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

As they climbed into the car, Charlie whispered in Quade’s ear: “Well, it worked!”

They drove back to the Slocum Studios and Buck parked his car. At the gate, Quade and Boston fell behind Buck and allowed the tall detective to get them through the gate by showing his pass.

Once inside, Quade became reticent. “You run along about your business, Buck.”

“Yeah, but that phone call,” protested Buck. “What’s come up?”

Quade waved a finger chidingly at Buck. “Now, now!”

Buck’s face contorted angrily for a moment. “All right, if that’s the way you’re going to be. But remember, Quade, I’m on the job, and I’ll be running into you.”

“Oh sure, no hard feelings. Eh?”

Buck went off and Boston asked, “So what’s it all about, Ollie?”

“We’re detectives again,” replied Quade. “Christopher Buck, the world’s greatest detective, came all the way from New York on a job. He thinks because I once got mixed in a case that he was on — and solved it — that I’m here as a detective.”

“But, hell, you don’t even know who those people are that he mentioned!” exclaimed Charlie Boston.

“We got a lunch out of it, didn’t we? How much was the check?”

“Three-forty!” chuckled Boston. “Which, for a tight-wad like Christopher Buck, was plenty.”

“He figured he was going to have a cup of coffee — on us!” Quade laughed. “Say, Charlie, who’s Thelma Wentworth?”

“Huh? Say, don’t you read the movie magazines, Ollie? She’s the new sensation in the films. Her and Hedy Lamarr. I knew about her, all right, but who’re Maynard and Higgins? Is that the Willie Higgins, who used to be Public Enemy Number One?”

“Yep! None other. Seems he finished his time on Alcatraz. Also he knows these people. Maynard, I haven’t placed. But he seems to think he’s got something on Tommy Slocum. I’m going to find out what.”

Charlie’s forehead creased. “You’re not serious in mixing in this detective stuff, are you? Not out here?”

Quade shrugged. “We’re broke. That is, we are today. Although tomorrow, Tommy Slocum’s giving me a hundred bucks.”

“What?” cried Charlie Boston. “He really gave you a job? Doing what?”

Quade said hastily, “Oh, just a job.”

“What the hell can you do around a studio?”

“Lots of things. They have producers and writers and such, in a studio, you know.”

“Not in this place, Ollie. This is where they make the Desmond Dogg cartoons. It’s all done by artists.” Boston looked suspiciously at Quade. “Why the mystery all of a sudden? You’re talking to me, you know.”

“Oh, hell!” said Quade disgustedly. “We’re broke and we’ve got to make a quick stake so... well, Slocum offered me this hundred bucks for just a couple of hours work and I accepted.”

“A hundred bucks for a couple of hours?” persisted Boston. “Doing what?”

Quade swore. “Barking, damn you! I’m going to imitate Desmond Dogg’s bark. Now laugh, you fool!”

Boston did laugh. He laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. But Quade heard only the beginning of the laughter. He walked off, muttering savagely to himself.

Oliver Quade jerked open the first door he came to and found himself facing one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen in his life. She was tall and slender and blond.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You startled me!”

“Sorry. I guess I got into the wrong place. Whose office is this?” He wondered why the girl looked so pale, why her lips were so taut. His sudden entry couldn’t have scared her that much.

She started around him, toward the door through which he had just entered. “I... I got into the wrong office myself,” she said, lamely. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone here.”

She stepped hurriedly past him, pulling the door shut behind her. Quade stared at the door. “I must have caught her doing something,” he said to himself. “She’s scared stiff.” He shrugged and glanced about the office. There was an inner door with a ground glass panel, on which was lettered the name: Mr. Maynard.

He walked across and opened the door. “Mr. Maynard,” he began, “I just dropped in to—” he stopped.

He was talking to a dead man.

He sat in a big chair behind a mahogany desk. His arms hung loosely at his sides and his head was thrown back. Blood was trickling from his mouth to the thick rug. It was dropping on a .32 caliber automatic that might have fallen from his limp hand.

Quade had seen dead men before. He was a man of the world and had seen many things in his time. He had never got used to death. A shiver ran through his lean body and he felt strangely cold. He backed out of Maynard’s private office and closed the door, softly. Then he walked swiftly out of the other office, into the corridor. And collided with Tommy Slocum.

The little producer said, “Excuse me,” and reached for the door through which Quade had just come.

Quade’s hand shot out and caught Slocum’s arm. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you, Mr. Slocum.”

“Why not? Who’re you to tell me where I can go? I’m Tommy Slocum and this is my joint. I’m the boss around here.”

“I know, but just the same, don’t go into Mr. Maynard’s office. Not yet. He’s — dead!”