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

“You know damn well what I mean. What were you trying to pull on Thel— Miss Wentworth?”

“Oh,” sighed Quade. “I saw Willie Higgins. He said the price is a half million — for it.”

Quade was watching Slocum closely. The half million made no unusual impression.

He exclaimed, “If you found him, why didn’t you bring him here?”

“He wouldn’t come. Doesn’t trust you.”

“He doesn’t trust me — and asks for a half million? He’s got a crust.”

“Still, I can see his point,” Quade said. “He’s one week out of Alcatraz and he’s nervous about being seen within two miles of a place where a man is murdered.”

Slocum nodded, then looked up suddenly. “Which reminds me, that cop, Murdock or whatever his name is, called up here a while ago. Said you’re to be sure and be at the inquest at three this afternoon.”

“What do you think the verdict of the coroner’s jury will be?”

Slocum’s face twisted. “What the hell you gettin’ at?”

Quade shrugged, walked toward the door. “What’ll I tell Willie?”

“Tell him he’s crazy. He can’t shake me down for a half million.”

“He thinks he can,” Quade said.

The telephone on Slocum’s desk rang at the same instant the door opened under Quade’s hand. Lieutenant Murdock came in and said:

“Mr. Slocum, the D.A.’s given me orders to take you in on suspicion of murder. I’ve got a warrant for your—”

Slocum howled and jerked the receiver off the ringing phone. He yelled, “Yes!” listened for a moment. Perspiration suddenly appeared on his forehead. “All right,” he said in a meek tone and hung up.

“A warrant for your arrest!” Lieutenant Murdock repeated.

Christopher Buck’s head appeared over Murdock’s. “Hello, Quade!” he said in a better-to-eat-you-with tone.

“Buck,” said Quade, “you certainly can put your big feet into things.”

“Yah!” jeered the self-styled world’s greatest detective. “You got on the wrong boat this time!”

Slocum got up from behind his desk. “O.K., Sergeant!” he said.

Lieutenant Murdock said, grimly: “And you, smart boy, be at the inquest at three o’clock!”

Quade nodded.

When they were gone, Quade went out to Miss Hendrick’s office. She was white around the gills. “They’ve arrested Mr. Slocum!” she gasped.

“But they can’t make it stick,” Quade said.

Charlie came over. “Buck looked like he’d just won screeno!”

“Yeah, but when he goes up on the stage to get the money, he’ll find he’s missing one number.” Quade turned to Miss Hendricks. “You know, I’m working for Slocum. I want to make two or three long distance telephone calls. Will you have them put through?”

Wide-eyed, she nodded and Quade slammed into Tommy Slocum’s private office, sat down in the producer’s chair and reached for the telephone.

“Get me the Waterloo Morning News,” he said. “Yes, Waterloo, Iowa.”

Twenty minutes later Quade made his final telephone call. “Consolidated Studios? I want to talk to Lou Gould, the actors’ agent. Is he hanging around there?”

“No, he isn’t. Any message?”

“There is,” Quade said. “You tell him to have Miss Thelma Wentworth at the coroner’s inquest at three o’clock this afternoon. That’s an order!” He slammed the receiver on the hook.

Charlie Boston, draped on the office couch, said, “I wouldn’t believe it of a girl like her! But if I’ve got to die I’d like her to knock me off.”

“You’re goofy,” Quade snorted. “Come on, let’s be bait for Mr. Willie Higgins.”

Charlie Boston said, “Ouch!”

When they got out to the street, Boston said, “What’re those paper tags on the jallopy? That cop’s going to get writer’s cramp.”

The yellow sports job was parked on the side street. When Quade climbed in behind the wheel, Willie Higgins came out of a drug store near-by.

“Hi,” he greeted Quade.

“Hello, Willie,” Quade said. “Squeeze in.”

Charlie muttered, but moved over against Quade. Willie Higgins climbed into the car. “You fix it?”

“Yeah, where’ll we go?”

“Your hotel’s all right with me.”

Quade started the car. As he swung out into traffic, Higgins said, “They pinched Slocum, huh?”

Quade nodded. “Yeah, but you can square that, I guess.”

Higgins grunted, said nothing. But when they got to Quade’s suite, he said: “Where is it?”

“Do I look like I had a half million on me?” Quade asked.

“They could be big bills,” Higgins said. His eyes drew together. “You trying to pull something funny?”

“The jam Slocum’s in, he can’t afford to. But it’s going to take him a couple of days to raise the money. In the meantime — where is it?”

Higgins started for the door. “You’ll get it when I get the money.”

“Charlie!” Oliver Quade snapped.

Higgins’ right hand darted under his left coat lapel. Charlie’s fist smacked against his jaw and Quade caught the man from Alcatraz as he catapulted back. He let him down gently to the floor.

“I thought you were afraid of him, Charlie,” Quade said, cheerfully.

Boston dropped to his knees, reached into Higgins’ coat and brought out a .32 caliber automatic. Quade went quickly through Higgins’ pockets. He tossed a sheaf of bills on the rug beside Boston. Boston’s eyes popped. He picked up the bills, ruffled them.