John K. Vedder
The Last Doorbell
Chapter One
It was the last doorbell on the street and it belonged to a commuter’s dream, a white Cape Cod cottage with green shutters and a white picket fence completely surrounding the house and lot.
The realtors couldn’t have selected, for their advertising, a more appropriate housewife than the one who answered Frank Sargent’s ring on the doorbell. Her hair was a soft chestnut, only recently waved. She had the features and complexion of the Camel cigarette girl.
She had a figure, too.
Frank Sargent looked at her and felt resentment toward the man who had taken this girl out of circulation. He drew in his breath slowly and said:
“Good afternoon, madam. I represent the Trotter Institute of Public Opinion... I beg your pardon?”
“I said I wasn’t interested.”
“But I’m not selling anything. I merely want to ask you a few questions. You know — the Trotter Poll.”
“Please,” the photogenic housewife said. “Not now.”
She winced as a masculine voice called from inside the house. Sargent heard the words and he said, with dignity:
“I’m not selling brushes.”
The husband came up behind his wife. His face appeared over her shoulder and Sargent recoiled a step. It was the meanest, angriest face he had seen in many days. The face of a misanthrope.
“What the hell do you want?” the man snarled.
“Uh, er, ah, information,” Sargent stammered. “You see, I represent the Trotter Poll and—”
“The Trotter Poll? That lousy outfit that said Willkie was going to be elected? I said last November that I’d skin a Trotter Poll man if I ever saw one and damned if I haven’t a good mind right now—”
“What is your occupation, sir?” Sargent cut in.
“Trade paper editor. What the hell business is it of yours?”
“None, but we want a cross section of American life. To get the correct opinion—”
“Correct? Were you correct last November? Why, you crooks ought to be put out of business, Your outfit’s no better than Business Journals, Incorporated. You’ve got no more right to conduct a poll than Ben Chapman has being a publisher, the lowdown, yellow-bellied, lying, cheating, double-crossing, stinking... ahrr...!” That was as far as the resident of the commuter’s dream could get. He began choking and coughing. Froth came to his lips and he pawed the air in frantic swipes. His wife threw her arms about him and tried valiantly to push him into the house.
“Please!” she cried over her shoulder to Sargent. “Please go away. You’re upsetting him. His nerves...”
“My nerves!” howled the husband. “To hell with my nerves. Stand up and fight like a man, you dirty swine. Come back here, you...”
That was as much as Sargent heard, for two reasons. One, because he was already opening the gate by the sidewalk at the moment and, two, because the beautiful young housewife had finally managed to shove her husband inside the house.
From a safe distance, Sargent regarded the house. He shook his head and said emphatically, “Whew!”
He crossed the street and picked out a house at random and when a middle-aged woman came to the door went into his routine.
“Since Labor has the right to organize for collective bargaining without hindrance of the employer, is it your opinion that men in the service, soldiers, sailors and marines, should also be permitted to unionize and bargain for better wages and working conditions?”
The woman blinked in astonishment and Sargent was compelled to repeat the question. When he received a hesitant reply, he wrote the answer on his chart and asked the second question:
“Since men on relief or WPA are accepting largess from the government, is it your opinion that they should be inducted into the service, in preference to taxpayers whose money has made it possible for the relief and WPA subsidy?”
Again Sargent got a stammering, hesitant reply and he cursed for the hundredth time, the brass hats of the home office who had an uncanny knack of phrasing the simplest questions in the most difficult, complicated sentences.
He made a deliberate job of filling in the case history of the quiz subject. Then asked casually, “By the way, can you tell me the name of the people in the white house across the street?”
“Oh, that’s the Pelkeys. A very nice young couple, although I do believe Mr. Pelkey has lost his position, as he’s been home all week and he never was off other days.”
“He’s an editor, isn’t he?”
“Why, he’s some sort of newspaperman. I’m not sure exactly what he does. They drive a small car and Mrs. Pelkey does her own work, you know. They can’t have such a very good income, I imagine. Although Mrs. Pelkey is an awfully attractive young woman.”
“Her name is Diana, isn’t it?”
“Diana? Oh, no. Hester. His name is Ernest. A nice man, but a bit quick-tempered at times. I’m not one to gossip, you know, but living practically across the street I can’t help but hear — well, his voice has been a bit sharp at times. Especially lately. Mmm, I wonder if the poor man is ill. I never thought of that. I must stop by sometime. Yes...”
“Thank you, madam,” Sargent cut in.
“Thank you. You’ll send me the results of the poll?”
“It’ll be in your newspaper,” Sargent said over his shoulder. He took the stairs to the street, two at a time, for he had seen Hester Pelkey come out of her house. She was coming toward him on the opposite side of the street.
He slackened his pace, so she would pass, then he suddenly hurried and cutting diagonally across the street, came up behind her.
“Mrs. Pelkey,” he said. “I want to apologize for making that scene...”
She whirled, startled. “Oh!” she gasped. Her face was white and taut. “It’s all right. I... I’m really the one who should apologize for Ernest. He’s ill — his nerves...”
She was the most beautiful woman Frank Sargent had ever seen in his life. Even now with tears threatening in her eyes, with her chin quivering.
“I understand,” he said. “I worked for a man once...”
“You never worked for anyone like Ben Chapman. He’s everything that Ernest said. Ernest really tried, too. Ben Chapman never let up on him. Oh! Why am I telling all this to you? Here’s my store; I’m sorry.”
She left Sargent abruptly to dart into a drugstore. Sargent looked through the window of the store a moment, then shook his head and walked on.
Several minutes later he reached the elevated platform and while waiting for a train consulted his chart. “That gives me enough individuals for today. Now I need three business men of the medium upper brackets. Say, the owner of a fair-sized store, perhaps a LaSalle Street broker and...” A gleam came into his eye. “A publisher. Yeah, a trade journal publisher. And maybe I can kill two birds with one stone. Satisfy my curiosity as to what sort of human animal this Ben Chapman is — and fill out a card!”
Chapter Two
The offices of Business Journals, Incorporated, were in the Dockery Building, which was on Wells Street, near Harrison. The Dockery had been quite a building when it was erected after the Big Fire. It contained an open grillwork elevator manually operated by pulling a rope.
Business Journals, Incorporated was on the fourth floor. The offices consisted of one large room, which had been divided into numerous cubicles by partitions that did not reach the ceiling.
A redheaded girl with a goodly amount of oomph was sitting at a rickety desk trying to decipher shorthand notes from her book.
She seemed glad of an interruption. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Ben O. Chapman.”