“Getting a book — on how to be an editor. I think the library attendant will remember me. I had a difficult time getting the right book.”
“Did you?”
“Get the right book? Yes. Journalism as a Career, by J. S. Weisinger. The book’s at my hotel. You’ll find the date stamped on the card pocket.”
Fanning sighed. “I’ll check it, but don’t get the idea that I’m suspecting you any more than anyone else around here. In fact, I suspect you less, because you’re new. Apparently, you had no motive for killing Sligo. Except that I understand he took some objection to Chapman’s having hired you, since you had no previous editorial experience. Well, I’ll let you get back to your work.”
Chapter Six
Eli Crombie & Company had its offices on West 15th Street. The advertising manager was in a conference and Mr. Crombie himself was out of town. Advertising? See our agent, the H. W. Quayle Company, at 33 S. La Salle.
Chicago Commission Company had offices over what appeared to Sargent to be a slaughterhouse. The firm had no advertising manager. Mr. Siegel, the office manager, was in conference. All advertising was placed by the H. W. Quayle Company of 33 S. La Salle Street.
Considine & Considine sent out a man named Daugherty. “What the hell’s Turkey Talk?”
Sargent showed him the magazine. “It’s the largest and leading turkey journal. Our circulation is three thousand copies and you ought to be advertising with us.”
“What for? We don’t sell anything to turkey raisers.”
That was an answer that Sargent hadn’t expected and he had no comeback for it. None was necessary, however, for Mr. Daugherty continued, “Anyway, whatever advertising we do is placed by the Quayle Advertising Agency, at 33 S. La Salle Street. We ain’t got time here to bother with advertising solicitors. Go see Horace Quayle.”
Sargent walked back to Roosevelt Road and boarded an eastbound car. At Clark he transferred to a Clark Street car and a few minutes later stepped down and walked to La Salle Street.
The H. W. Quayle Company had a fine suite of offices. The reception room had leather-covered chairs, lamps with indirect lighting and a deep-piled rug.
A girl opened a little glass door. “Yes?”
“Mr. Quayle, Horace Quayle.”
“You have an appointment with him?”
“No, but Mr.... Daugherty of Considine and Considine told me to come and see Mr. Quayle. I represent Turkey Talk.”
“Turkey Talk? Just a moment.”
The girl closed the glass door and spoke into a telephone for a moment. Then she pulled open the glass door again. “Did you say Turkey TALK?”
“That’s right. Business Journals, Incorporated. I’m the editor of Turkey Talk. My name is Frank Sargent.”
The girl relayed the information, then looked up at Sargent. “Mr. Quayle will see you at once. Number One, straight down the hall, last door on the left.”
As he walked down the inner corridor, Sargent saw a man dart out of an office and into office No. 1. When he reached his destination he discovered that Mr. Quayle was a heavy-set man with snow-white hair. The man who had entered the office ahead of Sargent was much younger, and more robust than Mr. Quayle.
Mr. Quayle beamed at Sargent. “So you’re the editor of Turkey Talk? I suppose Ben Chapman sent you here to see me?”
“Why, no, I came on my own. I was soliciting advertising at several commission firms and they all referred me to the Quayle Advertising Agency.”
“That’s right. We handle about sixty per cent of all the commission house accounts in town,” Mr. Quayle smiled. “And I suppose Ben Chapman would like some of that advertising?”
“Why, yes, we would.”
That was as long as Mr. Quayle could contain himself. He kicked back his swivel chair so violently that it crashed to the floor, then leaped to his feet and shook his fist at Sargent.
“So Chapman had the nerve to send you here, the dirty, low-down...!” He repeated some of the things that Sargent had heard about Chapman from Ernest Pelkey, the editor with the nervous breakdown.
Sargent stood just inside the door, his mouth wide open, his ears and cheeks hot from warm blood. Old Horace Quayle went on for two solid minutes, then exhausted, placed both hands on his desk and rested his weight on them.
The third occupant of the office, the robust man, finished up. “That’s what we think of Ben O. Chapman.”
“I didn’t know,” Sargent mumbled. “I wouldn’t have come here if I had.”
“But Chapman sent you, the dirty crook!” howled Horace Quayle.
Sargent inhaled deeply. “I guess I’d better go.”
“And don’t come back! Tell that slimy boss of yours if he wants a commission house ad he can come in here crawling on his hands and knees and I’ll give it to him. A kick in his teeth!”
Sargent slunk out of the office and walked back to the Dockery Building. And then it was his misfortune to encounter Ben O. Chapman pacing back and forth between the editors’ offices.
“Where’ve you been, Sargent?” Chapman demanded. “To the movies? Did they have a good bill — a double feature, perhaps?”
“I’ve been calling at the commission houses like you ordered me,” Sargent retorted.
“And did you get any ads? Of course you didn’t. Just wasting your time going around to those fellows. They’ll never advertise in Turkey Talk.”
“I called on three,” Sargent said. “Each one referred me to the H. W. Quayle Advertising Agency, so I went there.”
“Horace Quayle, eh? Well, what did he say?”
“Shall I tell you?”
“Yes... I mean, NO! The parasite! I carried an account in the Sugar Beet Review for eight years and then one day Quayle bamboozled them into appointing him advertising representative. He had the nerve to try to cut in for agency commission. I wouldn’t give it to him. He lost the account and he’s been down on me ever since. The sanctimonious old hypocrite. Very well, we’ll solicit the commission houses direct and cut Quayle out of the picture.”
“They wouldn’t talk to me,” said Sargent.
Chapman scowled. “Lew Thayer couldn’t get to first base with them either, and he’s the best advertising salesman in this town. But there isn’t a businessman anywhere who can’t be sold an ad in his trade journal. I found that out with the Sugar Beet Review. These commission houses can be got. I’ll give it some thought.”
Sargent gave it some thought, too, riding home in the streetcar that evening. But when he reached his hotel the problems of Business Journals, Incorporated were dismissed from his mind by a special delivery air-mail letter from the Trotter Institute of Public Opinion. It was signed by Leonard Trotter himself and read:
Dear Sargent —
Apparently you’re under the impression that we’re issuing annual reports of public opinion, since I haven’t received any cards from you this week. We’re still doing business in the old way and unless I get your quota by Friday, there’ll be a new man covering your territory.
Sincerely yours,
Sargent groaned. He was exhausted mentally and physically but the way things were with his new job he thought it best to keep his part-time job a while longer.
He grabbed a quick dinner at a restaurant on North Avenue and Halsted and then spent four hours making “poll” calls. He returned to his hotel room utterly exhausted, at eleven-thirty, then had to spend another hour tabulating his reports and getting them ready to mail to the offices of the Trotter Institute.