“A year.”
“Is that all? I’d been under the impression it was much longer.”
“A year was too long. I never had a partner before. Had a little bad luck. With editors. Three-four of them quit me and started competitive magazines. Too many magazines in a field kills it for everyone. I had to drop a couple of magazines. I sold The Hot Dog Stand at a loss. It cost me a lot of money to establish Creep and Crawl and Turkey Talk and The Skating Rink. I had to get some outside capital and the bank wouldn’t lend it to me. That’s how Sligo got in here, the loafer!”
The door of Chapman’s office was kicked open and Mrs. Sligo filled the doorway. “I heard that, Ben Chapman! You low-down, sniveling, whining good-for-nothing! Speak ill of the dead, will you? Dan Sligo was the kindest man who ever—”
“He didn’t say that of you!” Chapman shouted. “He said you nagged him morning and noon and woke him up in the middle of the night to nag some more.”
“What?” screamed Mrs. Sligo. “Dan said that?”
“Your neighbors said it, too. I understand they had to call in the police to quiet you down.”
“That’s a lie, Ben Chapman! A dirty, filthy lie. How dare you talk like that to me?”
“Then learn to hold your tongue.”
“Me hold my tongue? What about yours? It’s longer than a hyena’s. And louder. No wonder your wife walked out on you. She couldn’t stand your slimy tongue.”
“If you’ve finished,” Chapman said coldly, “I’ll get back to work.”
“You work?” Mrs. Sligo said scornfully. “Twiddle your thumbs... until the day after tomorrow. Then I’ll tell you a thing or two. And just to keep you awake, chew on this: Mr. Duma is about finished with the books and he’s discovered some very, very interesting things!”
Mrs. Sligo slammed the door as she flounced out.
“All women,” said Chapman, “should be drowned at birth. Let’s see, where were we?”
“You were talking about Sligo,” Sargent said, in a low tone.
“Ah, yes, my partner. Sligo came along at the psychological time. He put in twenty thousand, which tided the business over for a few months until I put it on its feet.”
“Yes,” said Sargent. “And you gave Ernest Pelkey one share of stock at the time—”
“He stole it!” snapped Chapman. “The thief! You’ve got to have at least three stockholders in a corporation so I issued a share to Pelkey... purely a matter of convenience, you understand. I put his name on the books, but didn’t actually give him the stock. I kept it myself... and then he stole it. That’s why I fired him, the ingrate! After what I did for him, too.”
“How do you know he stole it?”
“Who else would have taken it? His name was on the certificate. It wouldn’t be worth anything to anyone, unless Pelkey himself transferred it.”
“Do you think he might have?”
Chapman swallowed with difficulty. “I don’t think so... not yet. But that woman...”
“Mrs. Pelkey?”
“No, no. Mrs. Sligo. She’s awfully sure of herself. She doesn’t know that I haven’t Pelkey’s stock to vote, yet...”
“So you think she has you outvoted fifty to forty-nine?”
“Mrs. Sligo has only forty-nine shares,” Chapman scowled? “All right, maybe she’s got fifty. Daniel and I took forty-nine, then each gave a share to an employee. Daniel probably got his back right away.”
“He didn’t. Hanson Hill sold it.”
“Hanson... what? How do you know?”
“He told me.”
“Who told you?”
“Hanson Hill.”
“When did you talk to Hanson Hill?” cried Chapman.
“This noon.”
“You talked to him? Sargent, why did you do... that?”
“Because I thought I might get some information. Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t identify myself. I called on him as a Trotter Poll man. I quizzed him and then pumped him about his personal affairs.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he washed his shirt twice a week.”
Ben Chapman reddened. “Dammit, Sargent, your levity will get the best of you someday. I hate a practical joker.”
“Well, that was what he seemed the maddest about. He let out that he’d sold the share of stock shortly after Sligo had given it to him. To someone in this office.”
Chapman got white. “Here? Who?”
“He didn’t tell. I asked him but he clamped down about that time. I couldn’t press the point, because of my position.”
Ben O. Chapman slumped down in his chair. Perspiration was beading his forehead. “I told you they hated me. All of them. They’ve sold me out. Mrs. Sligo has the stock and she’ll throw me out of my own business. Oh, if I’d only kept the Sugar Beet Review, this would never have happened. I’m a ruined man. Go away, Sargent!”
“I’m fired?”
“What’s the use? Mrs. Sligo will throw us all out the day after tomorrow.”
Sargent slipped out of the office and returned to his own. After a few moments of pulling himself together he picked up the stack of mail that had accumulated on his desk during the morning. Most of it was subscription mail and had already been slit open and the currency and checks extracted.
There was an article from a turkey contributor on how to eradicate worms in turkeys. It was written in pencil on ruled tablet paper. Sargent read it with considerable distaste. He put it to one side and then saw the special-delivery letter. It was addressed to:
It was marked “Personal & Confidential.”
Sargent slit open the envelope flap with one blade of his galleyproof trimming shears. He took out a single sheet of paper and opened it.
The message was a brief, but shocking one. It read:
Dear Mr. Sargent:
Since you’re turning out to be such a good snoop, why don’t you check up on Ben O. Chapman himself? Find out why his wife left him? And why was Chapman having Daniel Sligo shadowed? And don’t overlook Chapman’s herd of trained seals. If you want the answers to these questions, come to the Armitage entrance of Lincoln Park at exactly four o’clock this afternoon. But come alone or you won’t see—
Ernest Pelkey. Sargent had sought him all morning and now Pelkey had come to him.
He looked at the envelope. It was postmarked 9:30 that morning and had probably been delivered at the office shortly before noon.
It was ten minutes after two now. It would take him only twenty minutes to get to the place of the appointment, but Sargent was suddenly too restless to sit in the office. He put on his hat and went out, informing Mildred O’Kelly that he was going to call on an advertiser.
Outside he walked to Madison Street and turned eastward. He passed the McVickers Theatre, then turned back and bought a ticket. Inside he sat in the air-conditioned auditorium and watched a picture without even knowing what it was about. His brain was in a turmoil. He wondered if he shouldn’t telephone Mrs. Hester Pelkey and have her go with him to meet her husband.
But Pelkey had warned him not to bring anyone. If he did, the man was as likely as not to disappear completely. At least Pelkey had established contact with Sargent and it was up to the latter to persuade the sick man to go home.
At three-thirty he left the theater and walking back to Clark, boarded a streetcar. It was ten minutes to four when he got off at Armitage, on the Lincoln Park side of the street. He strolled into the park a little way, then came back and stood on the sidewalk facing the traffic.