She turned, looked at Sargent, then seated herself in an overstuffed chair that needed reupholstering. She kept her purse in her lap.
“All right,” she said.
“I’ve been up in Minnesota,” Sargent began.
She nodded.
“You’ve heard? I thought so. Do you mind giving me your purse?”
“I do mind — decidedly!”
Wilting walked over deliberately and snatched it from her lap. He threw it to Sargent, who unsnapped it. Inside was a folded paper of stiff parchment stock. He took it out and unfolded it. It was a share of stock in Business Journals, Incorporated. He folded it again, then looked at the back side of it, on which were written in ink two endorsements, transferring the stock. He stared steadily at one of the names.
He said to Ruth Reese, “This is it, you know.”
“Ben Chapman robbed me of eight thousand dollars,” Ruth Reese said evenly. “I lent it to him before we were married. He never gave it back. Ben Chapman is just about the lowest man on this earth.”
“In spades,” said Sargent. “I won’t argue with you on that point. But murder is murder.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know?”
“You said murder. How does that concern me?”
“Daniel Sligo was murdered,” said Sargent. “And Ernest Pelkey.”
He could see her lips tighten into a thin line. “Chapman would do anything.”
“No, not murder. He’s too much of a coward for that.”
Her nostrils were flaring now. “That’s not true. Chapman...”
Sargent shook his head insistently.
For a moment they looked at each other in silence, then Ruth Reese said in a hushed voice, “It’s not true.”
“I’m afraid it is. And I think you know it.”
“No!” she cried. “No, I don’t know it!”
“He told you it was Chapman?”
“Yes, of course. It was Ben Chapman, the slimy—” she broke off and her beautiful eyes darted about wildly. “You’re lying!”
He looked at her silently until she broke and covered her face with her gloved hands. Then he said in a gentle monotone, “He isn’t worth it. You had a bad time of it with Chapman and he was the natural reaction.”
She put down her hands. Her eyes were bright with tears. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to sell this share of stock to Ben Chapman,” he said. “I’m going to sell it for eight thousand dollars, plus six per cent interest for seven years. I’m going to give you that money. It’ll be enough for you to make a new start — somewhere else.”
But there was still a question in her eyes. Vicious though he was, the ne’er-do-well had a strong hold on her.
Sargent shook his head. “Ernest Pelkey’s widow is very much like you.” He waited a moment, then nodded to Wilting. The detective followed Sargent to the door, where the latter whispered:
“I may have trouble; can you dig up a heavy-set foreign-looking woman? Her name is Mrs. Druher and she keeps a rooming house in Hibbing, Minnesota. I’ll put my hand on the man’s shoulder and she’s to say, ‘That’s the man!’ He only saw her once and won’t remember.”
“Etta’ll dig up someone. My wife’s awful good at that.”
“The redhead’s your wife?”
“Oh, sure. What time you want her?”
“Eleven-thirty sharp. And you stay here until then. Understand?” He made an almost imperceptible gesture toward Ruth Reese.
Wilting nodded and Sargent went out. He walked to Division Street and hailed a cab.
It was twenty minutes to eleven when he entered the offices of Business Journals, Incorporated. Ben Chapman was pacing the corridor between the rows of cubicles. Beyond, in her late husband’s office, Mrs. Sligo sat with her arms folded over her generous bosom. Mr. Koppis, her handle-bar mustached attorney, was in the office with her.
“Sargent!” Chapman screamed. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for hours.” He searched Sargent’s face and alarm spread over his own.
“Come into my office,” he moaned.
Andy Lawrence, Jim Robertson and Grosvenor Black were all in their own cubbyholes. They knew that fireworks were on the program for this morning and it wasn’t the Fourth of July.
Chapman closed the door behind Sargent with elaborate caution, then caught him by the coat lapel. “Don’t keep me in suspense, Sargent.”
“I won’t. I failed.”
“Ohmigawd!”
“I thought I had her,” Sargent said. “I got her post-office box number and mailed her a package all wrapped in bright, red wrapping paper. I waited at the post office until someone called for it. It was taken by a big, fat woman, weighing two hundred pounds.”
“That isn’t Ruth. She’s slender, very beautiful.”
“You pick them well,” said Sargent. “But this fat woman got the red package and carried it to a mail address service on Wabash. It was useless trying to get your former wife’s address from her.”
“Did you offer her money?”
“She wasn’t the bribing type.” Sargent looked at his watch. “It’s ten minutes to eleven. She’ll be telephoning you shortly. You’ve got the money?”
“I could get only eighteen thousand,” Chapman whined. “I even gave my stock to the bank for security and I couldn’t get the entire twenty thousand. If she refuses the eighteen thousand I’m lost. Did you see the look on Mrs. Sligo’s face?”
“Yes,” said Sargent. “She’s got the other share of stock. I wonder how much she paid for it.”
“I thought you said Sligo had bought it before—”
“I was wrong. The killer sold it to Mrs. Sligo this morning.”
“This morning. How do you know?”
“I talked to her on the telephone last night, from your apartment. I pretended I had the other share and got enough out of her to know that she was pretty much on edge. She didn’t have the stock at that time. But she’s got it now.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Chapman said peevishly. “I might have been able to buy it myself. Martha Sligo didn’t have anywhere near even eighteen thousand.”
The telephone on his desk tinkled and he rushed to scoop it up. “Who?” he cried. “My Gawd! Send him away. I’ve got no time now for nonsense.”
But Mildred O’Kelly couldn’t send the caller away. There was a scuffle outside and then Chapman’s door was kicked in.
Hanson Hill, as lean as a hungry wolf — and as mad, pounced into the room. “Here you are, you weasel!” he roared. “Where’s that seven hundred and fifty dollars you promised me?”
“I haven’t got it. Go away!”
“I’ll go,” said Hill, “I’ll go, but here’s something to remember me by!”
Whack!
Hill’s bony fist caught Ben 0. Chapman right smack in his left eye and carried him clear across the room, where he brought up against the wall. He seemed to hang there for a moment, then slid along the wall to a sitting position on the floor.
Grosvenor Black padded in, hanging his head. “Ah!” cried Sargent. “I’d almost forgotten.”
“Forgotten?” Black asked in awe. “Whipsaw...”
“I figured it out. Four hundred and forty dollars!”
“Honest, Frank,” Grosvenor Black said, “I was hijacked.”
“Hijacked?” said Sargent grimly. He took a card from his pocket and read:
“Subject went to Green Feather Cafe where he spent two hours in private dining room with a blonde, after which he came out and went into back room and lost $210 shooting craps...”
“What’s that?” cried Grosvenor, aghast.
“Shall I go on? The Jameson Hotel... Halsted and Green...”