“I’m sorry,” Sargent said. “I think I know what you’re going through and I’d like to help you. That’s why I think Ernest should be found at once. He needs help — medical care and a good rest. The sooner he’s found the sooner he’ll return to normal.”
“I know,” Mrs. Pelkey said, with a catch in her voice. “But I told you the truth; I don’t know where he is. I had to go out for a few minutes last night — to the store. When I returned he was gone.”
“But don’t you know where he would be likely to go? I mean, has he any other relatives?”
“Not around Chicago. Ernest’s family lives in Seattle.”
“What about money? Did he take any with him?”
“Very little. Perhaps twenty dollars.”
“Clothes?”
“Only what he was wearing.”
“What about his habits? Did he... drink?”
“No more than anyone else. Probably less. He wasn’t a barfly, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No-no,” Sargent said hastily. “I just thought I might get a lead on his whereabouts through his habits.”
“Well, you won’t find him in a saloon. He was fond of skiing.”
“This is summer, so I won’t find him on any ski trains.” Sargent frowned. “You haven’t the slightest inkling of where I might look for him?”
“If I had,” said Hester Pelkey with quiet dignity, “would I be here talking to you? I would be with him.”
Sargent got up. “Thank you, Mrs. Pelkey. Just one thing more: will you look upon me as a friend, even though I work for Ben Chapman?”
Mrs. Pelkey smiled faintly. “I see no reason to regard you as an enemy.” That was the most she would give him. The hostility was still there. He started to leave, but paused at the door.
“By the way, was Ernest home the evening before last?”
He lips started to form the monosyllable “No,” then the significance of the question hit her and her eyes were jolted wide open.
“Yes!” she gasped. “Of course he was. I was with him all evening.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Pelkey,” said Sargent. “Goodby.”
He left the little white cottage and walked to the elevated station. Riding back to the city he stared out the window at the rooftops of the shabby West Side houses. There was a frown of concentration and annoyance on his face, which did not clear until he reached the Loop.
Descending to Van Buren Street, he entered a drugstore and looked up an address in the telephone directory. About to leave the store, he returned and looked up another address.
Then he walked swiftly across the Loop to Clark and Randolph, where he entered a dingy building that could have been a twin of the Dockery on the south side of the Loop.
Chapter Thirteen
He consulted the building directory, then climbed the stairs to the second floor. After a moment he paused before a ground-glass door panel on which was lettered:
He opened the door and stepped into a dingy office. It contained a rickety desk behind which sat a redheaded girl who was reading a copy of Snappy Detective Stories. On the opposite side of the room, almost concealed by the opened door, was a bench on which was stretched Mr. Wilting, the detective. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in three nights.
“Ah,” said Sargent, “Mr. Wilting!”
The redhead lowered her magazine. “You wish to see Mr. Decker? He’s out at the moment, a big case.”
“I want to see Mr. Wilting,” Sargent said.
Mr. Wilting opened his eyes slightly, but made no other movement.
“I work for Ben O. Chapman,” Sargent said. “Remember?”
Mr. Wilting blinked to indicate that he did remember.
“Mr. Chapman sent me here,” Sargent said, crisply. “He didn’t want to call you from the office, because Mrs. Sligo is there with her attorney and an accountant.”
“Yeah,” whispered Mr. Wilting sleepily.
“He wanted me to tell you to continue on the assignment he gave you.”
“Yeah.”
“And he wanted to know if you’d learned anything since your last report.”
“Yeah,” said the detective.
“What?”
Mr. Wilting’s eyes closed altogether.
“He’s gone,” said the redheaded secretary. “Try building a fire under him.”
“I’ll give him a hotfoot,” said Sargent angrily.
“I’m awake,” said the great detective. “I’m just conserving energy.”
“You must be full of it, then,” said Sargent sarcastically, “since you don’t use any. Do you mind giving me a report on what you’ve learned about Mr. Sligo?”
“Gertrude,” said Wilting, without turning his head. “Call up Ben Chapman. Ask him if it’s all right.”
“Of course it’s all right,” snapped Sargent. “He sent me here. No need to call him at the office. In fact, he doesn’t want you to.”
“Got to,” said Wilting. “Don’t know you from the Emperor Hirohito. Information’s confidential.”
Sargent looked contemptuously at the detective. “I doubt if you’ve learned anything, anyway.”
Wilting began to snore gently. Exasperated, Sargent turned away. Gertrude, the redheaded stenographer, made a clucking sound with her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
“You won’t get anything out of him now,” she said. “Better give Mr. Decker a jingle on the phone when he gets back this afternoon. Or shall I have him call you?”
“No, let it go. I’ll tell Mr. Chapman. It’s up to him.”
Wilting was still snoring when Sargent left the office.
Chapter Fourteen
He walked slowly back toward Division Street. At the corner of Clark Street he stood for five minutes marshaling his thoughts, which were becoming more muddled right along. Finally he went into a drugstore and ordered a Coca-Cola. Finished, he paid his check and walked to the telephone directory stand. He looked up Hanson Hill, but couldn’t find the name, so tried Turkey Tracks. He found:
The address was only four blocks from where he stood. He left the drugstore and walked briskly southward. Crossing Chicago Avenue, ten minutes later he approached a dingy two-story building. The windows were painted black, halfway to the top, but dirty white lettering on the black read:
Sargent opened the door directly into a print shop. A linotype at the back of the shop made a continuous clatter and near the front an ink-stained youth was feeding letterheads into a Kelly press.
Just inside the door a man sat at a littered desk. He had a stack of postcards in front of him and was writing with a fountain pen. He was a long beanpole of a man with eyebrows as black and bushy as those of John L. Lewis. Sitting down, Sargent could not guess his height, but knew that it was considerable. Yet the man probably weighed no more than 120 pounds.
He poised his fountain pen over the stack of postcards and looked up. “Yes, sir?” he said.
“I’m looking for Hanson Hill.”
“What for? I mean, why do you want him?”
Sargent’s eyes fell to the desk. A copy of Turkey Talk was opened at the classified ads. In a quick glance he was able, also, to read the message the long, lean man was writing on the postcards. It read:
If you want to advertise in a real turkey journal, try Turkey Tracks, printed for turkey folks by a real turkey man. Yours truly, Hanson Hill.