“Ben fired me; didn’t you know?”
“Hell, no! He’s been crying for you ever since you walked out the day before yesterday. He acts like you were his best friend. You shouldn’t take Ben’s firing seriously. If you still want this job — although God knows why — better hustle down here.”
“I’m just a couple of blocks away, but first — how do I stand otherwise?”
“How do you mean?”
“I dodged the police shadow.”
“Oh, that! Fanning sniffed around here most of yesterday, but he hasn’t shown his nose today. You’re all right there, except maybe for going down to the inquest. I got a summons yesterday. It’s next week.”
“I guess I can stand that. I’ll see you in a few minutes, Jim.”
So Frank Sargent strolled casually into the offices of Business Journals some five minutes later. Jim Robertson had evidently tipped off Mildred O’Kelly, for she merely nodded pleasantly to him.
He went into his cubicle and it smelled of La Desiree scent. A wisp of a handkerchief was on his desk. So was a stack of mail, all the envelopes slit open neatly.
He sat down and grinned crookedly. Jim Robertson came to the door of his office, winked and placed a finger to his lips, then went off.
A moment later Andy Lawrence popped in. He attempted to be casual, but his theatrical voice could not be hushed.
“Frankie, old man,” he boomed, “it’s good to see you back.”
Ben O. Chapman’s office door was jerked open and Ben called curtly, “Sargent, I want to talk to you.”
Sargent drew a deep breath and went into the publisher’s office. Chapman had resumed his seat and waved the letter opener.
“A fine time you picked to be temperamental,” he whined. “I thought you were one man I could trust. But, no, you’re like all the others. All in league against me. And that woman has the skids all greased for me. I can tell. She looks like a cat who’s got into an aviary.”
Chapman shot a questioning look at Sargent. Evidently he was waiting for an excuse from Sargent, but the latter gave none. So Chapman continued:
“Well, the commission houses are licked. That emptyheaded, doll-faced, dizzy blonde has signed up five advertisers for page space and she’s out again today.”
“Good for her,” Sargent finally said.
Then Chapman pounced on him. “But what about you? What am I paying you for? What have you done? I mean, what have you found out for me?”
“About what?”
“You know what I mean: Pelkey.”
“I found Pelkey for you.”
“The devil with Pelkey! I want that stock certificate he had. His wife’s got it, I’ll bet. I want you to buy it from her. Pay any price you have to... but get it. I need it by ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Understand?”
“Suppose Mrs. Pelkey hasn’t got it? Or won’t sell?”
“She’s got to sell. Offer her five hundred dollars, if necessary. Seven hundred and fifty if you have to.”
“Is that the highest you’ll go?”
“No, of course not. I’ll lay my cards on the table. If Martha Sligo lays down fifty shares of stock tomorrow and I can produce only forty-nine, I’m out of Business Journals. A lifetime’s hard work gone up in smoke.”
“Only seven years.”
“Eh?”
“Seven years ago you still had the Sugar Beet Review, remember?”
“Of course I remember,” Chapman said peevishly. “Greatest trade journal in the country. I made it myself. Then the government robbed me of it.”
“The government?”
“They wouldn’t put a decent tariff on Cuban sugar. They let the Filipinos flood our market with duty-free sugar. What chance did the sugar beet industry have?”
“But Sugar Beet Review is still running, isn’t it?”
“Not running — staggering. I never keep a sick magazine. I sold it just like I sold a dozen others. Would have sold Turkey Talk if I hadn’t licked the commission houses. Which reminds me, I want you to go after the remedy advertising. Look through your chicken papers, there’s page after page of the stuff. Turkeys get sick, too.”
Sargent nodded and started to go, but Chapman called him back. “Wait a minute. I want that share of stock. You can offer up to two thousand for it.”
“What about the share Hanson Hill had?”
“That woman’s got that. She must have it, or she wouldn’t act like a cluck who’s just hatched out a batch of chicks.”
“Are you sure she’s got it?”
“You know something, Sargent? Speak, man!”
“Hanson Hill told me he sold the stock to someone in this office.”
“You said that before — wait a minute; you figure it wasn’t Sligo?”
“No.”
“Then who?” cried Chapman hoarsely.
“Hill wouldn’t tell.”
Chapman started gnawing his fingernails. He shot an apprehensive glance at the telephone, chewed his nails a bit more, then finally reached for the phone.
“Get me Hanson Hill at Turkey Tracks,” he whined.
Sargent whistled softly and Chapman gave him an angry look. Then he coughed and spoke into the phone. “Hill, this is Ben O. Chapman.” He cringed and Sargent heard the phone crackle. Then Chapman began blustering. “We can settle that some other time, Hill. I want to offer you some money... folding money... a lot of it. Uh—” he cleared his throat painfully — “a hundred dollars. What?”
The phone crackled some more and Chapman grew red in the face. He listened for a long moment, then whined, “All right, Hill, you’ve got it off your chest. Now, let me talk. I’ll buy your rag from you. Yes, I’ll give you five hundred dollars... Don’t be absurd. Forget that I mentioned it... No, I won’t pay a thousand. It isn’t worth it. You haven’t got anything to sell... Seven-fifty? It’s a deal, Hill, on one condition.” Chapman looked triumphantly over the phone at Sargent. “That you tell me to whom you sold that share of stock Dan Sligo gave you... What?” The red faded from Chapman’s face and his eyes bulged. Then he hung up the phone receiver without another word.
He stared at Frank Sargent.
“I don’t understand,” he muttered.
“Who was it?”
“Lew Thayer.”
“That’s who I thought.”
“What?”
The phone on Chapman’s desk rang and he scooped it up. “What? I wouldn’t give you a dime, you low-down thief! Keep your dirty rag and I hope you choke on it.”
He slammed the receiver on the hook. “Never saw such a fool,” he snorted.
“Hill?”
“Yes. He thought I was serious when I offered him seven hundred and fifty dollars for his two-bit turkey paper.”
“I’ll be damned!” breathed Sargent.
“What’s that?” Chapman snapped. “What would a man as stupid as Hanson Hill do with seven hundred and fifty dollars? Why should I pay him for his paper when he can’t keep it going, anyway? This is going to cost me too much as it is... and I can’t understand it!”
The phone on Chapman’s desk rang again. He waved at it impatiently, then caught it up and snapped, “I’m busy, Mildred!... Who...?” Ben Chapman suddenly caught his breath, choked and coughed.
“Get out!” he yelled hoarsely at Frank Sargent.
Startled, Sargent went back to his own office. He started opening the Turkey Talk mail. Five minutes passed, then Jim Robertson slipped noiselessly into his office.
“Something’s up,” he whispered. “Chapman’s begging for his life on the phone. A woman... named Ruth.”
“Ruth!” gasped Sargent. “That’s his wife! His ex-wife.”
“How do you know?”
“I spent all of yesterday up in Duluth and the Iron Range, checking up on Chapman’s past history.”