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

“It hasn’t rained here in 224 days,” Quade retorted. “So the chances are it won’t rain today. But that’s not a fair question. The answer to it doesn’t require any encyclopedic knowledge. I’m not a fortune teller and can’t make guesses. I’m an exponent of learning. Any question anyone can ask me—”

“I’ve got a question!” someone yelled. “Referring to a number of animals, would you say, a herd of lions, a flock — or what?”

Quade’s eyes brightened. “Now, that’s the type of question I like. It would stump practically anyone in this audience. But, ladies and gentlemen, it doesn’t phase me. The answer is — a pride of lions. And just for fun, I’ll give you extra measure. In referring to geese you would say a gaggle of geese; pheasants, a nide of pheasants. Try those on your friends, sometime... All right, someone else ask me another question, any subject at all.”

It came instantly. “What are felt hats made of?”

“Rabbit fur,” Quade shot back. “The fur is sheered from the pelt, put through certain processes and emerges as ‘felt’... Next!”

A youth snapped: “A man boiling a kettle of water on top of Mt. Everest stuck his bare arm into the boiling water and wasn’t scalded. Why not?”

Quade cried, “You’re getting tricky now. The answer to that question is because of the low boiling point of the water at that altitude. The boiling point of water at sea level is 212 degrees, but it drops one degree for every five hundred feet of altitude. Therefore, the boiling point of water at the top of Mt. Everest, which is 21,000 feet, would be only 172 degrees — not enough to scald a person.”

They came fast and furious after that.

“Who was Machiavelli?”

“How far is it from the earth to the moon?”

“Who won the heavyweight championship from Tommy Burns?”

Quade tossed back the answers swiftly and accurately. The game continued for ten minutes, then Quade called a sudden halt.

“That’s all, folks. Now, I’m going to tell you how you, each and everyone of you, can learn the answers to every question that was asked here today — and ten thousand others. Any question anyone can ask you at any time. They’re all here!” He held out his hand and Charlie Boston, who had lugged a valise from the car across the street, tossed him a book.

Quade ruffled its pages. “Here it is, The Compendium of Human Knowledge. The knowledge of the ages, condensed, classified, abbreviated, all in one volume. A complete high school education, available to every man, woman and child in this audience.

“Yes, I’m selling this amazing book, the compendium of all knowledge acquired by man since the beginning of time. But what am I asking for this college education in one book... $25.00? Cheap at the price! But no! Not even $5.00, but a mere, paltry insignificant $2.95!”

Charlie Boston stepped up beside Oliver Quade and hissed: “Scram, Ollie! A cop.”

A man in a blue uniform pushed through the crowd. “Hey, you,” he said, “Mr. Slocum wants to talk to you about that voice of your’n.”

Oliver Quade drew himself up to his lean height and fixed the policeman with an icy stare. “Since when is a citizen of this glorious country denied the right of free speech? Are you not a servant of the people? So by what right do you dare order one of your employers not to speak!”

The cop grinned sickishly. “I’m not complaining about your talk. It’s Mr. Slocum. He wants to see you in his office, right away.”

Quade waved his hands to the audience. “You see, ladies and gentlemen, that’s what happens to a humble citizen when one of our millionaire movie moguls turns his thumb down. My voice raised in honest speech, in a humble endeavor to earn a livelihood, annoys Mr. Slocum, yonder in his plush-lined office and so I am arrested.”

“Who said anythin’ about arresting anyone?” the policeman demanded. “I only said Mr. Slocum wants to talk to you. He heard your voice and sent me out to bring you in. Hey, you didn’t think I was a regular cop, did you?”

Quade brightened. “Of course not, my good man! I see it all now. Mr. Slocum is a motion picture producer; he heard my resonant voice and — yes, of course. He wishes to talk contract with me. Lead on, officer! I’ll talk to your Mr. Slocum.”

The crowd was already dispersing. The policeman pushed his way through and Quade followed. Behind him came Charlie Boston, still protesting at walking into a lion’s den.

The main studio building was a maze of corridors and private offices. The uniformed man led Quade and Boston down the row of offices and finally opened the door of an office that only a Hollywood mogul or a blue-sky promoter could afford.

There were two or three girls in the office and a couple of sleek-haired young men.

“Miss Hendricks will announce you to Mr. Slocum,” said the policeman to Quade. “Miss Hendricks, this is the man from outside, the man whose voice Mr. Slocum heard.”

A woman who looked like a middle-aged schoolteacher said, “Mr. Slocum will see you.”

“Wait here, Charles,” Quade said, and passed through the portals of Mr. Tommy Slocum’s inner sanctum.