Quade’s audience saw the police. Two or three persons broke away and started toward the other side of the building. The movement started a stampede and in a moment Charlie Boston and Quade were left alone.
“Something seems to have happened over there,” Quade observed. “Wonder what?”
“From the mob of cops I’d say a murder,” Boston replied dryly.
The word “murder” was scarcely out of Boston’s mouth than it was hurled back at them from across the auditorium.
“It is a murder!” Quade gasped.
“This is no place for us, then,” cried Boston. “Let’s scram!”
He caught up the suitcase containing the books and started off. But Quade called him back. “That’s no good. There’s a cop at the door. We’ll have to stick.”
“Chickens!” howled Boston. “The minute you mentioned them at the hotel I had a hunch that something was going to happen. And I’ll bet a plugged dime, which I haven’t got, that we get mixed up in it.”
“Maybe so, Charlie. But if I know cops there’s going to be a lot of questioning and my hunch is that we’ll be better off if we’re not too upstage. Let’s go over and find out what’s what.”
He started toward the other side of the auditorium. Boston followed, lugging the suitcase and grumbling.
All of the crowd was gathered in front of a huge, mahogany cabinet — a mammoth incubator. The door of the machine was standing open and two or three men were moving around inside.
Quade drew in his breath sharply when he saw the huddled body lying on the floor just inside the door of the incubator. Gently he began working his way through the crowd until he stood in front of the open incubator door.
The small group came out of the incubator and a beetle-browed man in a camel’s hair overcoat and Homburg hat squared himself off before the girl in the green hat and coat. The man in the tan smock, his head coming scarcely up to the armpits of the big man, hopped around like a bantam rooster.
“I understand you had a quarrel with him yesterday,” the big man said to the girl. “What about?”
The girl drew herself up to her full height. “Because his birds were dyed and the judge — the man behind you — refused to throw them out. That’s why!”
The bantam sputtered. “She — why, that’s a damn lie!”
The big detective turned abruptly, put a ham-like hand against the chest of the runt and shoved him back against the incubator with so much force that the little man gasped in pain.
“Listen, squirt,” the detective said. “Nothing’s been proved against this girl and until it is, she’s a lady. Up here we don’t call ladies liars.”
He turned back to the girl and said with gruff kindness, “Now, Miss, let’s have the story.”
“There’s no story,” declared the girl. “I did quarrel with him, just like I did with Judge Stone. But — but I haven’t seen Mr. Tupper since yesterday evening. That’s all I can tell you because it’s all I know.”
“Yesterday, huh.” The detective looked around the circle. “Anybody see him here today?”
“Yes, of course,” said a stocky man of about forty-five. “I was talking to him early this morning, before the place was opened to the public. There were a dozen or more of us around then.”
“You’re the boss of this shebang?”
“Not exactly. Our poultry association operates this show. I’m Leo Cassmer, the secretary, and I’m in charge of the exhibits, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” replied the detective. “You’re the boss. You know the exhibitors then. All right, who were here early this morning when this Tupper fellow was around?”
Cassmer, the show secretary, rubbed his chin. “Why, there was myself, Judge Stone, Ralph Conway, the Wyandotte man, Judge Welheimer and several of the men who work around here.”
“And Miss Martin — was she here?”
“She came in before the place was officially opened, but she wasn’t around the last time I saw Tupper.”
“Who’re Welheimer and Conway?”
A tall, silver-haired man stepped out of the crowd. “Conway’s my name.”
“And the judge?” persisted the detective.
A long-nosed man with a protruding lower lip came grudgingly out of the crowd. “I’m Judge Welheimer.”
“You a real judge or just a chicken judge?”
“Why, uh, just a poultry judge. Licensed by the National Poultry Association.”
“And you don’t hold any public office at all? You’re not even a justice of the peace?”
The long-nosed chicken judge reddened. He shook his head.
The detective’s eyes sparkled. “That’s fine. All that talk about judges had me worried for a bit. But listen, you chicken judges and the rest of you. I’m Sergeant Dickinson of the Homicide Squad of this town. There’s been a murder committed here and I’m investigating it. Which means I’m boss around here. Get me?”
Quade couldn’t quite restrain a snicker. The sergeant’s sharp ears heard it and he singled out Quade.
“And who the hell are you?”
“Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia,” Quade replied glibly. “I know the answers to all questions—”
Sergeant Dickinson’s face twisted. “Ribbing me ha? Step up here where I can get a good look at you.”
Quade remained where he was. “There’s a dead man in there. I don’t like to get too close to dead people.”
The sergeant took a half step toward Quade, but then stopped himself. He tried to smooth out his face, but it was still dark with anger.
“I’ll get around to you in a minute, fella.” He turned belligerently to the show secretary. “You, who found the body?”
Cassmer pointed to a pasty-faced young fellow of about thirty. The man grinned sickly.
“Yeah, I got in kinda late and started straightening things around. Then I saw that someone had stuck that long staple in the door latch. I didn’t think much about it and opened the door and there — there he was lying on the floor. Deader’n a mackerel!”
“You work for this incubator company?” the sergeant asked.
The young fellow nodded. “I’m the regional sales manager. Charge of this exhibit. It’s the finest incubator on the market. Used by the best breeders and hatcherymen.”
“Can the sales talk,” growled the detective. “I’m not going to buy one. Let’s go back on your story. What made you say this man was murdered?”
“What else could it be? He was dead and the door was locked on the outside.”
“I know that. But couldn’t he have died of heart failure? There’s plenty of air in that thing and besides there’s a ventilator hole up there.”
“He was murdered,” said Quade.
Sergeant Dickinson whirled. “And how do you know?”
“By looking at the body. Anyone could tell it was murder.”
“Oh yeah? Maybe you’ll tell me how he was killed. There ain’t a mark on his body.”
“No marks of violence, because he wasn’t killed that way. He was killed with a poison gas. Something containing cyanogen.”
The sergeant clamped his jaws together. “Go on! Who killed him?”
Quade shook his head. “No, that’s your job. I’ve given you enough to start with.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” said the sergeant. “So much so that I’m going to arrest you!”
Charlie Boston groaned into Quade’s ears. “Won’t you ever learn to keep your mouth shut?”
But Quade merely grinned insolently. “If you arrest me I’ll sue you for false arrest.”
“I’ll take a chance on that,” said the detective. “No one could know as much as you do and not have had something to do with the murder.”