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

Quade found a number and went into a booth. A moment later he said: “Hello, is this the Hollywood office of the Movie Fan Magazine? Well, this is Mr. Quade speaking. I’m the motion picture editor of the Omaha News-Bee. I’m in Hollywood doing a publicity story on Miss Thelma Wentworth, the new glamour girl. I want to check some facts in her history. Can you tell me her birthplace?”

“Certainly,” said a woman’s voice. “Miss Wentworth was born in Tasmania, the daughter of a British diplomat.”

Quade sighed. “I’m sorry, lady, I’m from Nebraska, but we’re not all farmers out there. Start all over. Where was Miss Wentworth born? Brooklyn?”

“Waterloo, Iowa,” was the reply.

“Fine,” said Quade. “Now give me the lowdown on Tommy Slocum. Where was he born and what did he do before he clicked in Hollywood?”

“Strangely,” said the informant, “Mr. Slocum also comes from Waterloo, Iowa. He was a sports-cartoonist on the Waterloo Independent before he went to New York.”

“One thing more — what about Stanley Maynard?”

“Stanley Maynard?” Quade detected the sudden change in the woman’s tone. “Say, what did you say your name was?”

“Shade, I’m the motion picture editor of the Omaha News-Bee. About Maynard—”

“I’m sorry,” was the reply, “but you’d better come to our office for further information.”

“Thank you,” said Quade and hung up.

When he came out of the booth, the shadow was thumbing through the magazines. Quade whistled pleasantly at him and went outside.

He sauntered down the street. In the next block he came to a combination magazine and cigar store. Racing tip sheets were displayed prominently on the rack. Quade went inside and said to the man behind the counter:

“Doc, I’ve got a really hot one at Santa Anita tomorrow. I want to place a big bet.”

The man stared blankly at Quade. “What do you think this is?”

“Phooey!” said Quade. “All you take in on cigars and magazines you can stick in your ear.”

“I never saw you before in my life,” protested the counterman.

“I just blew in from New York. Do I look like a cop?”

“No, but just the same, I don’t take horse bets. But I know a fella— How much was you figuring on betting?”

“Depends on the bookie. If the odds are right, maybe a couple of grand.”

The man’s eyebrows arched. “Just a minute,” he said. He went to a telephone booth and closed the door tightly. He emerged in a couple of minutes, mopping his forehead. He pulled a notebook from his pocket, wrote on a sheet and ripped it out of the book. “Go to this address. Ask for Jake.”

“Thanks, pal!”

The shadow was looking in the window of a shoe store next door. Quade signaled to a taxi on the corner.

Five minutes later he stepped out. As he paid with driver he shot a look at the taxi the had pulled to the curb a half-block away.

A sign on a store window said: “Argus Realty Company.” The walls inside were covered with pictures of houses, maps and insurance calendars.

A young chap got up from behind a desk.

“I want to see Jake,” Quade said. “Mr. Wolfson sent me over.”

A man in the rear of the realty store took his feet from his desk and slid his derby forward on his head. “You interested in a good house?” he called to Quade.

Quade went back. “Yeah, in Santa Anita.”

“How much you figure on paying?”

“That depends. If I can locate my partner.”

“Yeah?” Jake said.

“My partner’s name,” said Quade, “is Willie Higgins. Ever hear of him?”

Jake said, “You ain’t a cop. So, what’s your angle?”

“I want to have a talk with Willie.”

Jake shook his head. “I’ve seen the name in the papers, Mister, but I ain’t never seen the man himself. You’ll have to—” His face went slack. Quade, seeing the man’s eyes looking past him, whirled, just in time to see his shadow duck out of sight, outside the store.

The realtor-bookie swung on Quade. “What’re you tryin’ to pull?”

Quade was perplexed. “Nothing. I know Willie Higgins used to be a big horse player and since he’s in Hollywood I figured you might know where he was staying.”

“You lie like hell!” exclaimed Jake. “Get out and don’t come back.”

Quade shrugged and walked out. Outside, he looked around for the man who had been shadowing him, but the fellow was strangely out of sight now. Which gave Quade something to think about.

He took a taxi back to the Lincoln Hotel. A bright yellow sports model car was parked at the curb. When he got up to their suite, Charlie Boston asked, “You know a fellow by the name of Paul Clevenger?”

“Yes, why?” Quade said.

“He called up five minutes ago. Said he wants you to meet a friend of his tonight at the Sunset Club.”

Quade knew who that “friend” was. Paul Clevenger was the young fellow who had soothed Thelma Wentworth that afternoon in Stanley Maynard’s office.

Oliver Quade and Boston sauntered into the Sunset Club. In a far corner Thelma Wentworth was seated at a table with Paul Clevenger.

Charlie inhaled softly. “If I kill the guy with her, would she give me a tumble?”

“According to the Bill of Rights,” said Quade, “every man is equal.”