“Yes, but it seems to me I’ve heard that proofreaders have special marks they use.”
Robertson looked thoughtfully at Sargent, then shook his head. “You’d better learn them. Mutter’s cranky as hell and if he thinks you’re too dumb he’ll pi up some type on you.”
“But I don’t have time to learn,” Sargent exclaimed. “I’m supposed to read the proofs in the morning.”
“Get yourself a proofreader’s chart tonight. Memorize the marks and you’ll get by. It’s not so hard. Here — stop by at the public library on your way home and get this book.” He scribbled on a slip of paper: Journalism as a Career, by J. S. Weisinger. “The book stinks, but it’s got some fundamentals in it that might help.”
“Thanks, Robertson. I appreciate your help. How long have you been with Business Journals?”
“Quite a while. Eight months.”
“Only eight months? Why, I’ve been with the Trotter Poll longer than that.”
“I’m the second oldest man at Business Journals,” Robertson said.
“What about Pelkey?”
“What about him?”
“Why, I don’t know. Everybody mentions him, but nobody really says anything about him.”
“Sargent,” said Robertson, “I’ve worked on newspapers all over the country, including seven months on a sheet down in Las Cruces, New Mexico. I’m what they used to call a boomer reporter. But even I got fed up with the life, so I thought I’d get into something stable — like trade journals. I do my work... and mind my own business. Catch on?”
Sargent reddened. “Yeah. Sure. But I’m all at sevens and eights. I’m wondering whether I didn’t make a mistake taking this job?”
“Your Poll job pay anything?”
“It was only part-time work. I made just enough to get by.”
“Well, you haven’t quit the job yet, have you?”
“No. I had an idea in the back of my head that I could keep on with it — evenings, you know. I need only three or four hours.”
“Maybe it would be a good idea to continue... until you see how things stack up at Chapman’s. It’s a screwy business, you know.”
Chapter Four
Frank Sargent was the first one down at the offices of Business Journals, Incorporated, in the morning. He arrived at ten minutes to nine and found the door locked. He waited in the hall until nine-fifteen, when Jim Robertson arrived, simultaneously with Mildred O’Kelly.
“Where’s the worm?” Mildred asked him cheerfully. “Or didn’t you catch one?”
“I didn’t. What time does the staff generally get to work?”
“Well,” said Mildred, grinning, “Chapman gets in at ten-forty-five. On the dot, every morning. Sligo usually doesn’t get down until noon. Actually, that means he’s down at Joe’s Lunch Room or is still at home, pounding his ear, after a bad night.”
“Mildred’s the office pet,” Robertson chuckled. “Some pet, too.”
“Someday I’ll take you up on that, Jim Robertson,” Mildred said pointedly. “And then what’ll that dizzy blonde of yours do for a boy friend?”
“That wasn’t a blonde; it was— Hi, Grosvenor, what’s good for today?”
Grosvenor Black came into the office. He was all dressed up in a nice green suit with a reddish stripe and his rings, cuff links and necktie pin with stones, if genuine, would have assayed at nearly a half million. He dry-washed his hands.
“Did you see what Weeping Lady paid yesterday at Pimlico? Fourteen-forty. Not bad, not bad, atall.”
“How much did you have on her, Grosvenor?”
“Nothing. I was on Brass Gorilla in the same race. But I was going to put it on Weeping Lady, damned if I wasn’t, except that I figured she was carrying too much weight. She was, too. Surprised she came in. How do you like the job, Sargent?”
“Just fine, Black, just fine.”
“Call me Grosvenor. The name’s spelled with an ‘s’ but it’s silent like the ‘q’ in billiards. Ha-ha. Get it?”
Black whipped a Racing Form out of his pocket and went into his cubicle. Robertson winked. “Great guy, Black. Top of the morning to you, Mr. Lawrence.”
“Heigh-ho, Robertson! And Mr. Sargent, I believe. Milly, my sweet, you’re simply ravishing this morning.” Andrew Lawrence threw his arms about Mildred O’Kelly and hugged her, while she struggled in his embrace. She finally broke his hold by slapping his face smartly. Lawrence took it good-naturedly.
“A great day before us, boys. I understand Mr. Ben O. Chapman, our esteemed president, will not be with us. He’s out of town, defending himself in another suit.”
“That right, Mildred?” asked Robertson.
“Yes. I almost forgot. He told me last thing at night.”
“How’d you know, Lawrence?” Robertson asked.
“Tut-tut, I know everything. Am I not the oracle who guides the destiny of that immortal rag, Creep & Crawl?” he poked his thumb into Sargent’s ribs. “Great gang, eh, Sargent? Characters, every one of us, from Ben O. right down the line. I hear you’re the guy picked Willkie to beat Roosevelt.”
“The Trotter Poll picked him,” grinned Sargent. “I only worked for them.”
“Like the publishing business better?”
“It’s more exciting — so far!”
“Oh!” cried Mildred O’Kelly.
Startled, Sargent’s eyes went to the door. Ben O. Chapman was coming in. His fishy eyes darted from one to the other of his editors.
“Here, here,” he exclaimed peevishly, “what’s this, a convention? Break it up. I don’t pay you to stand around gassing all day. Robertson, did you get that Casey ad? No, of course not. Lawrence, what about that Consolidated Cockroach account. And you, Sargent, I suppose your dummy is all pasted up since you have time to stand around doing nothing?”
“No, sir, I was just starting on it.”
“Starting? You’ve had all morning. What’ve you been doing?”
Chapman did not wait for an answer, but continued on to his office, entering and closing the door behind him.
The various trade paper editors dispersed to their private offices.
Sargent pulled open the several drawers of his ancient desk and found paste pot and brush and a pair of shears with one blade broken. He trimmed the margins of the pinks proofs and discovered that one of the articles for his magazine was entitled: “Bacillary White Diarrhea in Poults” and another “Coccidiosis, Its Cause and Prevention.”
Neither title meant a thing to him. He started to read the one on diarrhea and was suddenly reminded that he was supposed to read the white proofs the first thing this morning.
Slyly, he drew a sheet of paper from his pocket. He had copied it from the book secured at the library the evening before. It contained the proofreaders’ symbols.
He opened the center drawer a few inches, pushed back his chair so he could look into the drawer and still reach his desk, then putting the sheet containing the marks in the drawer, he began reading proofs.
A half hour went by and then Ben O. Chapman came out of his office and began calling for Sligo. “Where the devil is that man? He’s never around here when he’s needed. Mildred, has Mr. Sligo come in yet this morning?”
“No, he hasn’t, Mr. Chapman.”
“Well, call his home.”
Mildred did. “They say he wasn’t home all night, Mr. Chapman,” she said.
“What? Where is he, then? I’ll tell him—”
Sargent heard a door open, then silence for an instant before Ben O. Chapman bleated, “He’s dead, he’s dead. He’s been murdered. Sligo’s dead!”