Sargent reeled. “You hooked Horace Quayle?”
“Hooked? I don’t know what you mean.”
Jim Robertson dug his elbow into Sargent’s ribs. “Horace is taking her out to dinner tonight.”
“Yes!” cried Eileen. “And isn’t that marvelous? He controls so many accounts. If my luck continues to hold, why, I may get another contract... maybe even more.”
“Your luck’ll hold, baby,” said Grosvenor Black. “Just roll your eyes when he makes a pass at you...”
“Mr. Black!” Eileen’s voice was indignant. “Are you insinuating...?”
“Naw,” said Black quickly. “I’m not insinuating. I’m just saying that this race is being run in the jockey room, not on the track.”
Eileen’s beautiful eyes flashed. “I don’t understand your racetrack talk, but I think that’s a dirty crack and—”
Whack!
That was her hand colliding with Grosvenor’s face. Black promptly ducked into his private office and slammed the door.
“If you ask me,” said Mildred O’Kelly, “Grosvenor Black said a mouthful!”
Eileen turned upon Mildred. “Nobody asked you,” she said sweetly.
Sargent saw Mildred stepping forward and casually blocked her passage. “Easy, Milly.”
“Let ’em fight!” cried Andy Lawrence. “I’ll take the winner to lunch.”
“Take Eileen,” snapped Jim Robertson.
“Frankie’s taking me to lunch,” said Eileen, “aren’t you, Frankie?”
“No. I just had lunch. Sorry.”
Eileen tossed her curls. Before she could make a retort, however, Mrs. Sligo followed by her stooges, Koppis the attorney and Duma the accountant, swept into the office.
“Here, here!” she cried. “Is this a dance hall or is it a business office? I’ll fire the lot of you if you don’t stop this nonsense during working hours. I won’t have it, understand?”
The group dispersed promptly, Eileen taking refuge in Ben O. Chapman’s office. Sargent slumped down in his creaky swivel chair and stared at his littered desk. The way he felt he was ready to chuck the job and go to a madhouse for a rest cure. The office routine itself wasn’t hectic enough; Ben O. Chapman had to force him into doing detective work.
He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He was almost dozing when Jim Robertson spoke, “How’s it going, Frank?”
Sargent opened his eyes with a start. “Uh, hello, Jim. Okay, I guess.”
Chapter Fifteen
Robertson shoved the door shut. “I told you that the wall between my office and Chapman’s is thin and he doesn’t bother to keep his voice down... I mean the detective stuff, Frank.”
Sargent grimaced. “To hell with Chapman. I’m figuring on quitting.”
“Why? Jobs are scarce. If they weren’t I wouldn’t be here myself... Did you see Mrs. Pelkey?”
Sargent nodded. “She feels pretty bad about Ernest. They’re pretty newly married, aren’t they?”
“Oh, no, Three years or more, Matter of fact, they didn’t hit it off so well, but with Ernest having this breakdown she feels duty bound to remain loyal to him,”
Sargent looked thoughtfully at Robertson. “What do you think yourself of Ernest Pelkey... I mean mentally?”
“I don’t think there’s any question about that, Frank. He’s definitely gone. I hate to admit that because we were very close... Chapman drove him mad.”
“Was it Chapman, Jim?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he stood it two years; why should he suddenly go off the deep end?”
“It wasn’t sudden. Ernest was getting nervous for some time. Months.”
“Ever since Hanson Hill worked here?”
“The turkey raiser? I doubt if he and Ernest had more than two words together. None of us had much to do with him.”
“Oh, Hill’s been here as recently as that?”
“He only left about three months ago. About four months, that is. He went on a trip then, but was supposed to be working for us until three months ago. Chapman claims that the last month he was working for himself. It’s one of the things he had against Hill... Have you met Hill?”
“This morning. He didn’t strike me as being a very formidable competitor. When I called at his office he was writing postcards in longhand, to the advertisers in our magazine, telling them if they wanted to advertise in a real turkey journal, run by a real turkey raiser, to try Turkey Tracks.”
Jim Robertson chuckled. “Sounds like Hill. He was the biggest hillbilly ever came into this office.”
“Yet he’s got Chapman awfully excited. Did you read the editorial in this month’s Turkey Talk?”
“I always read his editorials. That’s the only fun I get around here. Although this Eileen Prescott has possibilities.”
Sargent groaned. “You should have heard what H. W. Quayle said to me yesterday... and tonight Eileen’s got a date with him!”
“She’ll take him like— Shh!”
Ben Chapman’s step sounded in the corridor, then his whining voice exclaimed. “Sargent, are you here?”
“Yes!”
“All right, you’re fired. Pack your things and get out.”
Sargent gasped and even Jim Robertson’s mouth fell open. Sargent kicked back his chair and got to the door of his office as Chapman came up to it. Chapman’s lips were pressed in a straight line.
“If there’s one thing I won’t tolerate, it’s disloyalty,” said Chapman.
“Chapman,” began Sargent hotly, “you beat me to it by about two minutes. I was going to quit. But before I go let me tell you something.”
“Save your breath! Come into my office and I’ll give you your money up to this minute. You’re through and I won’t even give you a reference.”
A haze of red danced before Frank Sargent’s eyes. For a moment he fought an almost uncontrollable impulse to smash Chapman in the face. But he conquered the impulse and, throwing up his hands, followed the publisher into his office.
Inside, Chapman turned on him. “Now, what’s this about quitting?”
“Quitting? You fired me.”
“Maybe I will yet. I’m greatly disappointed in you, Sargent. I had high hopes for you. You have initiative and imagination. But I can’t stand disloyalty in a man. Why did you go to the Decker office this morning?”
Sargent groaned. “So that’s it. Wilting called you up. Why, dammit, you told me to find Ernest Pelkey, didn’t you?”
“I did, but what has he got to do with Wilting?”
“I don’t know. You wouldn’t tell me a damn’ thing. You expect me to find him in a dark cave?”
“I told you all that was necessary to know about Pelkey. It wasn’t necessary to pump Wilting about my personal affairs.”
“Personal, hell! You want Pelkey because he’s got a share of stock that you’re afraid will get into Mrs. Sligo’s hands. All right, you were having Sligo shadowed. Why?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“It isn’t, if I’m working here as an editor. It is, if I’m acting as your personal detective and stool pigeon. Pelkey’s disappearance is tied up with Sligo’s death and if I’m to find Pelkey for you I’ve got to know something about Sligo.”
Ben Chapman stared at Sargent in astonishment. “Why, yes, I never thought about it that way. Humph! Very clever of, you, Sargent. Yes, yes! You go right ahead. I’m more than half convinced myself that Pelkey killed Sligo.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you meant it.”
“I did not! Now, are you going to tell me about Sligo?”
“Of course. What do you want to know about him?”
“Everything. How long was he your partner?”