A skinny, long-haired chap of about thirty, with bright eyes, opened the door. “Yeah?” he said.
“We’re the new tenants down below,” Quade said, pleasantly. “You’re making too much damn noise.”
Long-hair sneered. “I pay the rent of this apartment and I can make all the noise I like. If you don’t like it, you know what you can do.”
A brawny chap with black, slick hair hove up behind Long-hair. “Trouble, Al?” he asked.
“Al?” said Quade. “Say, you wouldn’t be Al Donnelley, the famous song writer, would you? I heard he lived in this building.”
“Yeah, I’m Donnelley. What of it?”
Quade crowded Donnelley into the hallway, trying to peer inquisitively into the apartment. “That’s swell,” he said, “you’re our neighbor. Sorry about the beef. Forget it. Umm, having a little party, huh?”
“Yeah,” Donnelley conceded. “Have a drink?”
“Don’t mind if I do. This is my secretary, Mr. Boston.”
They pushed into the apartment. There were five or six men and about that many women of various ages and degrees of attractiveness.
They were mostly gathered around a grand piano, clutching drinks that were being served by a white-jacketed Filipino. Charlie Boston snagged drinks for himself and Quade.
A little girl whose lips matched her hair came up to Quade. “I’m Grace Evans,” she said. “I’m glad you joined the party. You live here in the building?” Without waiting for a reply, she went on: “You must have loads of money. I’ll bet you’re a stock-broker or something.”
“Or something,” Quade said. “And I’ll bet you’re in the chorus.”
She made an O with her mouth. “Why, how’d you know? My, but you’re clever. I just love clever men. Say something clever, will you?”
“I feel like singing,” Quade said. “Get Al to sing something. His new song, Cottage By the Sea. I like that.”
Al Donnelley was already at the piano. Grace Evans shrieked at him. “Al, play your new number.”
“Which one?” Al Donnelley asked, expansively.
Grace Evans trilled. “Isn’t he clever? He writes so many songs he doesn’t know which is his latest. What is it, again?”
“Cottage By the Sea,” Quade said. “I heard it the other day and it was swell.”
Al Donnelley pawed over some music sheets and finally found the one he was looking for. He spread it out, glanced at it and began pounding the grand piano.
The sleek-haired man began bellowing in a hog-calling voice and the others in the room took it up. Quade went through the motions of singing, but kept his eyes on Al Donnelley. The song writer played well enough, but when it came to vocalizing, he wasn’t so good.
Half-way through the song, the door bell whirred, but no one paid any attention to it. Quade saw the Filipino going toward the door, but did not turn until Donnelley finished with Cottage by the Sea.
Quade exclaimed, “That was swell, Al!”
“Wasn’t it?” a new girl asked Quade.
He looked at the girl with her hat on and for a moment he didn’t recognize her. It was the man behind her, that told him who she was. The man was Murdock, president of the Murdock Publishing Company. And the girl — in a silver fox jacket, brilliant make-up and the trimmings — was Martha Henderson, Murdock’s secretary.
She said, “I didn’t know you knew Al. You should have said so the other day.”
“I didn’t know him then. Uh, I live in the apartment below.”
“In this building. Why, you said—” She turned abruptly and, catching hold of Murdock’s arm, pulled him aside.
Al Donnelley got up from the piano. “Hi, Murdock,” he cried. “And Martha, old girl. H’ar’ya. Glad you came up.”
Quade caught Charlie Boston’s eye and motioned toward the door. He set down his glass. “Well, thanks for the drink, Al. Got to be going.”
Martha Henderson deserted Murdock and ran to Al Donnelley’s side. She whispered into his ear. Murdock’s face looked as if he’d just been told that his bank account was overdrawn.
“Hey!” he said, weakly. “Wait a minute, you two!”
Quade began moving toward the door. “Sorry, Al. We’ve got to be running along. Stop downstairs sometime and I’ll repay the drink. So-long.”
Al Donnelley made a running dive and landed on his hands and knees in the narrow hall leading to the door. “You can’t leave here!” he bawled. “Hey, Joe! Max! Help me!”
Quade tried to step over Al Donnelley, and the song writer jack-knifed and caught hold of Quade’s ankle. He yanked on it and dumped Quade on top of himself.
Charlie Boston roared and went into action then. He smacked the sleek-haired man who was charging and smashed him back into another man coming up behind.
Quade, sitting on the floor, reached out and clamped a half Nelson on Al Donnelley. He flopped him over on his back, let go of the half Nelson suddenly and cuffed the song writer along the side of his head. Al Donnelley’s head banged on the floor. He went limp.
Quade bounced to his feet, took a couple of quick steps and opened the door. “All right, Charlie!” he yelled.
Charlie Boston was just in the act of chopping down Mr. Murdock, president of the Murdock Publishing Company. He finished that little task very neatly, then leisurely joined Oliver Quade at the door. There was no pursuit and the two friends returned to their new apartment on the floor below.
“That,” said Charlie Boston, “was fun. Is there going to be any more like that?”
Quade shook his head. “No, this case is just about washed up. Al Donnelley washed it up. If Vickers is smart, he’ll throw Donnelley in the clink and give him the third-degree. He’ll kick through.”
“With what?” Charlie Boston demanded. “I didn’t see anything out of the way. Maybe he swiped that song from Billy Bond and maybe he didn’t.”
“Maybe he did? He didn’t even know it!”
“Whaddya mean, he didn’t know it? He played it.”
“With the music. And he had to keep reading it. Funny. You’d think if a fellow had written the song himself, he’d be able to play it without keeping his eyes on the music.”
Boston inhaled softly. “Jeez, I never thought of that. You think—”
“I think I’ll call Sergeant Vickers.”
Quade picked up the telephone and told the operator downstairs that he wanted police headquarters. The operator gasped. “Is there anything wrong, Mr. Quade?”
“Too damn much noise around here. I’m going to make a complaint about the people upstairs.”
“Oh, don’t do that, sir! We’ll take care of it!”
“Never mind. I’ll handle it myself. Just get me Headquarters. And make it snappy, or I’ll make a complaint about you, too.”
The girl made the connection. After being shifted to several departments, Quade finally got Sergeant Vickers. “This is Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia. I’ve got that Billy Bond case washed up for you, Sergeant. Feel like making the arrest?”
“Are you kidding?” Sergeant Vickers cried.
“Of course not! Rush over to the Huyler Arms on Park Avenue and I’ll give you a lad who can tell you the whole thing with a little pressure.”
“You’re sure, Quade? I’ve got a little something myself today that’s damn funny. It came in the mail. The original manuscript of that song Billy Bond wrote.”
“What? Somebody sent you that in the mail?”
“Yeah. Sounds screwy, doesn’t it? There was a note with it, even screwier. It says: ‘Play this on your trombone.’ That’s what’s funny about it, Quade.” Vickers cleared his throat. “I do have a trombone. Play it a lot. But no one except my landlady knows I’ve got a trombone. Secret vice, you know. What do you make of it, Quade?”