“Nope. She didn’t mix much with folks here. Her landlady might know...”
“Where’d she live?”
“Over on Keewatin Street. Mrs. Druher’s.”
Mrs. Druher’s place was a red-stained frame building of two stories. A red-stained sign outside said: Rooms.
Mrs. Druher came to the door wiping dishwater from her hands with a big blue apron. “Good evening, Mrs. Druher,” said Sargent. “I want to ask you about a girl who used to live here. Miss Ruth Reese.”
“Rutie?” exclaimed Mrs. Druher in a guttural accent. “Rutie Reese? You are her no-good husband?”
Sargent groaned. “No, I’m not her husband. I was just going to ask you about him.”
“I’m doan knowin’ him. But he’s no-good loafer, I’m hearing. Don’t never sendin’ Rutie no money. He’s comin’ here one night, goin’ nex’ mornin’. Putty soon, Rutie she go. Doan knowing where. Chicago, maybe.”
“What was her husband like? I mean, was he young or old?”
“Young; maybe like you. Doan seein’ him good. Big bum loafer. Rutie, she always payin’ rent good. Damfine girl.”
Discouraged, Sargent walked back toward the Pengilly Hotel. He’d lost her trail. He’d learned one thing in Hibbing, that Ruth Reese had remarried. Well, there wasn’t any use staying in Hibbing. If there was a train back to Duluth, he’d best be on it.
A block beyond the Pengilly Hotel he saw the railroad tracks. As he approached the depot, an express truck turned in and a sudden thought struck him.
He almost ran to the station. The express office was still open and a man with a green vizor over his eyes was checking express shipments.
“Mister,” Sargent said, “you’re my last hope. I’m an attorney, looking for a woman who’s inherited a small amount of money. She used to live here, but moved away without giving her address. It occurred to me that she might have shipped some of her things by express... Miss Ruth Reese.”
“Ruth Reese? Say, did she come into money? That’s swell!”
“You know her?”
“Of course. She used to have an interior decorating shop here and got a good many things by express. Yeah, I sent her trunks and some boxes to Chicago, when she moved away.”
“Chicago!” Sargent exclaimed. “You’re sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure.”
“What address in Chicago? I’m from there myself. Make it easy to locate her.”
“I’ll have to look up the exact address. Let’s see, that was about a year ago.”
“Not quite a year. Eight or ten months.”
The express agent went to a series of letter files and took one down and opened it. He turned to R and skimmed through a sheaf of express receipts. He shook his head and tried another file.
“Yep! Here it is, February 16, 1941. Ruth Reese, Jameson Hotel, Madison Street, Chicago.”
“Thanks!” cried Sargent, in tremendous relief. “Now, can you tell me when the next train leaves for Duluth?”
“Nine-thirty; get you into Duluth just in time to make the midnight train for Chicago. Bring you into Chicago noon tomorrow.”
The connections were perfect. Sargent would be in Chicago forty-four hours after leaving it, after having wandered all around the Iron Range of Minnesota and having learned more about Ben O. Chapman’s past than anyone aside from Chapman himself. And in Chicago was Ruth Reese, Chapman’s former wife!
Sargent wondered what part her hand had played in the deaths of Daniel Sligo and Ernest Pelkey.
Chapter Twenty
The train got into Chicago ten minutes late, but before twelve-thirty Sargent was approaching the desk of the Jameson Hotel.
“Miss Ruth Reese,” he said.
“Use the house phone, please.”
Sargent did and after a moment was told, “Miss Reese is not registered.”
Sargent groaned. Few people remained eight months at a hotel. But they had their mail forwarded. “Did she leave a forwarding address?” he asked.
“Ask at the mail desk.”
Sargent went to the mail desk. “Miss Ruth Reese who was registered here eight months ago; did she leave a forwarding address?”
The girl went to a card file and skimmed through the cards. After a moment she stopped at one and Sargent inhaled softly.
“Yes,” the girl said, “she did.”
“What is it?”
“I’m sorry, but we’re not allowed to give out addresses.”
“But how can I reach her?” Sargent exploded.
“Write a letter and we’ll be glad to forward it.”
Sargent turned away from the desk, quivering from frustration. There it was on a card. He could almost have reached over the desk and snatched the card from the mail clerk’s hand. So near...
He collided with a bellboy and had to grab the boy’s arm to steady him. Then he suddenly pulled him to one side. “Look, buddy,” he said, “you want to earn a dollar?”
“I got a dollar,” the bellboy cracked.
“Have you got five dollars?” he cried in desperation.
“Yeah. You want to match for five?”
“No, but I’ll give you five dollars for a bit of information. The forwarding address of someone who stayed here. They won’t give it to me at the desk.”
“Slip me the fin,” said the boy. “It’s a cinch.”
Sargent crumpled a five-dollar bill and thrust it into the greedy palm of the bellboy.
“Stay right here,” said the boy. “Don’t go away. What’s the guy’s name?”
“It’s a girl. Ruth Reese. R, double e, s-e.”
“A head, huh? Hang on.”
Sargent watched the boy walk behind the mail desk and pull out the card file. It was as simple as that!
The boy came back. “Post-office box twenty-six-twenty-nine,” he said.
“Post-office box! Are you sure?”
“You want me to get the card?”
“No, I’ll take your word for it.”
“Write her a letter,” suggested the boy.
And that was absolutely the end of the trail. Ruth Reese had deliberately covered it up. You couldn’t trace anyone through a post-office box. Postal employees never gave out information.
Yet in his despair, Sargent walked to the main post office, entering by the Dearborn Street entrance. He went into the big room and looked at the thousands of locked boxes and knew the last word in hopelessness. He found Box 2629, a dot in a solid wall of boxes.
Yes, he could stand here from morning to night and wait for someone to open Box 2629 — but even then he couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t stand for hours on end right in front of the box. If a boxholder of any one of the hundred adjoining boxes wanted to open his box, Sargent would have to step aside and the person’s body would block fifty boxes from view. Sargent didn’t know Ruth Reese by sight. He couldn’t just stand here and try to spot her. For that matter she might even have discontinued her box.
He left the post office and walked aimlessly up Adams to Clark Street. Looking at a restaurant he realized that he was hungry; he went inside and ordered a sirloin steak. It braced him considerably and on coming out of the restaurant he looked southward on Clark. Three minutes’ walk and he could be at the offices of Business Journals, Incorporated. There was only one person there with whom he would have liked to talk — Jim Robertson. Grinning crookedly he crossed to a cigar store, entered a booth, and dialed the number of Business Journals.
When Mildred O’Kelly answered, he made his voice sound gruff: “Mr. Robertson, please.”
“Just a mo’,” cooed Mildred.
Then Jim Robertson’s voice said crisply, “Robertson talking.”
“This is Frank Sargent.”
“For the love of Seneca!” gasped Robertson. “Where’ve you been the last two days?”