He walked on Clark to Halsted and caught a southbound streetcar, which deposited him in a few minutes on North Avenue, just a block from the Ajax Hotel.
Chapter Ten
The Ajax was a fourth-rate rooming house, consisting of two floors over a restaurant. Sargent climbed a long flight of stairs to the second floor and started down a narrow, dimly lit corridor to his room, the last one of the left-hand side.
His door, oddly, was unlocked, which annoyed Sargent. It wasn’t safe to leave your door unlocked at the Ajax if you had anything of value. He pushed open the door and flicked the light switch just inside. Then he stepped in.
Ernest Pelkey got up from the bed.
“You’re Frank Sargent,” he said.
A shudder ran through Sargent. He kept his hand on the doorknob and could scarcely restrain an impulse to leap backward and take to his heels.
He said, “That’s right. How’d you get into my room?”
“With a skeleton key. I used to know a locksmith. I’m Ernest Pelkey. You remember me, don’t you?”
Sargent nodded.
“Close the door,” Pelkey continued. “I want to have a talk with you.”
“Wouldn’t tomorrow do just as well? I’ve had a hard day—”
“At the office. On my job. That’s what I want to talk to you about. And I don’t think it’ll wait until tomorrow.”
Looking at Ernest Pelkey now, anyone would take him for a person of normal mind. He was relaxed, even smiling a little. Sargent let the door swing shut and took two steps to the cane rocking chair, the only furniture in the tiny room, aside from the bed and a chest of drawers.
“Shoot!”
“You’re the Trotter Poll man. I never forget a face. You pumped my wife and heard I’d lost my job, so you hustled right down and applied for the job. Pretty clever of you, Sargent.”
“Maybe so, Pelkey, but you just made two wrong statements. I didn’t pump your wife. I didn’t get to ask her anything, before you came to the door. I didn’t even learn your name from her. You came out with the name of Business Journals, Incorporated. Someone up the street gave me your name.”
“But you did apply for my job?”
“No. I called on Chapman mostly through idle curiosity. I have been and still am — during spare time — a Trotter field man. If you know anything of the Trotter Poll you know that we try to get a cross section of public opinion. So we quiz so many people of the laboring classes, so many wealthy. Similarly, we get a cross section of business and professional people. To save time that would have gone into investigating another businessman I called on Chapman. He started talking and before I knew what he was even talking about he had hired me. You know Ben O. Chapman, if anyone does.”
Ernest Pelkey’s eyes began to glow. “Yes, I know Chapman, the dirty swine. I worked for him for two years. They were two years of hell. You couldn’t possibly guess what kind of dog he is. He’s the lowest creature that ever walked this earth.”
“But a job’s a job,” said Sargent.
“No job’s worth what you’ll go through under Chapman. He’ll drive you crazy, like—” Pelkey stopped and his face twitched horribly. “He’ll drive you crazy,” he repeated. “He’ll drive you crazy!” Pelkey’s voice rose to a shriek and he began clenching and unclenching his fists.
Sargent got up from the cane rocking chair. Pelkey, guessing his intention, stepped forward and blocked the door. “No, you don’t, Sargent. You’re not going to call them. I’m as sane as anyone. Only Chapman, the dirty...” A sob was torn from his throat and he suddenly hurled himself upon Sargent.
Sargent tried to dodge and stumbled against the chair. Pelkey’s hands closed about his windpipe and choked the breath out of it. Sargent tried to tear Pelkey’s hands away, but couldn’t. A roaring began to fill his ears.
Savagely, he smashed Pelkey in the stomach with his fist. The hands loosened about his throat, air rushed into his lungs, and he drove his fist into Pelkey’s stomach once more.
Pelkey crashed to the floor on his back. He lay there for an instant staring up at Sargent with a dazed expression. Then he began to get up slowly.
Sargent retreated, but Pelkey made no further move against him. He shook his head. “I forgot myself for a moment.”
“Forget it,” said Sargent. “Why don’t you go home and get a good night’s rest?”
“Home!” Pelkey laughed harshly. “The police are spying on me constantly. I can’t rest, can’t sleep. They think I killed Dan Sligo. The fools!”
“Who did kill Sligo?” Sargent asked softly.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you won’t know. Nor will anyone else — except the one who killed him. You’re off the track — all of you. ’Way, ’way off. Ben Chapman... ah!”
Pelkey whirled suddenly, jerked open the door and leaped through. When Sargent got to the hall, Pelkey was taking the front stairs three at a time.
Chapter Eleven
When Sargent got to the office the next morning he found Jim Robertson seated at Mildred O’Kelly’s desk, reading the morning paper.
“Hello, Frank,” he said. “Read the morning paper? Ernest Pelkey disappeared. His wife has asked the police to look for him.”
Sargent nodded. “He’s in pretty bad shape. He came to my hotel last night.”
“What?”
“I was at Ben Chapman’s. Lieutenant Fanning came up there and told us that Pelkey was on the loose. When I got home, Pelkey was in my room. He’d picked the doorlock with a skeleton key.”
Jim Robertson whistled softly, “What’d he say?”
Sargent touched his throat reminiscently. It was still sore from Pelkey’s hands. “He tried to strangle me.”
Robertson gasped. “What’d you do to him?”
“Not much. I had to hit him a couple of times, but he was all right when he ducked out.”
Robertson looked steadily at Sargent. “Why did he come to your place? He didn’t even know you.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Sargent, “I did meet Pelkey once, for just a minute. I called at his house to quiz his wife for the Trotter Poll. Pelkey came to the door and became very abusive. He raved about Chapman. It was curiosity as much as anything else that brought me here to interview Chapman. Curiosity to see the man who had obviously turned Pelkey into what he was.”
“I see,” said Robertson. “You know, Sargent, sometimes I don’t know how to figure you out.”
“That goes for you, too, Robertson,” said Sargent.
Robertson gave a forced laugh. “Aw, forget it. Tell me about Ben’s party. I’ve never been to one, but Lew Thayer says they’re screams.”
“This one was a scream,” said Sargent. “Let’s go down to Joe’s Lunch Room for a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you about it.”
“Okay.”
They started for the door, but before they reached it the little switchboard buzzed. Robertson went back to it and manipulated a switch. “Business Journals,” he said. Then, “Mr. Chapman? Sorry, but he never gets in before eleven o’clock. Is there anyone else... the editor of Creep & Crawl? One moment and I’ll call him. Never mind...?”
He flicked the switch and put down the head set. “That, Mr. Sargent, was Ben O. Chapman calling himself up on the telephone to see if he was here.”
“What?”
“Uh-huh, disguised voice and all. Wait’ll he comes in this morning, I’ll throw a little harpoon into him. Watch him squirm. Now, let’s go and get that coffee.”