“You’re what, Ben Chapman?”
Sargent, watching Chapman’s face, was sure that Chapman winced before replying, “That’s something that can be discussed at the next directors’ meeting.”
Chapter Twelve
He got his hat and left the office. He walked north to Lake Street and climbing the elevated stairs boarded a train for River Forest.
Fifty minutes later he strode briskly down the dead-end street toward the neat, white Cape Cod cottage of the Pelkeys.
He opened the gate in the white picket fence and approached the door. He rang the bell. The door was opened almost instantly by Hester Pelkey and Sargent marveled at the beauty of her. He’d almost forgotten.
He said: “Excuse me, Mrs. Pelkey, I represent the Trotter Institute of—”
And then she recognized him. “You!” she gasped. “Why... why, how dare you! I mean...” So she knew that he was working for Ben O. Chapman.
How did she know that?
How had Ernest Pelkey known?
His name had been in the papers in connection with the murder of Sligo. He had been listed among the employees. But the Pelkeys had not known his name; when he had first called here he had not given it.
He said to Mrs. Pelkey, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Pelkey. I work for Ben Chapman and he’s asked me to tell Ernest that he wants to talk to him about something urgent.”
“Go away,” whispered Hester Pelkey. “I won’t talk to you.” She started to close the door on Sargent and he said quickly:
“Ernest came to see me last night.”
She stopped closing the door. “What do you mean... last night?”
“It was shortly after eleven; I’d been out and when I returned to my room he was there — inside the room.”
She stared at him, bewildered. “But that was after...”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll tell you the truth. I was at a party at Ben Chapman’s apartment. While I was there a policeman came to tell Chapman that Ernest had disappeared. And then when I went home he was there.”
He could see the pain in her eyes, the question, too, that she didn’t want to ask.
“He was all right, a bit wrought up, but all right.”
Hester Pelkey suddenly pulled the door open. “Please... come in.”
He followed her into a tiny living room that was as neat as herself. The furniture was inexpensive stuff, but well selected. After his years of living in cheap, furnished rooms this place seemed a little like a dream to Frank Sargent.
Hester Pelkey seated herself wearily on a sofa and, after a moment’s hesitation, Sargent took an armchair.
Mrs. Pelkey worried her lower lip for a moment with sharp, white teeth. Then she said, “You know... about Ernest? His illness?”
He nodded. “Jim Robertson’s told me. He’s a loyal friend of your husband.”
“Jim. Yes,” she said. “They were very close friends. Chapman... I... I don’t understand about you. What do you want of Ernest?”
“Mrs. Pelkey,” said Sargent, “I’m going to tell you exactly how I stand. I’ve been working as a Trotter field man for some months. It’s part-time work and doesn’t pay too well. When I called here the other day I had nothing on my mind except to get another card filled out. I called here by the sheerest accident. And then Ernest — forgive me if this hurts — acted so strangely that I became curious to see what kind of person could do to Ernest what had obviously been done to him. I had to quiz some businessmen anyway, so I called on Chapman. You know about Chapman, from Ernest.”
“I’ve met him, too, I’m sorry to say.”
“Then you know what he’s like. I went up to his office to ask him for his views on topics of the day. I never got in a word edgewise. Chapman went into a monologue and before I knew it I was hired as editor of Turkey Talk.”
“I know that,” said Hester Pelkey. “Now I’ll make a confession. Jim Robertson telephoned Ernest yesterday and told him about you... that very same thing.”
“Oh,” said Sargent, somewhat deflated. “Then if you knew, I don’t understand...”
“Nor did Ernest. Or I. You’re a new employee of Chapman’s, you scarcely know him... yet Chapman has confided in you. He asked you to one of his parties. Ernest was the only employee of Chapman’s who was ever thus honored.”
Sargent’s forehead creased. “Chapman is a fantastic character. He is a mass of contradictions. Yet underneath I’m convinced is a shrewd brain. Your husband has something that Chapman wants.”
“Of course!”
Sargent looked at her sharply, questioningly. “What is it?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Chapman didn’t tell me, but I think I can guess. Mrs. Sligo sprung something embarassing on Chapman and immediately thereafter he sent me to locate your husband. It’s... stock in Business Journals, Incorporated?”
“Yes! One share.”
Sargent inhaled softly. “The controlling share. Chapman owns fifty per cent; Sligo — I mean Mrs. Sligo — forty-nine. If she should happen to get the extra share, she’d be an equal owner of the business. But I don’t see how that would give her any advantage. It would be a standoff.”
“That’s right, but there happens to be still another share of stock. Chapman owns only forty-nine, Mrs. Sligo forty-nine.”
“Who owns this other share?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ernest knows?”
Hester Pelkey shook her lovely head. “No, he doesn’t. No one knows.”
Sargent stared. “But that’s absurd. Somebody’s got to know. I don’t know much about business law, but I’ve heard that stockholders’ names must be recorded.”
“That’s right. Theoretically. From what I gathered, the way Ernest told it, a corporation has to have at least three different stockholders. But neither Chapman nor Sligo trusted each other. Sligo wouldn’t let Chapman have more stock than he had. So they compromised. Each took forty-nine shares, then each sold — or gave — one share to another person, whom they figured they controlled. Ernest got his share from Chapman. He voted the stock the way Chapman wanted, whenever there was occasion.”
“And Sligo?”
“Sligo wouldn’t tell.”
“But he had to put a name on the books.”
“He put down the name of Hanson Hill.”
“Hanson Hill?” gasped Sargent.
“That’s right. But Hill held possession of the stock only long enough to get his name on the company’s books. Then he sold it back to Sligo. At least, that’s what Ernest thought. But he said that Sligo never voted that share of stock, not in the last year, and therefore Chapman had virtual control of the company because he voted, with Ernest’s share, fifty percent against forty-nine. However, if Chapman doesn’t get Ernest’s share he will be in a bad way... particularly if Hanson Hill’s share should somehow turn up in the possession of Mrs. Sligo.”
“Mrs. Sligo,” Sargent said thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ve underestimated the old girl.”
“Why?”
“No reason. I was just wondering.”
“You take the affairs of Business Journals very seriously. After all, you’re only—”
There was an undercurrent of resentment in her tone and Sargent said quickly, “I’m only an employee — yes. I admit that Ben Chapman’s not the type of man I’d deliberately seek for an employer, but the little I’ve seen of the trade paper business makes me want to go on in it. I want to learn as much as I can at Business Journals, then get a place with another house. After all, there must be hundreds of trade journals.”
“Two thousand,” said Hester Pelkey. “There isn’t an industry, trade or profession that doesn’t have its trade journals. I’m quoting. I’ve heard it a dozen times, fifty times. Ernest...”