Frank Sargent’s first sight of Duluth was not an inspiring one. He stepped down from the train and looked out on a maze of railroad tracks. Leaving the depot, he crossed the tracks and approached the Mesabe Depot a block away. He whistled as he regarded the steep hill ahead of him. Cars were climbing it in low gear, but he expected any moment that one or two would be unable to make it and roll back.
He leaned forward and began climbing. Reaching Superior Street he paused to catch his breath, then was reminded that this was the street on which the offices of the Sugar Beet Review were located.
He found the building only two blocks to the east; they were on the second floor of a small building which contained a pawnshop on the street floor.
The office consisted of one room. It contained a desk, a steel filing cabinet and a couple of chairs. A discouraged-looking man sat behind the desk reading a copy of The Beehive.
“Sorry,” he said, “I’m not buying a thing today.”
“Neither am I,” Sargent replied. “You’re Mr. Suttles, the publisher of Sugar Beet Review?”
“That depends. If it’s a summons, the publisher has left town. If it’s good news, like maybe an ad or even a subscription, then my name is Suttles.”
“To cut a long story short,” said Sargent, “my name is Frank Sargent and I was until recently an employee of Ben O. Chapman—”
That was as much as he could get out. The mention of Chapman’s name produced the usual results. Suttles pushed back his chair, his face darkened and he raised a quivering hand.
“Get the hell out of here!”
Sargent held his ground. “I’m an ex-employee of Chapman’s.”
Suttles relaxed. “Eh? Well, that’s better. But I wish it had been Chapman himself who’d stuck his nose in here. I’d have punched his face, then thrown him down the stairs.”
“What’d he do to you?”
“He sold me Sugar Beet Review, the dirty crook.”
“Is that all?”
“All? I’ve been slowly starving to death ever since I took over the magazine, because Chapman had padded it. It averaged twenty pages of advertising when I bought it. Fifteen of those pages were sold for from five to fifteen dollars a page. I didn’t find that out until after I’d paid Chapman five thousand dollars.”
Sargent whistled in surprise. “But didn’t you investigate before you bought?”
“I thought you knew Chapman, the slimy ghoul. He’d doctored up the books. I sued him, yes, but he stalled and stalled the suit until I couldn’t keep it up and accepted five hundred dollars in full settlement. I’d already spent three times that in attorney and court fees. But why should I tell you all of this?”
“Because I came all the way to Duluth to hear it.”
“Huh?”
Sargent nodded. “Haven’t you been reading about Chapman in the papers this past week?”
“No. What happened? Did he die? I hope so.”
“No such luck. But his partner was murdered. And an exeditor.”
“Yumpin’ Yohnny Yohnson! Did Chapman knock them off?”
“The police don’t know. But Chapman is definitely one of the suspects.”
“And you — I thought you said you were an ex-employee?”
“That’s right. I’m also one of the murder suspects. If you’ve got a few minutes I’d like to tell you about it.”
“If it’s something bad about Chapman I’ve got all day.”
Sargent seated himself on a rickety chair and gave Suttles a brief history of l’affaire Ben Chapman. He wound up by saying, “The simplest thing for me would have been just to put Chapman out of my mind and go back to my old work, but the business got under my skin. Especially the shooting of poor Ernest Pelkey. I’m convinced that he saved my life at the expense of his own and I feel that I ought to bring his murderer to justice.”
“But why come up here? Chapman hasn’t lived in Duluth in almost seven years.”
“Because I believe that whatever’s happened in Chicago this past week is somehow tied up with Chapman’s past life. I want to see if I can find the thread.”
Suttles shook his head. “Then you’ll have to look elsewhere. I know nothing about Chapman’s personal life. I worked on a newspaper here and one day read a ‘Business Opportunities’ ad. I had a little money and wanted to strike out on my own. A trade journal sounded interesting to me and I bought it. I didn’t buy Chapman’s life story with the magazine. I’d never met the man before and haven’t seen him since he blew out of Duluth, with my five thousand dollars.”
Sargent was disappointed. “But what about his former associates?”
“His editors? I understand they’ve formed an unofficial club, the sole purpose of which is to get together and curse Chapman.”
“Seriously?”
“No, but I run into one of them every now and then. I guess the guy had fifteen or twenty different editors working for him at one time or another. I doubt if any of them lasted long enough, however, to learn anything about Chapman.”
Sargent nodded thoughtfully. “What about his wife?”
Suttles was surprised. “Chapman’s wife? I didn’t know he was even married.”
“He was, but it must have been before your time. Mmm, I wonder if you know anything about his business partner before Chapman became sole owner of the magazine?”
“Why, yes,” said Suttles. “I’ve seen his name in old issues and a couple of years ago I met him... fellow named Billingsly.”
“Ah!” said Sargent. “He still lives here in Duluth?”
“As far as I know. He was a floorwalker or something in the Brick Block Department Store.”
“What about Leroy Somers?”
“Never met him. He was on Sugar Beet Review when the magazine was published in Michigan.”
“Yes, that’s right. I’d forgotten. Well, thanks, Mr. Suttles. I’ll see if I can talk to Billingsly.”
“Do that. And will you do me a favor? If you get something you think’ll cause Chapman some trouble will you tell me about it? It’d make me feel awfully good.”
Sargent couldn’t restrain a grin. “Yes, and I hope it causes him some real trouble.”
The Brick Block Department Store wasn’t hard to find. It was just a block west on Superior. It Was a seven-story building, built entirely of brick, except for the windows, and there the motif had been continued as far as possible, with glass bricks.
The store was crowded and Sargent had some difficulty in even finding someone with any authority. He finally located a section manager.
“Billingsly? Never heard of him.”
“He’s a floorwalker here, or was.”
“We don’t have floorwalkers; they’re section managers. That’s what I am, but I never heard of this Billingsly. Is it important?”
“Quite.”
“Then I suggest you go up to the second floor and talk to Campbell. He’s been with the store a good many years. I’m a comparative newcomer myself.”
Campbell was a stout, pompadoured man with thick-lensed glasses. “Billingsly? Why do you want him?”
“A personal matter. Is he still employed here?”
“No, as a matter of fact, he only lasted a month. That must have been three or four years ago.”
“Two,” Sargent corrected.
“Then you know more about him than I do,” Campbell retorted stiffly.
“Oh, no. Someone who knew him said he’d run into him a couple of years ago. His memory may have been faulty.”
“It is at least three years since Billingsly was employed here. Yes, I’m sure of it, for I had just bought my ’thirty-eight car. They came out in the fall of ’thirty-seven. I’d had it only a month when the generator burned out. Late October.”
“The car had something to do with Billingsly?”