They encountered Mildred O’Kelly in the lobby and paused to talk to her a moment, then resumed their walk down to the lunchroom. Over their coffee, Sargent said to Robertson:
“You know, Jim, there’s one thing about Ernest Pelkey’s call on me last night that hasn’t struck you. It bowled me over when I thought about it. How did Pelkey know where I lived?”
Robertson choked on a mouthful of coffee. “He must have come down to the office in the evening and got your address.”
“I thought of that,” said Sargent. “And if he came last night he could have come up to the office a couple of nights ago.”
Robertson stared at Sargent. Then he shook his head. “No, I won’t believe that of Ernie. He wouldn’t have killed Sligo, because he’s the one man who did get along with him.”
“You and Pelkey were pretty good friends?”
“Are,” corrected Robertson. “Ernie’s — sick, now, but that’s no reason for me to let him down.”
“Of course not, Jim. Now let me tell you about Ben’s party. You lose that bet about the gorgeous Eileen. She brought Mr. Crombie of Eli Crombie & Company to the party... and got a contract from him.”
Jim Robertson groaned. “So Ben wins again! There’s no justice.”
“There is — some. It was meted out last night. Ben put on a false face and was waving a Persian scimitar when Lew Thayer staggered in, crocked to the gills. When he saw Ben he thought he was having d.t.’s and socked Ben.”
Robertson roared, “Hard?”
“Right on the nose. Ben lost about a pint of blood. But Ben got even. Lieutenant Fanning of the cops came in and Ben snitched on Lew. When I left they were having a free-for-all, with Lew getting none the worst of it. By the way, did you know that Chapman owes Lew twelve hundred dollars?”
“Lew told me about it. But that’s nothing new. Most of Ben’s suits are from former advertising salesmen. You see, Ben has a cute stunt he pulls on advertising salesmen. He pays them forty or fifty bucks a week, plus expenses and twenty per cent commission on all the business they get. Sounds like a good proposition, eh? But he limits expenses to seventy-five a week, when they’re on the road, which means the salesmen have to sleep in two-dollar hotel rooms and ride busses instead of trains. The commissions... well, Ben never pays them. So the salesman quits and sues Ben. He stalls the suit until he wears the poor guy down, then offers to settle for about ten per cent. Usually the guy’ll take it. Not bad, huh?”
Sargent shook his head. “Ben knows all the tricks.”
“All the shady ones.”
It was nearing ten-thirty, so they paid for their coffee and returned to the office. As they entered, Jim Robertson nudged Sargent. Mrs. Sligo was ensconced in a chair beside the switchboard. She regarded them truculently.
“You men work here?”
Robertson nodded. “I’m Robertson and this is Frank Sargent, Mrs. Sligo.”
Mrs. Sligo sniffled. “Is this your usual time for getting down — ten-thirty?”
“We were here earlier. We just stepped out for a cup of coffee.”
“On the company’s time? You ought to be docked for it. I’ll speak to Ben Chapman about it.”
Straight ahead, in Dan Sligo’s old office, the auditor was going over the books. Mr. Koppis, Mrs. Sligo’s attorney, was in the office with the auditor, smoking a crooked Pittsburgh stogie. It was a long time since Sargent had seen anyone smoking a stogie.
He went into his office and found a half dozen copies of the new Turkey Talk, He picked one up and it opened at the editorial page, which also contained the masthead. He noticed his name: “Frank Sargent, Managing Editor.” Then his eyes fell to the editorial. It was not the one he had seen in galley form. That had been a comparatively harmless one, a mere discussion of the turkey industry. The one in print was a blast against Hanson Hill, the owner of the competitive Turkey Tracks. It was plain, unadulterated libel — if Chapman couldn’t back it up.
“Hanson Hill,” the editorial stated, “has no more business publishing a turkey journal than I have trying to swim to the Fiji Islands — and I can’t swim. Hill is a hillbilly from Missouri. He knows less about the publishing business, or any kind of business, than I know about the Neanderthal tribal customs. When I began Turkey Talk, Hill came to me and begged me to employ him as a subscription solicitor. I put him on and sent him down to the Ozarks, among his own people. He took a few subscription orders, but he spent most of his time organizing a turkey pool. He persuaded those poor, deluded hillbillies that they could get a higher price for their market turkeys if they pooled them together and obtained bids from the commission houses. The bids came and every bid was identical — ten cents per pound below the regular market prices. Who sold out the pool to the commission houses? That is the question every Ozark turkey raiser should ask.
“When Hill first came to me he had only one shirt, which he laundered himself in his furnished room, every other Thursday. Yet a few months later — right after the turkey pool debacle — Hanson Hill had enough funds to start a turkey journal — a costly enterprise, I can assure you...”
There was more along the same lines. Frank Sargent read it all twice. Never in his life had he read a more scurrilous, libelous attack on a man’s character. And Ben O. Chapman had the nerve to sign his name to the editoriaclass="underline" “Ben O. Chapman, Publisher.”
Sargent was still thinking about the editorial when the master’s voice called from his office. He had apparently come in while Sargent was reading.
He went to Ben O. Chapman’s office. The publisher waved a letter opener at him. “Why’d you run out last night?”
“I was all in,” Sargent lied. “I had a toothache all the night before and didn’t get a wink of sleep.”
Chapman sniffed. “Humph! You missed the fun. That policeman punched Lew Thayer in the nose, finally, to sober him up. And that slimy Eli Crombie got his face scratched by Miss Prescott. By the way, what did you think of her?”
“A pippin!”
“She’ll do — for Chicago. New Orleans is the place where they have good-looking wenches, if you like southern girls. If you don’t, go to Minneapolis. Personally, I like the girls in San Francisco.”
“You never married, did you?” Sargent asked.
“Me? Yes, eight-ten years ago. It didn’t take. As I was saying, I fired Lew Thayer. Should have done it weeks ago. I can’t stand an advertising salesman who drinks. Had a fellow working for me on the Sugar Beet Review; smartest chap you ever saw, but—”
The door of Chapman’s office opened and Mrs. Sligo filled the doorway. Her arms were folded — or almost folded — over her ample bosom.
“Ben Chapman,” she said, “I want a word with you. It’s high time you—”
“Later,” Chapman said. “Later, when—”
“Now!” said Mrs. Sligo firmly. “You can’t shilly-shally me like you did Daniel.”
“I was just going,” murmured Sargent.
“He’s one of the things I want to talk to you about,” snorted Mrs. Sligo. “Coming to work at ten-thirty in the morning! What is this, a club or a fraternity house?”
Sargent couldn’t escape because Mrs. Sligo wouldn’t move out of the doorway.
“What’s that, Sargent?” cried Chapman. “Ten-thirty in the morning?”
“Yes,” said Sargent. “I was doing a special errand.” He turned and winked deliberately at Chapman. “You know, regarding that matter you spoke to me about last night.”
“Oh! Oh, yes! Humph! Mrs. Sligo, Sargent was doing some work for me. Only I run this office. Daniel Sligo tried to interfere and I told him as I tell you now, Mrs. Sligo, that I am the majority stockholder of this firm and—”