“I’ve already got the order drawn up,” said Mr. Koppis, a swarthy little man with a Jerry Colonna mustache. “All I got to do is take it down to Judge Witnouer for him to sign.”
“It’s none of my business, Mr. Chapman,” said Lieutenant Fanning, “but they’re right; they can do it. Why don’t you let them go over the books? After all, you’ve nothing to fear... have you?”
“No, no, of course not,” Ben Chapman said hastily. “It’s just that I don’t like the idea; the widow of my poor, dear friend mistrusting... ah, very well, go ahead!”
He turned and slammed back to his office. Fanning, catching the eye of Sargent standing carelessly in the door of his own office, winked and came over.
“What’s this girl stampede you had here this morning?” he asked Sargent. “I can’t seem to get the straight of it.”
“Mr. Chapman didn’t confide in me,” Sargent replied. “But it seems he advertised for a good-looking blonde.”
“Did he hire one?”
“I believe so.”
“Where is she? I just got in.”
“I don’t know, lieutenant. Have you asked Chapman?”
“He’s not in the mood. Well, how do you like your new job so far?”
“Fine. And you?”
“Everything’s under control.”
“I suppose you expect to make an arrest at any moment?”
“Uh-huh. I talked to a couple of former employees of Chapman’s this morning. Hanson Hill, who quit here and started a magazine of his own. Know him?”
“Only by name.”
“That’s right, you wouldn’t. He worked here a couple of years ago. Mmm, I also talked to Hill’s successor — your predecessor; fellow named Pelkey. Poor chap’s in a bad way; seems to be suffering from a bad case of nerves. Ever meet Pelkey?”
“Of course I did,” snapped Sargent. “You’re trying to lead me into a trap.”
Fanning grinned ruefully. “You told me yesterday you came to see Ben Chapman by accident. Picked his name out of a phone book, or something.”
“Or something! As a matter of fact, I happened to call on Pelkey on behalf of the Trotter Poll. I was imbued with a morbid curiosity to see the man who could do to another what had apparently been done to Pelkey, so, since I had to interview a businessman anyway, I thought...”
“Sure, I understand.” Fanning’s voice was agreeable and soothing. “So it was practically accidentally that you came here. Just like it was practically accidental that you called on Pelkey.”
“Eh? That was an accident. I never saw or heard of Ernest Pelkey before I rang the door of his home.”
“By the way, who answered? Pelkey or his pretty wife?”
“His wife. Why?”
“No reason. Just curious. Like you. She’s a looker, isn’t she?”
“I see a lot of good-looking women in my work,” Sargent retorted.
“Bet you do. Ha-ha. Even here, eh?” Fanning winked and stepped out of Sargent’s office.
Sargent sat for a few moments, frowning at a stack of mail someone had placed on his desk during his absence.
The mail was still in the original envelopes, but each had been slit open. On some of the envelopes were penciled notations, “$1 cash” or “$1 ck,” These were subscription orders. All mail at Business Journals, Incorporated, it seemed, went through Ben Chapman’s hands first and he extracted the remittances.
Sargent got up with the intention of asking Jim Robertson how to enter subscriptions, but saw Fanning in The Skating Rink editor’s office, so stepped across the hall to the office of Andrew Lawrence.
Lawrence took him to the safe, near Mildred O’Kelly’s desk, and rummaging about in it produced a ledger on which was stamped in gold letters: The Billiard Parlor.
“This is your book on Turkey Talk. There’re a few pages missing from the front, that used to be for The Billiard Parlor, one of Ben’s flops. He started the magazine, then found out owners of pool rooms couldn’t read... Now, here’s what you do; you write down the name of the person or firm who sent the money, here, for what purpose and, here, the amount. Your subscriptions you type out on a sheet of paper and give once a month to Mutter in the shop who will set up the names in type. This is bookkeeping in its simplest form, which is the only kind we use around here.”
Sargent carried the ledger to his office and began making his entries.
He entered but three subscription when Ben O. Chapman’s voice called: “Sargent, come in here, please!”
Sargent went to Chapman’s private office, wondering as he did every time he was summoned, if he was being fired.
Chapman was hunched down in his swivel chair, toying with an 18-inch pica ruler. “I’ve been watching you, Sargent. You’re doing good work and one of these days you may become as good an editor as Grosvenor Black. I’m a good judge of character. Even my enemies concede that. I remember when I had the Sugar Beet Review, I hired a young fellow like you. He was smart as a whip. He had only one fault; he couldn’t keep his fingers out of the petty cash, so I had to fire him.”
Sargent flushed. “If you’re intimating that I would touch the petty cash...”
“No, no, as it turned out it wasn’t Morgan Burr who took the money. It was my private secretary. Bought silk stockings and stuff with it. I’m going to raise your salary, Sargent.”
Sargent inhaled sharply, “Why... thanks!”
“Not now, though,” Chapman continued. “In a little while. Remind me of it in a few weeks. I want you to do a little special work for me. You’re new here. All the others stick together and I can’t trust them. I want you to do a little investigating for me. Talk to the fellows. Ask them what they thought about Sligo... and me, too.”
“You mean,” said Sargent bluntly, “you want me to be the office spy and stool pigeon?”
“No, no, not at all. Wouldn’t think of such a thing. It’s just that I sense an undercurrent around here. Things going on. Sligo’s death has upset me. I’m throwing a little party tonight at my apartment. Come up about eight. Bring your wife if you wish.”
“I’m not married.”
“Oh, no? I thought you were. Must be someone else. No matter. Come about eight-thirty. Harcross Apartments on Clark, near Fullerton.”
Sargent returned to his office and endeavored to resume his work, but Chapman’s proposition had upset him. He wasn’t going to act as a spy, of course, but nevertheless the puzzle, as presented by the murder of Sligo and stimulated by Chapman’s words, bothered him.
He drew up a sheet of paper and wrote on it:
Suspects:
Ben O. Chapman
Grosvenor Black
Jim Robertson
Andrew Lawrence
Lew Thayer
Mildred O’Kelly
After a moment, Sargent added his own name, just to see how the list would look to an outsider, as, for example, Lieutenant Fanning.
Yet if he went as far as putting down his own name he had to go much farther. He had to write down the names of former employees of Business Journals, Incorporated, like Ernest Pelkey and Hanson Hill, the publisher of the competitive Turkey Tracks. And Haley, who had left the firm and started Soap Digest, on which he had gone broke. And other nameless ex-editors who had come and gone in the years.
The more Sargent thought of it, the more convinced he became he was on the wrong track. Ben O. Chapman was Business Journals, Incorporated. The names he had written down would have been more suspect if Chapman had been the victim. Or had Sligo been as bad as Chapman? Or had the murderer made a mistake and killed the wrong man?
But why had Ben O. Chapman employed a private detective to shadow Sligo? And what had Wilting, the private detective, been on the verge of imparting to Chapman, just a moment before the city police came into the office?