He let them dry a few moments, then carried one of the discs to a table at the far end of the room.
Then he did a strange thing. On his bed lay a shining trombone. He got it and, returning to the table on which he had laid the single disc, stepped off a distance of six feet. Marking the spot, he got a telescopic music stand and spread on it the rough manuscript of a song.
He put the trombone to his lips and began playing. He played one bar of music, looked at the disc, and played another bar. Suddenly there was a sharp explosion and the brown stuff on the disc went up in a puff of smoke. Soup Spooner took a pencil from his pocket and marked one of the notes on the music manuscript.
Then he returned to the bench and obtained another disc. He repeated the business of playing on the trombone. He had to play four bars before there was an explosion.
His dull, vacant eyes almost showed life, for a moment. He nodded his head in satisfaction.
Oliver Quade bounced out of bed at ten o’clock the following morning, as frisky as a colt in clover. “Roll out, Charlie!” he cried. “I had a swell dream. We moved to a ritzy apartment house on Park Avenue.”
Charlie Boston rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “On what? The twenty-three bucks we got left?”
“Money isn’t everything, my boy!” Quade retorted. “It’s the grand manner that gets you by. Come on, get up. We’ll have a touch of breakfast, then run over to Park Avenue.”
“Huh? What for?”
“Why, to engage that apartment I was just telling you about. It’s in the Huyler Arms.”
“Are you crazy, Ollie? Why should we want to move over to the Huyler Arms?”
“Because last night when you started snoring you woke me up and I got to doing some thinking. Serious stuff. I thought of two things and I couldn’t give myself any answers. One — why did Billy Bond himself send in that item to The Showman?”
“Even I figured that one out,” Boston replied. “The kid was trying to work his old man for some more dough. He didn’t have anything to show for his year. So he got a phony news item printed about having a song published. He was going to send it to the old gent, to wangle some more cash.”
“You ought to be on the force, Charlie,” Quade said sarcastically. “So why did someone dump poison into his beer?”
“The blonde had an answer for that. Maybe the old man turned Billy down, so Billy decided to end it all.”
“Which leads you right down the street to Question Number Two that worried me. Why was Cassidy, the piano player, knocked off?”
“Maybe he saw Soup spill the poison in the beer?”
“Uh-uh, that contradicts your other theory. Besides, Cassidy wasn’t acting when Billy keeled over. He was plenty touched. Cassidy was killed because somebody, maybe Soup, wanted that song manuscript Billy had whipped out in the cocktail lounge. Remember? I looked for it when we went back. It wasn’t on top of the little piano, and it wasn’t in Cassidy’s room. I looked while Sergeant Vickers was fussing around. Let’s say Soup swiped it — but why?”
“You’re the Human Encyclopedia,” Boston said. “I’m only the stooge. I’d much rather be up at the Danbury Fair. It opens tomorrow and we ought to be there right now, finding a spot.”
“There’re always fairs, Charlie. Roll out, so we can get going.”
“You’re really going through with that Park Avenue stuff? What for?”
“Because Mr. Al Donnelley lives there. I looked him up in the phone directory. I’d like to meet Al. He must be in the chips to live at a jernt like the Huyler Arms.”
Charlie Boston groaned…
The Huyler Arms was even worse than Charlie Boston had imagined. The renting agent wore a cutaway coat and striped trousers.
“Just a little one-bedroom apartment,” Quade said, loftily. “I’m not going to bring many of my things. I can run out to the country easily if I need anything. And my secretary, Mr. Boston, here, will be going out there weekends, anyway.”
“Oh, quite!” said the manager. “We’ve a lovely little furnished apartment on the tenth floor, overlooking the Avenue. Would you care to see it?”
“I would, indeed.”
It was a very nice apartment, consisting of a living room, bedroom and kitchenette. The furniture was in excellent taste, if a bit shabby around the edges.
“Only two and a quarter,” said the renting agent. “Should you care to take a lease, it’ll be two hundred even.”
“I don’t believe I’d be interested in a lease. That’s why I came here. Because it’s an apartment hotel. I may be in town only two or three months. Florida, you know… and a bit of sport in Quebec.”
“Ah, yes, quite! The apartment is satisfactory?”
“Oh, quite! Charles, will you write out a check for the first month’s rent?”
Charlie Boston’s mouth moved two or three times before he could bring out any words. “I’m sorry, Mr. Quade, I do believe I left the check book in the country. The rush, you know.”
Quade looked annoyed. “That’s awkward! And I don’t believe I have any money with me. You’ll have to run over to the club later and get some. Umm, yes, here’s a little change. Will this tenner do for the moment, Mr. Holzshuh?”
“Oh, quite! At your convenience, Mr. Quade. And I do hope you’ll like it here.”
“I think I will. I’m a bit tired now. Rather large evening yesterday, you know.”
“Of course. Here are the keys.”
The renting agent left them alone in the apartment. Boston waited until he had closed the door, then snorted: “Secretary! Check book! Bah!”
Quade chuckled. “I told you it was the manner, Charlie.”
“How long you think we can get away with it?”
“Until the ten dollars are used up. A day or two, anyway. And I think that’ll be long enough to check up on Mr. Al Donnelley.”
The piano in the apartment above was banging steadily, not too loud, but enough to be heard in Quade’s newly-rented little place. After a while the tenant above gave his tonsils a bit of exercise. He didn’t sing very well, but he sang loud.
Quade looked at the ceiling. “That wouldn’t be Al Donnelley, would it, Charlie?”
“You know damn well it is, Ollie,” Boston said. “You checked up on the telephone before we came over here and worked the manager around into showing us this apartment, right underneath Donnelley’s hangout.”
“Oh, did I? How clever of me. Well, no wonder this apartment was vacant. Donnelley must have driven the previous tenants out with his racket.”
A trombone joined the piano and after a moment, a female voice joined the male.
Quade said, “Tsk! Tsk! Parties before lunch time. That’s a song writer for you, Charlie. Reach up and bang on the ceiling! We don’t have to put up with that racket, do we?”
Boston took off a number twelve shoe and stepped up on the sofa. He pounded lustily on the ceiling with the heel of his shoe.
In the apartment above, someone responded promptly by jumping up and down. Tiny bits of plaster fell on Charlie Boston’s face.
He snarled, “Fine neighbors!” He belabored the ceiling with increased vigor.
Three or four pairs of feet began stamping on the floor above. Quade said, in a tone of satisfaction, “That settles it, Charlie. We’ll go up and give them a piece of our minds.”
Boston said, crookedly, “Now comes the slapping around. I’ll bet a couple of them are heavyweight prize-fighters. All right, lead on.”
They left their newly rented apartment and ascended to the floor above and made their way to the door of Apartment 11-C. Quade leaned against the door buzzer.