. Eventually, another member of the band was killed and the three Youngers captured. During those two weeks Jesse James most certainly was not in Texas, nor was he in a position to write any letters — even to his mother.”
Herbert Mills’ fat face became flabby as mush. “Who — who are you?” he asked weakly.
“Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia,” grinned Quade. “The man who knows—”
“What’s going on here?” cried the voice of Meyer, the hotel manager.
Quade turned. Meyer was storming into the suite. Behind him was Captain Roletti.
Roletti snapped, “Ah, so you chaps are together again. Good thing I happened to stay down in the lobby. Well, which one is it?”
“Him!” exclaimed Herbert Mills.
“Him,” said Quade.
Captain Roletti nodded at Mills. “I guess I’ll take you. I’d just about decided that, anyway. I thought I’d check up on everybody connected with this affair, just in case, and I discovered a little while ago that Herbert Mills and Son are broke. Junior’s been out of the firm the last three months. And he hasn’t been picking them very good — at the track, I mean. So he’s been dabbling a bit in autographs, mostly forgeries. A dealer named Lund made a beef to Headquarters about a Herbert Mills, only this morning!”
Herbert Mills groaned.
“Nice going, Captain,” Quade complimented. “Perhaps I can fit in the missing pieces. Mills had a customer for a Jesse James letter, but didn’t have the letter, because there was only one such letter in existence and Mr. George Grimshaw owned it. Mr. Grimshaw was willing to sell the letter, but, oddly, wanted money for it — which was something Mr. Mills didn’t have, in large enough quantities. He stalled around with Mr. Paley, the customer, gave him a glimpse of a forged letter maybe. He didn’t dare really sell the forgery though, because Mr. Paley, while he might only make a casual examination of a letter, would give it a real good going over before he laid out big money.”
He paused and looked at Herbert Mills. The fat man’s stricken face told him that he was on the right track. He went on:
“In the meantime, Mr. Paley went in to see Martin Lund, a dealer in autographs. Mr. Lund promptly told him that there was only one letter in existence and George Grimshaw owned that. Paley told him to make a dicker with Grimshaw for it.
“About that time I came into the picture. Grimshaw brought the letter to town this morning to take to Lund, but discovered suddenly that a couple of thugs were following him. He guessed the reason, and hired Charlie Boston and myself to make the delivery of the letter.
“We got by the pugs all right — and then discovered that Martin Lund had been murdered. I went out to the track because there was a note with the letter informing Lund of Grimshaw’s whereabouts.
“Mills was ahead of us at the track. He knew where the original was because his monkeys had reported to him. He’d killed Lund because Lund knew too much about him — though he got to Lund too late. Lund had already reported Mills’ forgeries to the police, but Mills didn’t know that.”
“That’s right,” the captain said. Quade went on:
“Mills needed the money the James letter would bring. He not only had to get his hands on it, but he had to get Grimshaw out of the way. If he sold it with Grimshaw alive, Grimshaw would be on his neck for stealing it.
“So Mills killed him and stuffed the phoney receipt in Grimshaw’s pocket. That was to throw Grimshaw’s heir, his daughter, off the track. That disposed of Lund and Grimshaw and left Mills free to resume his original negotiations with the customer, Paley. Except for one small thing — obtaining the original Jesse James letter. He’s been working very hard to get that. Haven’t you, Herbie?”
Herbert Mills scowled.
Meyer, the hotel manager, cut in: “It’s six o’clock, Mr. Quade. If you haven’t got that money, you’ll have to go—”
“O.K.,” Quade sighed, “We’ll go.”
“Uh-uh,” Charlie Boston exclaimed. “Here’s the dough!” He took a huge roll of bills from his pocket.
Mills cried out. “That’s mine! He stole it from me.”
“You’re crazy!” exclaimed Boston. “Me and Ollie won this at the races. We had a hundred-dollar show ticket on Rameses. Didn’t we, Ollie?”
Quade looked at Mills, then at the adamant face of the hotel manager. “That’s right, Charlie. We certainly did have a ticket on that horse.”
Captain Roletti coughed, then winked at Quade. “You’re right. I heard you did.” He passed Quade and said out of the side of his mouth, “Where he’s goin’ he won’t need it, anyway.”
Words and Music
Oliver Quade was in the dough. His hotel bill was paid, he had fifty-three dollars in his pocket, and Charlie Boston, his friend and assistant, had a ticket on the Irish Sweepstakes.