Grosvenor Black groaned. “I’ve only got two hundred and ninety-three dollars left.”
“Shell it out!”
Grosvenor began taking money from his pockets. “But if I give it all to you I won’t have any money to eat the rest of the week. And there’s a good one at Belmont Park today.”
“I’ve got a good one for you, too, Grosvenor. Like Chapman just got from Hanson Hill.”
“It’s five minutes after eleven,” Chapman wailed. “She hasn’t called. Do you think she’s doublecrossed me?”
“You’d really pay eighteen thousand to keep control of this business?”
“Of course. Creep & Crawl is making a thousand an issue, The Slot Machine is making more than that. Turkey Talk is going to come out all right now and The Skating Rink... well, I’ve got a prospective buyer lined up for it.”
“You’re sure you’d pay her the eighteen thousand?” Sargent repeated. “You wouldn’t try to back down at the last moment, like you did yesterday with Hill.”
“What can I do?” Chapman asked miserably. “She’s got me across a barrel. It’s... it’s a quarter after eleven. She’s not going to call.”
“That’s tough, old man,” said Sargent, and once more returned to his own office. He found Jim Robertson there, sitting on his desk swinging his legs. He winked at Sargent.
“He can sure squeal, eh?”
“He’s died eight lives already.”
“You’re not feeling sorry for him?”
“Almost... except that I learned something else about him this morning. That he borrowed eight thousand from his ex-wife and never gave it back.”
Jim Robertson’s legs stopped swinging. “Where’d you hear that?”
“From Ruth Reese.”
Robertson seemed almost to have stopped breathing. Then he forced out a short laugh. “You’re kidding!”
“Put your ear to the panel. I’m going to put Chapman out of his misery. He’s softened up enough, I guess.”
He went to Chapman’s office for the third time. “Give me eleven thousand three hundred and sixty dollars, Chapman,” he said.
Chapman started to wave him away, then stopped. “What?”
“That’s eight thousand dollars with six per cent interest for seven years. Not even compound interest.”
Chapman’s eyes threatened to pop out of his head and he began licking his lips. “Eight thousand...”
“Eleven thousand three hundred and sixty dollars. Count it out, Chapman — and I’ll give you your stock!”
He took a quick step to the door of Chapman’s office and called out, “Don’t anyone leave, please!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
There was sudden activity in the offices. Editors began to pop out of their cubicles. Even Mildred O’Kelly left her switchboard. And Mrs. Sligo, her eyes flashing triumphantly, came out of her office.
“What’s all this commotion about? This is a business office, I’ll have you understand. I’ll fire the lot of you. And don’t you think I can’t do it, either.”
Sargent ignored her. “Is it a deal, Chapman?”
“Let’s see the stock!”
Sargent took the certificate from his pocket, but kept it folded. “Count out the money, Ben.”
“Where did you get that?” Mrs. Sligo shrilled. “I’ll have you understand...”
“Poo!” said Sargent. “You can fight that out with Ben Chapman later.”
“Yes,” said Chapman. “Here’s the money, Sargent. Give me the certificate.”
“Mildred,” said Sargent, “take this money and get a taxicab. Go up to twelve ninety-nine North State and hand this money to Ruth Reese, or shall I say Mrs. Jim Robertson!”
Jim Robertson face was gray. He said, “Not me, Sargent; you got the wrong steer.”
“Robertson,” squealed Ben O. Chapman. “What does he mean? Are you... Ruth’s husband?”
“I never saw her in my life,” Robertson grinned frostily at Sargent.
The latter shrugged. “You live about a block from her. Coincidence maybe. But it made it handy for you to run over.”
“But why should he want to deny he’s married to Ruth?” demanded Ben Chapman. “Ruth is one of the most beautiful women I ever met.”
“That’s very generous of you, Ben,” said Sargent sarcastically. “But the reason Jim doesn’t want to admit he’s Ruth’s husband is because that would make him a murderer... a two-time murderer!”
A hush fell on the group, broken by Robertson himself. “You’ve played detective long enough, Sargent, but I’m fed up. I’m getting the hell out of here and I’d like to see anyone stop me.”
But Sargent was blocking his passage through the narrow corridor. “If you can prove you didn’t kill either Sligo or Pelkey I’ll be the first to let you go.”
“So will I,” said Lieutenant Fanning, stepping into the offices of Business Journals, Incorporated.
Jim Robertson looked as if he were ready to be sick. “It’s a frame-up!” he cried.
“Go ahead, Sargent,” Fanning invited. “Maybe I’m wrong. If so, I’m willing to admit it. I had Thayer picked myself.”
“Thayer knew,” said Sargent. “So did Ernest Pelkey. And if Thayer hadn’t been blind drunk for practically all the last three days he would probably be among those dead. Thayer and Pelkey started it. Between them they got the two missing shares of Business Journals stock. Pelkey sold one share to Sligo — or thought he did — for a thousand dollars. Then that gave Sligo control. Pelkey knew that Ben Chapman would pay almost any price to retain his fifty-fifty control. That was the whole plot. There was only one hitch in it. Pelkey being sick and virtually delirious at times, couldn’t do the negotiating with Sligo. So Robertson, the third member of the trio, offered to do it. He gave Pelkey one thousand dollars and told him he had sold the stock to Sligo. Actually he hadn’t.”
“Five thousand I paid him this morning!” spat Mrs. Sligo.
“You lie like hell,” snarled Robertson. “You got that share from your husband and you know it. You can’t prove a damned thing.”
“You gave him cash, Mrs. Sligo?” Sargent asked.
“He wouldn’t have it no other way. And at seven o’clock this morning he came to my house. Of course there wasn’t no witnesses, but I gave him the money. I know I did.”
“Search me,” jeered Robertson. “I’ll split with you if you find five thousand on me.”
Sargent nodded. “You wouldn’t be foolish enough to have it on you. As I was saying, Robertson only told Pelkey and Thayer that he’d stolen the stock. But Pelkey had to call Sligo... He was already bordering on dementia praecox and suspicious of everyone. Sligo accused Robertson — asked him to come back after working hours, so Chapman wouldn’t hear what it was about. You know what happened to Sligo.”
“You didn’t find my fingerprints on the scissors,” Robertson sneered.
“You’re not that dumb. In fact, Robertson, you’re very smart. You almost convinced me, with your protestations of friendship for poor Ernest Pelkey. You did convince Lew Thayer. Or maybe Thayer was too pickled to understand.”
He stopped and drew a deep breath. “Then you opened the letter Ernest Pelkey wrote me and took a couple of shots at me... or did you intend to shoot Pelkey?”
“You,” said Robertson. “I shot you with my little bow and arrow.” He turned to Lieutenant Fanning. “You traced the car to me? Pfft! I never owned a car in my life.”
Lieutenant Fanning looked worriedly at Sargent. “You haven’t given any real proof yet, Sargent.”
Sargent looked at his watch. It was eleven-twenty-eight. “Why, yes, I have got some proof. A witness who will identify Robertson as the husband of Ruth Reese... the husband who roamed all about the country, working on newspapers here, loafing there... The witness, Jim,” he tapped Robertson lightly on the shoulder, “is Mrs. Druher, who was your wife’s landlady up in Minnesota. I sent for her yesterday. Here she is! Mrs. Druher, we want you to point out the man you knew as Ruth Reese’s husband. Will you do that?”