At one minute to four Ernest Pelkey suddenly parted a clump of bushes behind Sargent and stepped out. “I see you got my letter,” he said.
Sargent whirled. “Hello, Pelkey. Yes, I got your letter. I also have a message from your wife. She’s worried about you.”
“Hester worried? Yah! Look, I’m going to give you the lowdown on Chapman. And Sligo and the whole damn’ business. I want money and I’ll sell to the highest bidder. I’ll—”
Pelkey was facing the street. His eyes suddenly bulged and his mouth fell open. “Look — out!” he cried and thrust both hands against Sargent’s chest. The attack was so sudden Sargent was caught off balance and went over backward to the sidewalk.
The bullets went over his head. He heard one smack into a tree, another made a dull “plop”... and then Ernest Pelkey fell over Frank Sargent.
Horrified, Sargent caught him, in his arms, rolled him over and scrambled to his feet. His eyes darted to the street, saw the rear end of a green coupe roaring north up Clark. He strained his eyes in the instant that the license plate was still in sight, but could make out only the last two numbers: 73.
A policeman’s whistle blasted, women screamed, and men cried out hoarsely as they converged upon Sargent and poor Ernest Pelkey.
“Your story’s got more holes than that imitation Swiss cheese they been making in Wisconsin,” said Lieutenant Fanning. “I don’t like it at all.”
“I don’t like it either,” retorted Frank Sargent. “I’ll tell you a better one. Ernest Pelkey is really the Archduke Alexandrovich of Russia. He’s supposed to be the czar, see, but Stalin won’t play ball, see. So he sent the Gestapo, or maybe it’s the Gay Pay Oo over here to knock off Ernie, see. I got wind of it and—”
“Cut it out!” Fanning snarled. “I didn’t like your wisecracks at that magazine office and I like them even less here.”
“You’ve got the letter he mailed me.”
“Yeah, and it shows pencil marks where it was sealed. Somebody opened the letter with a lead pencil, then glued it shut again. Damn’ funny you didn’t notice it before. It was as plain as the Wrigley Building.”
“But I wasn’t looking for anything like that. I was so surprised to get a letter from Pelkey...”
“He said, ‘your visitor of last night.’ You didn’t tell me last night he’d called on you.”
“That was after I’d left Chapman’s party. When I got home he was in my room.”
“What’d he want?”
“He didn’t say.”
“The hell he didn’t. Why’d he come up if he didn’t say what he wanted?”
“Ask him.”
“How can I? He’s unconscious. The doc says he may never regain consciousness.” Lieutenant Fanning looked darkly at Sargent. “I don’t get this business at all. It’s tied up with Sligo, I know that. But what’s Chapman’s wife got to do with it? I understand she left him years ago. He claims he’s never heard a word from her. And why was he having Sligo shadowed?”
“You talked to his private detective the other day.”
“Wilting? I didn’t get a word out of him. You couldn’t get anything out of Wilting, if you boiled him in oil. That guy’s a human clam.”
“You can’t say that about Chapman, though. He talks plenty.”
“Yeah, he talks,” scoffed Fanning. “He talks like hell. But he doesn’t say anything.”
Sargent sighed wearily. “You read the letter; have you checked on the trained seals?”
“Chapman’s office staff? I checked. That fellow Grosvenor Black was placing a bet in a poolroom. So he says. Pinky Boylan says he was there, but couldn’t place the time within twenty minutes. Too much excitement. So Black’s got an alibi — or hasn’t. Robertson says officially he was calling on an advertiser; actually he was at the Oriental Theatre. Andrew Lawrence says officially he was calling on an advertiser; actually he was out getting a haircut at the Palmer House barbershop and buying a couple of shirts at Marshall Field’s. He’s got a haircut and showed me the shirts. But the time’s too indefinite. So he’s got an alibi, or hasn’t.”
“And Mrs. Sligo?”
“She got mad at Ben Chapman and went home. Her attorney and accountant were at the office. So was that redheaded switchboard operator.”
“And Ben O. Chapman himself?”
Fanning scowled. “He wouldn’t tell. But he’s got a swollen nose and there’s dried blood on his chin. He says it’s where Lew Thayer popped him last night, but it looks fresher to me.” Fanning took a quick turn about his office, then whirled and gave Sargent a black look. “I don’t like it, Sargent. I got to let you go, because there were too damn’ many witnesses who said the shot came from a passing car... but watch your step, Sargent.”
“I’m watching,” said Sargent, “because Pelkey gave me a shove just before they got him.”
“Eh? You think the bullets were intended for you?”
“I got that impression... but I don’t know why anyone should want to kill me.”
“I could answer that. Some people don’t like detectives... especially amateur detectives.”
“I don’t like people taking shots at me.”
“Then why don’t you get wise and stop making a target of yourself?”
It was after nine in the evening when Sargent finally left the police station. Instead of going to his room at the Ajax Hotel, he rode downtown in the elevated and got a room for the night at the Morrison Hotel. A tower room. He bolted the door on the inside and in a few minutes was in bed.
Chapter Sixteen
Sargent got to the office a little after nine and found Mildred O’Kelly and Jim Robertson already there. He got the impression that their greetings lacked the customary warmth.
He said, “Well, what’s the score?”
“Nothing to nothing,” Robertson replied. “Ernest Pelkey was my friend.”
“Was? He’s...”
Robertson nodded. “He never regained consciousness.”
Sargent left them at the little switchboard and went into his private office. He sat at his desk until he heard Grosvenor Black come in and get the news from Jim Robertson.
Grosvenor’s high-pitched voice exclaimed, “And things ran so smoothly here before this Sargent fellow came.”
“I guess it isn’t his fault,” Sargent heard Robertson say. “It’s Chapman. And things never ran smoothly around Chapman. Even if it meant losing my job, I’d rather one of them had been... Chapman.”
“Jim!” cried Mildred O’Kelly.
“I don’t give a damn,” said Robertson. “I’m fed up... up to my ears. If I had even last week’s wages left I’d chuck it.”
“I’ve got a good horse today,” Grosvenor Black volunteered. “Kensico in the fourth at Havre de Grace.”
Sargent didn’t hear Robertson’s reply, but then Grosvenor Black passed his office, without sticking in his head to say good morning.
Andy Lawrence came in and had hardly said good morning when Eileen Prescott followed, hallooing and cooing. “I’m the luckiest girl!” she cried. “Mr. Quayle took me to dinner last night and was so kind. He practically forced me to accept an advertising contract for twelve pages. And he’s promised me some more... a simply huge amount. Oh, I can’t wait to tell Mr. Chapman!... What’s all the crape about?”
“Don’t you read the papers, dearie?” asked Mildred O’Kelly. “Or can’t you read?”
“Your cracks go over my head today, little girl,” retorted Eileen. “I’m too thrilled about everything.”
“So am I,” Robertson said brutally. “My best friend was murdered yesterday.”