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

“Dead, hell,” said Slocum and shoved against the door. Then, as understanding swept into his brain, he recoiled. “Dead!” he squeaked in a thin voice.

“With a bullet in his head. I think you’d better call the police.”

“Oh, my God!” moaned Tommy Slocum. “Stanley Maynard — dead? I don’t believe it.”

But he did believe it. And if he had known of Maynard’s death before Quade told him, he put on a very good act.

He snapped at Quade: “You found him? All right, stick around then. Hey, Hendricks!” he roared at the top of his voice. “Come out here!”

Miss Hendricks, the school-teacherish looking secretary, rushed out of her office. “Call the police!” Slocum yelled at her. “Tell them to hurry up. Stanley Maynard’s killed himself.”

Heads popped out of doors. Tommy Slocum roared at them. “Get back to your work! What do you think I’m paying you for? To gawk around? Somebody call the police department. Murder’s been done. Mr. Maynard’s killed himself.”

“What a man!” murmured Quade.

And now the human bloodhound, Christopher Buck, popped out of nowhere. “Maynard’s dead?” he hissed. “Where?” He saw Oliver Quade and clapped a hand to his skinny face. “You, Ollie, what do you know about this?”

“I found his body. He’s in there.” He jerked a hand toward the office door.

Christopher Buck slithered past them and little Tommy Slocum charged him. “You can’t go in there, you long drink of water. Stay out!”

Christopher Buck shook off the little man. “Maynard’s my client! I’m going in and no one can stop me.” And in he went.

Quade stepped in swiftly after him. Tommy Slocum yelled and followed. He sobbed when he saw the dead man with the sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.

“Stanley, old boy!” he moaned.

Buck, his head craned forward, was sniffing about the office. “Through the mouth,” he said, “and the gun’s here. I don’t believe it!”

“You don’t believe what, Buck?” asked Quade softly.

“That he’d kill himself. He was so sure of winning out. Damn, what a dirty trick! Now, I can whistle for my fee.”

Someone came up behind Quade and breathed on his neck. “I told you, Ollie!” exclaimed Charlie Boston. “We had no business butting in around here.”

“Oh, shut up, Charlie!” snorted Quade.

“The best friend I ever had!” said Tommy Slocum.

“Oh, yeah!” That was Christopher Buck, all detective, now. He had whirled on Slocum and was towering over him, his face grim and unforgiving. “If he was your best friend, why was he suing you for a million dollars?”

Slocum jumped. “Who’re you?” he cried. “How’d you get in here? What right have you got to talk that way to me? I’m Tommy Slocum and this is my studio. Get the hell out of here.”

Christopher Buck showed his teeth. “I’m Christopher Buck, the detective!” he announced. “Mr. Maynard employed me to — to uncover some evidence he wanted. I came out here from New York by plane. Mr. Maynard wanted me right away. Why, Mr. Slocum, why?”

“Hendricks!” roared Tommy Slocum. “Call the cops. Have this man thrown out of here. I don’t care if he is a detective... Hendricks!”

A studio cop rushed into the office. “Yes, Mr. Slocum, what is it?”

“Emil! Throw this man off the lot. He says he’s a detective, but I don’t believe him. Throw him off. He insulted me.”

The studio cop looked at the tall detective who was glowering at him. “I dunno, Mr. Slocum,” the cop said, hesitantly. “The city police just pulled up outside—”

“Here we are!”

They came in, a small army of them. A hawk-faced man with graying hair was in command. “I’m Lieutenant Murdock,” he announced. “What’s happened here?”

Slocum pointed a quivering hand at the dead man. “Stanley Maynard, he killed himself.”

“O.K.,” Lieutenant Murdock said, “We’ll take care of things. Just keep back... Johnson, clear this gang out of here. Outside, everybody. We’ll handle things in here.” Everyone cleared out.

Alone in an adjoining office, Quade sidled up to^-Tommy Slocum. “In a little while, Mr. Slocum, they’re going to discover that Maynard didn’t kill himself.”

The producer of the famous Desmond Dogg animated cartoons snapped: “What do you mean, he didn’t kill himself?”

“I mean he was murdered.”

“You’re crazy, the gun—”

“Was left by the murderer, in an attempt to make it look like suicide.”

Slocum’s eyes widened, “You were coming out of Maynard’s office when I bumped into you.”

“Uh-uh,” said Quade. “I never met Mr. Maynard while he was alive. Before today I had never even heard his name. I know nothing about him and had absolutely no motive for killing him. I can prove that. Can you?”

Slocum became strangely calm. “I don’t get you.”

“You heard what Christopher Buck said — that Maynard was suing you for a million dollars.”

“That’s news to me,” scoffed Slocum. “Why would Stanley want to sue me? He was working for me and we were friends.”

“Buck says otherwise.”

“Buck, Buck!” Slocum cried, impatiently. “Who is this Buck, who seems to know everything?”

“In the East, they call him the world’s greatest detective.”