Black Mask (Vol. 22, No. 2 — Mary 1939)

Boston said suspiciously, “Say, you don’t think Higgins is in Hollywood, do you?”

“I do. And what’s more, you and I are going to find him.”

“Do you want to commit suicide, Ollie? Willie Higgins is so mean he’d poison his own grandmother. Five years on Alcatraz has probably made him even meaner.”

“Oh, he can’t be so tough,” said Quade easily. “As I remember him from his pictures he was a little fellow. Even if he gained a lot of weight, he wouldn’t be up to your two hundred pounds.”

“Stop right there, Ollie! You’re not going to get me to tackle Willie Higgins. If he was a dwarf, I’d still keep out of his way. Higgins don’t fight with fists!”

The door resounded to a smart rat-a-tat. “Come!” Quade called.

A cheery-faced man came in. “Mr. Quade? My name’s Clayton. I understand you wanted to see one of our sport jobs.”

“That’s right,” said Quade. “Tell me, Mr. Clayton, is your car a better buy than the Packard?”

Mr. Clayton smiled deprecatingly. “We think it is, Mr. Quade. If you’ll come outside, I’ll point out a few salient factors.”

“I’ve seen your car, Mr. Clayton,” said Quade. “It looks O.K. The only thing I’m not sure of is how it operates. I mean by comparison with say, the Packard and the Cadillac, both of which I’ve driven.”

“A demonstration, Mr. Quade—” began the automobile dealer.

“Exactly! But I don’t want one of your demonstrations. You’d look for the smooth streets and you’d whiz me around a corner with your foot touching the brake so I wouldn’t even know it. What I’m getting at, Mr. Clayton, is you can’t tell enough about a car with a test-tube demonstration. You’ve got to drive it yourself, for several days. Now, I’ve promised both the Packard and the Cadillac people that I’d try only one more car and then decide among the three of you. Is that satisfactory, Mr. Clayton?”

“Certainly, sir! We’ll back our car against any on the market, in any price range. Of course—”

“Fine! I’ll try your car for a few days and if it operates as well as the others, I’ll no doubt buy it because I like the color better. Did you bring the keys up with you, Mr. Clayton?”

“Of course, but—”

“But what, Mr. Clayton? Oh!” Quade laughed heartily. “You don’t know me. Quite so. Well, well! I’m Oliver Quade of New York and this is Mr. Charles P. Boston. If you’re worried about us, why just stop down at the desk. Or, there’s the phone — call up my friend, Tommy Slocum.”

Mr. Clayton beamed. “Certainly, Mr. Quade, you drive that car as long as you wish. Take a week. When you’re ready, just call me. Thank you very much. I’m sure you’ll decide in our favor.”

“I hope so, Mr. Clayton. And good-day, sir!”

When he’d gone, Charlie said: “Ollie, you’re the bigest four-flusher in California.”

Quade winked at him. “Who knows? We may buy the car from him yet. Our jallopy’s on its last legs. Which reminds me, better run down there and get our things out of the car and see if you can’t get it dragged off the street. Here.” He tossed over the keys Mr. Clayton had left.

Boston started for the door. “What are you going to do?”

“Make a few phone calls.”

Boston went out and Quade reached for the telephone. “Get me Consolidated Studios... Consolidated? I want to talk to Miss Thelma Wentworth.”

“I’m sorry,” said an operator, “Miss Wentworth does not receive calls at the studio.”

“But this is a matter of vital importance.”

“I’ll connect you with the general office.”

Quade got the general office and was switched to three different persons. He used his most autocratic voice on them and finally got the ear of a Mr. Gould.

“Lou Gould,” the man said. “I’m Miss Wentworth’s agent. Just what is this matter of importance? I handle all of Miss Wentworth’s business matters. You can tell me what it’s about.”

“Then tell Miss Wentworth that Oliver Quade wants to see her right away. Tell her it’s the man she bumped into this morning at a certain place.”

When Gould’s voice came back on it sounded pained. “Miss Wentworth said she’d see you. If you’ll come over here—”

Knuckles rapped on Quade’s door and before he had a chance to say anything Christopher Buck’s lean face appeared. Quade snapped into the telephone. “I’ll call you back in five minutes. Stay at your phone.” He banged the receiver on the hook. “Buck,” he said, “how’d you get here?”

The tall detective came into the room and let himself down into a chair. He was so tall and lean the act was very much like an accordion folding itself.

“How come you ducked out of the studio, Quade?” he asked.

“Too many cops around — and sham-uses. So you followed me.”

“No. One of my operators did. I gave him the sign when you came out of Slocum’s office. I just saw your stooge downstairs. You’ve come a long way since New York. That’s an expensive car you’re driving these days.”

“I like a good car,” retorted Quade. “So what can I do for you?”

Buck nodded toward the telephone. “Did I interrupt an important call?”

“You did, but don’t let that worry you. What’s on your mind? You didn’t shadow me just so you could drop in for tea.”