“No? Well, you ought to!” Quade banged the receiver on the hook.
“That’s screwy,” he said, to Charlie Boston. “They say Billy Bond sent that item in himself and it isn’t true. Why would he do a thing like that?”
“Maybe he had a dicker with another outfit and wanted to play the Murdock Company against them. They’re a well-known outfit.”
“What? How do you know?”
“Why, I’ve seen their ads. They’re all over.”
“All over where?”
Charlie Boston picked up a true confession magazine from the dresser. He ruffled the pages in back. “I’ve seen it in here. Lots of times. Here it is!”
Quade ripped the magazine from his hands. He scanned a column of small ads, then began reading:
Song poems Wanted. Fame and Fortune May be Yours. You Write the Words. We furnish the Music. Big Royalties! Murdock & Co. Monadnock Block, New York City.
“Do you smell anything, Charlie?” Quade asked.
“You mean that ad? They’re phonies?”
“Maybe. Some of these outfits are. I guess there must be a million people in this country trying to write songs. Most of them can’t write music, but anyone can write the words of a song. Joe Doak sees this ad and sends in his lyric. So what? So he gets a letter saying the lyrics are swell.”
“Form letter number 83, huh?”
“Yeah. Joe Doak falls for it. Murdock & Co. has ‘discovered’ other song hits — lyrics that came in the mail just like Joe Doak’s. Maybe Doak’s tripe will be a hit. His lyrics are swell. All he needs is a good tune for them. And guess what? Murdock and Company has a couple of the best tunesmiths in the business, right on their staff. One of them read Joe Doak’s lyrics and raved about them so much that the company’s willing to let said tunesmith arrange the music for practically nothing — just a mere fifty or sixty bucks.”
“Hell,” said Charlie Boston, “even I wouldn’t fall for that.”
“You would if you lived in the sticks and worked in a meat market. You wouldn’t let fame and fortune slip through your fingers for a measly little fifty smackers, would you?”
“Maybe not. So I send the dough to Murdock, huh? What then?”
“Then you’ve got lyrics and music. What good are they, if you can’t get the song published? Maybe your old man has a meat market and he kicks in with $200 to $250. Murdock publishes your songs. Prints five hundred, a thousand, maybe two thousand copies. All you got to do now is sell them.”
“Me? How would I know how to sell song sheets?”
Quade shrugged. “That’s no worry of the Murdock Company. They’ve lived up to their part of the bargain. It’s in the contract.”
“Not my contract. I holler police. I squawk to Jim Farley.”
“It won’t do you any good. These companies operate within the laws. They live up to their agreement.”
Quade picked up his hat. “Hold down the fort, Charlie. I’m going over and have a little chitchat with Mr. Murdock.”
“You might need me, Ollie!”
“Uh-uh, not in a music publisher’s office. I’d like you to stick around here. I’ve a hunch Sergeant Vickers will be popping in again. I’m curious as to what he’ll say.”
The Monadnock Block was on Madison. It had seen better days. Quade consulted the building directory and rode in the elevator to the sixth floor. The layout of the Murdock Company consisted of an anteroom and two private offices. A tall woman, wearing glasses, sat behind a desk in the anteroom.
“Mr. Quade calling on Mr. Murdock,” Quade said smoothly.
“You have an appointment?”
“No, but I want to see him just the same.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to tell me your business first.”
“It’s personal.”
The woman — she was in her early thirties — wore no makeup whatever. She sniffed at Quade. “I’m Mr. Murdock’s confidential secretary. You can tell me what it’s about.”
“You’re Miss Smith?” Quade asked.
“The name is Henderson,” the woman said primly. “Now, if you’ll state—”
Quade slowly closed one eye in a wink. “Tell him it’s about Ethel. He’ll know.”
Miss Henderson looked steadily at Quade. Then she rose and went into one of the private offices. She was inside for a long moment. When she came out, she nodded to Quade.
Murdock was about forty. A bluff, hearty type with not too much hair. “What’s this about Ethel?” he boomed. “I don’t know any woman with that name.”
“I didn’t say Ethel was a woman,” Quade said. “Ethel’s the name of a song. I wrote it myself.”
Murdock’s eyes glittered. “You’ve got the manuscript with you?”
“No, you see, I saw your ad in a magazine. It says you write the music for lyrics. That’s what I’ve got. A lyric.”
“Send it in. We’ll advise you if it shows merit.”
“Oh, it’s got merit all right,” Quade said. “You don’t have to be afraid of that. All my friends who’ve seen it said it was swell. It ought to be a hit.”
“No doubt, no doubt. But I’m sorry. I can’t tell you anything about it until I see it.”
“Well, I wanted to get your terms before I sent it in. How much royalty will I get?”
“That depends. Al Donnelley made twenty thousand dollars on his last song.”
“Al Donnelley? Say, he’s good.”
Mr. Murdock coughed. “Al sometimes does a little arranging for me. Just as a favor, you know. It’s quite possible, er, if your lyrics are good that I can persuade Al to write the music for you.”
“You could? That’d be great. We’d go fifty-fifty on the profits, huh?”
“Why… I don’t think Al would want to do that. He’d be satisfied just to know that he helped a new song writer make the grade. He’s a great guy, Al. Of course, I’d give him a little present or something. Maybe fifty-sixty dollars. You wouldn’t mind that, would you?”
“Me? I’ve got to shell out fifty dollars? Sure. I wouldn’t mind. I’d give it to him out of the first royalties.”
Mr. Murdock shook his head. “That’d make it — too commercial. Al wouldn’t like that. Give me the money when you bring in the lyrics and I’ll slip it to Al.”
“But I haven’t got fifty dollars. Not now.”
“How much have you got?”
“Well, that’s the trouble. I haven’t got any money. In fact, I had to borrow carfare to get—”
Mr. Murdock kicked back his chair. “Good afternoon, I’m very busy.”
Quade went to the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned. “You want me to send Ethel to you? The song, I mean.”
“If you send fifty dollars with it — yes!” Murdock said grimly.
Quade went out the door. He stopped at Martha Henderson’s desk. “He threw me out,” he complained. “For a lousy fifty bucks. I’ll show him. I’ll get my song published somewhere else.”
“You do that,” Martha Henderson said coolly. “I’ll listen to it on the radio. Goodbye.”
“What’re you doing tonight, sister?” Quade asked bluntly.
“I have a date with a girl friend,” Martha Henderson retorted. “Her name is Ethel.”
Quade winced and ducked out of the office…
Back at the hotel he bumped into Detective Sergeant Vickers stepping into the elevator. “I was just going up to see you, Quade,” the detective said.
“Did he confess?”
“Confess?” Vickers snarled. “Nick Darcy was in the station waiting for us. You know who Nick Darcy is? Just about the toughest criminal lawyer in this town, that’s all.”
They stepped out on Quade’s floor and walked to his room. Charlie Boston snorted. “You bring cops home with you?”