Chapter Seven
Sargent made sure the next morning that he would not be the first one at the offices of Business Journals, Incorporated, so did not show up until five minutes to ten. He found the staff, minus the boss, of course, assembled around the switchboard.
Jim Robertson waved a folded newspaper at Sargent.
“Look, Frank, Ben’s got an ad in the paper.”
Sargent winced. “For an editor?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Listen to the ad:
‘Gorgeous blonde wanted. Showgirl type. Excellent salary plus liberal bonus if you are the right kind of girl. Don’t waste time unless you are exceptionally attractive and not afraid of hard, albeit pleasant work. Apply Thursday between 11:00 and 12:00. Business Journals, Incorporated, Dockery Bldg.’
I ask you, folks,” Robertson cried, “does that sound like an editor?”
“You never can tell with Ben O.,” said Lawrence. “What did he advertise for when he hired you, Grosvenor?”
Black grimaced. “A stenographer.”
“Are you a steno?”
“I was — fifteen years ago. Then I made a killing at Havre de Grace.”
“But if he wanted a blonde,” pouted Mildred O’Kelly, “why did he have to advertise?”
Jim Robertson winked at Sargent and patted Mildred on the shoulder. “Because...” He stopped as a girl stepped in through the outer door.
“Is this the offices of Business Journals?”
She was a washed-out blonde, slightly bowlegged and had buck teeth.
“Oh, God!” muttered Andrew Lawrence, turning away.
Mildred O’Kelly walked up to the job applicant. “This is the place, dearie,” she said sweetly, “the place where the man was murdered yesterday.”
“Murdered?” gasped the decrepit blonde.
“Don’t you read the papers? The publisher who was stabbed with the scissors, you know? They think it was a woman killed him, because they found some blonde hairs in his fist... aren’t you going to wait for Mr. Chapman?”
The job applicant fled.
“What long claws you have, Milly, my sweet!” chuckled Jim Robertson.
“The nerve of some dizzy dames,” Mildred spat. “Imagine that bride of Frankenstein thinking herself ‘gorgeous’ and ‘exceptionally attractive’!”
“Meow” said Grosvenor Black. “Shh! Here comes another!”
This one fitted Ben O. Chapman’s specifications. She was tall and slender and carried herself with a languid air. Mildred’s nostrils flared, but before she could go into her routine another girl entered. And they came fast, after that, even though it was still an hour to the time given in the advertisement. By ten-thirty the office was filled with ‘gorgeous blondes.’ By a quarter to eleven the outside hall was jammed.
Ben O. Chapman had to squeeze his way into the office. The mass parade of pulchritude seemed to have no effect on him. He was as fishy-eyed as always.
“Line up, girls,” he announced. “Some of you will have to back out into the hall, so there’s room enough in here to move around. Snap it up, please!” He clapped his hands smartly.
The girls began to mill around. None seemed to want to retreat to the hall, for fear they would be left out of the selection. And none were discouraged. The downright homely ones smiled as coyly as the beautiful ones.
Then Ben O. Chapman went to work. “You won’t do,” he said, pointing to a freckle-faced platinum blonde, “nor will you,” pointing to another. “Or you... or you... or you...!”
He eliminated eight or ten girls before the explosion. Then one of the rejected blondes let go. “You mean to say I’m not beautiful!” she screamed. “Why, you pasty-faced knock-kneed ginzo, I’ll smear you over the map!”
Startled, Ben O. Chapman took a backward step, right into a downsweeping set of claws. High heels stamped his toes, raked his shins. Red-lacquered nails tore at his thinning hair.
“Help!” bleated Ben O. Chapman. “Help, call the police!”
It required the combined efforts of the editorial staff to rescue him. Frank Sargent came out of the melee with a bleeding ear and a scratch above his left eye, not to mention a scraped ankle.
Ben Chapman then changed his elimination tactics. He retreated to his private office and had Mildred O’Kelly feed in the girls one at a time. She took their names and telephone numbers and told them that Mr. Chapman would get in touch with them later. Chapman himself kept the girls only a few seconds, with the exception of an occasional one whom he questioned.
It was twenty minutes past twelve when he finally made his choice. He kept the girls in his office and called through the door to Mildred:
“That’s all, Mildred. I’ve hired a girl.”
Mildred’s announcement created another near-riot, but after a few minutes the last blonde was cleared out of the office. They still dribbled in, however, during the noon hour until Mildred pasted a notice on the outside of the door, reading:
At twelve-thirty Jim Robertson got Frank Sargent and took him out to lunch. Robertson could hardly contain his excitement until they had cleared the elevator in the lobby of the Dockery Building before he thrust a printed card at Sargent and burst out:
“Read this, Frank. I got it from Mutter. Of all the low-down, cockeyed tricks, this beats them all.”
The card was an advertising card for Turkey Talk. Sargent looked at blankly. “I don’t get it!”
“The other side; it’s a contract, a noncancelable contract. Chapman’s going to send that girl out to sell advertising. Look, he’s raised the rate to a hundred dollars a page to begin with and that legal phrasing in small type — no advertising contract you ever saw had that. It was written by a shyster lawyer.”
Sargent exclaimed softly, “The commission houses; he’s going to turn the blonde loose on them!”
“If it works,” said Robertson, “I’ll personally eat six copies of Turkey Talk. Without mustard or ketchup!”
They went into Joe’s Lunch Room and ordered hamburger steak and French fried potatoes. As he put down the menu, Sargent exclaimed in chagrin:
“The cop, Jim!”
Robertson swiveled his head and located the detective who had shadowed them the day before. “Cripes, I’d forgotten all about Sligo. Hell, he must have been following one of us ever since yesterday. Which of us?”
“Not me,” said Sargent. “Lieutenant Fanning practically gave me a clean bill yesterday.”
“Well, me too. Or he lied like hell! Damn! I wonder if he followed me last night.”
“If he followed me last night, he got bunions for his trouble. I was collecting statistics for good old Leonard Trotter.”
“I went to bed early,” said Robertson. But his forehead remained creased in a frown.
They returned to the offices of Business Journals, Incorporated, the detective still following them. As they entered the office, Mildred gave them a quick signal of caution. Sargent, looking through the open door of Sligo’s office, saw a huddle of people inside: Lieutenant Fanning, Ben O. Chapman, two strange men and one woman, a buxom, stern-faced woman of about forty. She looked like a cartoonist’s version of a mother-in-law.
“This is an outrage, Mrs. Sligo,” Ben Chapman was whining. “Danny and I were partners for years.”
“I know all about that,” snapped Mrs. Sligo. “You were partners like a cat and mouse are partners. If you must have the plain truth, Ben Chapman, I don’t trust you. That’s why I’ve brought my attorney and an accountant here with me. Now, take your choice, will you let the accountant go over the books or must Mr. Koppis get a court order?”