“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about her. I thought you could tell me. By the way, my name is Frank Sargent.”
She acknowledged the introduction with a nod. “What about Ruth?” she asked, again.
“I want to find her.”
“Why?”
“Did you ever meet Ben Chapman?”
“Once. Only once.”
“What did you think of him?”
“Well,” said Bessie Timmons, “he shook hands with me when I was introduced to him by Ruth. It was just like taking a dead herring in your hand. That gives you an idea of what I thought about Ben Chapman.”
“Good,” said Sargent. “Then we’re on common ground. I was until recently an employee of Chapman’s. Some things he did have caused me to investigate his past history. That’s why I want to contact Mrs. Chapman.”
“She doesn’t use that name any more. She divorced him years ago and from what she once told me I doubt if Ruth even wants to hear the name Chapman again. Their marriage wasn’t a success, you know.”
“I gathered that. She worked for him before their marriage, didn’t she?”
“The less said about that the better. What’s your reason behind all this?”
“Frankly, Miss Timmons, Ben Chapman is suspected of murder in Chicago. His business partner as well as a former employee were brutally murdered.”
“I’d believe anything of Chapman!” cried Bessie Timmons. “The things he did to Ruth!”
“I’m not at all sure Chapman’s responsible for the murders. But he may be. However, I have reason to believe that the motive goes back to his earlier history — his life in Duluth. And that’s why I want to talk to Ruth... Ruth Reese.”
The schoolteacher’s eyes clouded. “Ruth was my closest friend for years, Mr. Sargent. What... what makes you think she had anything to do with... with what happened?”
“Why, I don’t think she really had. But I think she can tell me some things about Chapman that might give me a clue as to what has happened this last week.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
Miss Timmons frowned. “That’s all pretty vague.”
“Of course it is. It’s only by sifting all available information that you can perhaps find a kernel of fact that will germinate into a stalk of truth.”
“But I don’t know where Ruth is,” said the schoolteacher. “I haven’t heard from her in months. She may have moved away. In fact, I’m pretty sure she did. She talked about it.”
“Where was she living when you heard from her last?”
“In Hibbing. She had an interior decorating shop there. But she wrote me that business wasn’t good. Hibbing is an iron town, you know. Ironworkers aren’t exactly the sort who go in for interior decorating. Still Ruth thought she could make a go of it. She’s very versatile, you know.”
It was six o’clock when he stepped off the train in Hibbing, famous for having the biggest open iron pit in the world. The dirt in the streets was red and pools of water were stained the same color from the iron ore that provided the steel and iron of the nation.
Sargent went to the Pengilly Hotel, but did not register for a room. Instead, he engaged the clerk in conversation. “I’m looking for an interior decorator,” he said. “A young woman named Ruth Reese. Do you know her?”
“No, I don’t,” was the reply. “There was a shop like that up the street, but it closed up a long time ago. Eight-ten months. The Honyoks who live around here don’t go in for that stuff. Their idea of fancy furniture is a davenport that you can unfold and make a bed out of. Mister, the way things are going here now, the boardinghouses are renting the beds in shifts. One man jumps out of bed, another hops in. Sheets never get cold. Fine in the winter, but not so good in summer. Was you figuring on renting a room here? ’Cause if you are, I’ve got to put you in with someone else. Full up.”
“I’ll see about the room later. I may not be able to stay here overnight. Where was this interior decorating shop?”
“Oh, ’bout half a block up the street. Let’s see, Nick’s barbershop is there now.”
Sargent found the place easily enough, a narrow store in a two-story frame building. He went in, just as the barber nearest the door was shaking out his cloth.
“Nex’, plis,” he said.
Sargent needed a shave, so he seated himself in the chair. As the barber adjusted the cloth over him, he said, “I’m looking for an old friend of mine. Used to have a shop here. Interior decorator.”
“Indereyore dekrator? Ha! You meaning bootlegger? We don’t got some here no more.” The barber chuckled over his joke and brushed the back of Sargent’s neck. “You needing haircut. I giving, plis?”
“No, just a shave. The lady who had a store here eight-ten months ago.”
“Oh, her! She indereyore dekrator? She don’t got the store no more. I gottum. Best bobbashop in Hibbin’.” He splashed lather on Sargent’s face and began rubbing it in.
“What became of her?” Sargent persisted. “She move away?”
“Who? Who you talkin’ ’bout?”
“The indereyore dekrator,” Sargent mimicked.
“Oh, her? She goin’ ’way. Maybe D’lut’, maybe Sane Looey. Why you worry? Lots good-lookin’ girl in Hibbin’. You go Cherry Dance Hall, findin’ lots purty girl. I givin’ you Mamie, nice redhead.”
“Ouch!” said Sargent. “Leave some skin. I don’t want Mamie. I want Ruth Reese, who had this shop before you.”
The man in the next barber seat half lifted himself from his prone position. “Ruth Reese, mister?”
Sargent turned his head. “You know her?”
“Uh-huh. Best-looking woman in Hibbing. Class, too. Not like those tarts Nick’s trying to sell you.”
“Whose tart?” cut in Nick.
“Your redhead, Mamie. Mamie would have been a wow here twenty years ago, when Hibbing was the widest open town in the country.”
“Look,” said Sargent. “You said you knew Ruth Reese.”
“I did. Best-looking girl in Hibbing. Smart businesswoman, too. Only this wasn’t the town for interior decorating. At that, she almost made a go of it. Kind of a mystery girl, Ruth Reese. Wouldn’t go out with anyone around here. You coulda knocked me over with a sack of iron ore when this husband of hers turned up.”
“Husband? She wasn’t married?”
“That’s what we thought. Then this fellow popped up and turned out to be her husband. Ruth practically gave her business away and went off with him.”
Sargent sighed wearily. “What was his name — Chapman?”
“I don’t know. She just said ‘My husband’ when she introduced him.”
“You met him?”
“Oh, sure. Nice-looking chap.”
“Nice-looking? Was he young?”
“Yeah, about thirty. A year or two more or less.”
“Was he tall or short? Thin?”
“About medium, I’d say. All around. I only met him once and then only to say, ‘How are you?’ He didn’t stay here but a day.”
“I thought you said she sold out her business when he came. That must have taken a little while.”
“Sure, week or two. But her husband didn’t stick around. He was here from Chicago.”
Chicago! So the trail was heading back toward the place where it had begun. But Chicago was a big city. A nameless couple could live there a lifetime undetected. Sargent had to get the name of her husband. Someone must know. Ruth Reese must have had some intimate.
“I asked you,” the man in the adjoining chair said, “I asked you how come you’re interested in Ruth?”
“I knew her years ago,” lied Sargent. “A friend of my sister’s. She wanted me to look her up. I mean, she wants Ruth’s address, so she can write to her. Do you know anyone here in Hibbing who knew her real well?”