Sargent dropped the white proofs and sprang out of his office, almost colliding with Andrew Lawrence coming out of his own cubbyhole. They were immediately joined by Black and Robertson, and the four of them converged on Ben Chapman in a solid phalanx.
Chapman was blocking the door of Sligo’s office. Sargent, peering over his shoulder, gave a sudden shudder.
Yes, Sligo was dead. There was no doubt of that. He was lying on his back on the floor of his little office. The handles of a pair of shears stood up from his chest.
Sargent retreated softly and poked his head into Ben O. Chapman’s office, Chapman, whirling at the moment, saw his act. “Yes,” he howled, “they’re my shears! I recognize them, but I... I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t harm a hair of poor Sligo’s head. He was the best friend a man ever had, the finest business partner. Poor Danny!”
Behind the group, at her desk, Mildred O’Kelly screamed and toppled from her chair to the floor in a dead faint.
“Thayer!” Chapman suddenly cried. “Where’s Lew Thayer? He did this. He never liked Sligo. They quarreled only last week.”
Andrew Lawrence stabbed his forefinger dramatically at his employer. “You, sir, quarreled with Sligo only yesterday.”
“I didn’t. I had a few words with him, yes, but I didn’t quarrel with him. I always got along with Sligo. Why, he was the vice-president of this firm!”
Sargent walked back through the office to where Mildred O’Kelly lay on the floor. He stooped over her, just as her eyelids began to flutter.
“Oh!” she gasped. “Mr. Sligo...”
Jim Robertson came up and, putting his arm under Mildred’s shoulders, raised her to a sitting position. Mildred smiled gratefully at him. Sargent, in the meantime, experimented with the switchboard and got the operator.
“Police Department,” he said.
“No!” cried Ben O. Chapman. “You can’t call the police. I don’t like them. They’re nothing but hoodlums and grafters.”
Sargent covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “A man has been murdered; how do you expect to keep the police away?”
Chapman moaned, “I suppose so. Oh, my nerves! Why this should happen to me, I don’t know.”
“Police department,” said a voice in Sargent’s ear.
“You’d better send someone down to the offices of Business Journals, Incorporated in the Dockery Building. A man seems to have been murdered!”
After a moment of explanation Sargent put down the telephone and regarded the office, or rather the aisle between the cubicles, of which he had a clear view. Beside him Mildred was now propped in a chair, by Jim Robertson. Just beyond, leaning casually against his office, was Andrew Lawrence. Still further along, Grosvenor Black, looking more popeyed than ever, was licking his lips with a bright red tongue.
Ben O. Chapman was pacing up and down, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Who did this to poor Danny?” he moaned. “He never harmed a soul in his life.”
At this juncture, a man came into the office. He was a mousy, insignificant-looking individual of indeterminate age. He coughed loudly to call attention to himself.
“Mr. Chapman, could I see you a moment?”
Chapman exclaimed in consternation when he saw the little man. “No! Please go away. Call me later in the day. I can’t see you now. Something terrible has happened.”
“Very well, Mr. Chapman,” said the little man. “I’ll telephone you this afternoon.”
He didn’t get to leave the office, however, for at that moment there was the scuffling of many feet outside the door and the police invaded the place.
There were many of them, in uniform as well as in plain clothes. Some of the latter may have been from the medical examiner’s office, or perhaps even newspapermen. Sargent didn’t know. There was tremendous confusion in the office for a long time. He sought refuge in his little cubicle and began reading proofs.
Men poked their heads in and out of his office, barked questions at him and sometimes waited for answers. More often they didn’t.
Flashlight bulbs popped, voices chattered excitedly, whispered, cajoled and threatened. A couple of white-uniformed men carried a long basket past Sargent’s office. A lot of the men left about that time.
A quiet man of thirty-five or so, wearing a neat double-breasted suit, came into Sargent’s office. “I’m Lieutenant Fanning,” he said. “D’you mind answering a few questions? Have to talk to everyone, you know.” He smiled apologetically.
“All right,” said Sargent, “what do you want to know?”
“Your name first.”
“Frank Sargent.”
“You’re an editor here? How long have you been with the firm?”
“Since yesterday afternoon.”
“That all? How’d you happen to get the job?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“For the past year I’ve been a field worker for the Trotter Institute of Public Opinion. In the course of that work, I came here to interview Mr. Ben O. Chapman. It turned out that he interviewed me... and I got this job.”
“Mm, rather unusual, isn’t it?”
“I thought so myself.”
Lieutenant Fanning nodded quietly. “I’ve heard of the Trotter Poll, of course. Never ran into one of their field workers before. Been curious about you. How do you work? I mean, do you just go along house to house asking people questions?”
“Oh, no. We take a cross section of the population; so many people of the laboring classes, so many white collar, so many businessmen, farmers. You can’t get a true picture unless you do that.”
“Sounds logical. But tell me, how’d you happen to call on Ben O. Chapman? By accident?”
“Well, not exactly. My job yesterday was to get three housewives and then three businessmen in the upper medium brackets. I figured that I ought to get a storekeeper, a stockbroker, and a publisher.”
“Right. But why Chapman? There must be a hundred publishers in this town.”
“Yes, but I had to get one of them and he happened to be the one.”
“All right. Now what do you know about Sligo? That’s the name of the dead man, you know.”
“I spoke less than a dozen words to him. He stuck his head through that door yesterday afternoon and asked if I was a new man and I said yes.”
“That’s only one word; you said a dozen.”
“Well, I didn’t say yes exactly like that. Sligo asked something about if I’d had experience and I replied that Mr. Chapman hadn’t thought that necessary.”
“Is that so? I mean, about Chapman telling you experience wasn’t necessary?”
“He didn’t ask me if I’d had any experience in the publishing business.”
“And you hadn’t?”
“No.”
“Mmm, how much do they pay you here?”
“Thirty-five a week.”
“Is that more than you earned with the Trotter outfit?”
“Yes, that was only part-time work. I’d been looking for other employment. Off and on.”
“Where do you live?”
“The Ajax Hotel on North Avenue, near Halsted.”
“That means you’re single.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t know Chapman before he employed you yesterday?”
“That’s right.”
Lieutenant Fanning nodded thoughtfully. “All right, Sargent, that’ll be all for now. I may want to talk to you again later.”
Chapter Five
Sargent read some more proofs and after a while Jim Robertson stuck his head into the office. “It’s twelve o’clock. Feel like putting on the feed bag?”
“Yeah, sure, but do you suppose...?”
“I asked. It’s okay.”
Sargent put on his hat and he and Robertson left the office. A stocky man in a derby picked them up just outside the door and followed them to Joe’s Lunch Room on the corner, but made no attempt to talk to them.